It was a book “written” in an unorthodox manner. Largely dictated from a recovery bed, it read more as a movie script, pushing readers further into the world of Sassy with each heart-pounding turn.

You are expecting the sequel this fall. But what happens when you take your core characters, start again, and put them in a different genre?

That’s the experiment behind The Last Bloom and A Stranger in Town.

The characters, relationships and threads connecting the stories remain, but the storytelling language and style are changing. Adventure gives way to uncertainty. External threats become increasingly psychological. Questions of memory, perception, identity and what we believe to be true begin to drive the story.

This may not work. We understand that.

Readers of The Last Bloom may rebel, especially since they were expecting the continuation of that tale.

But let’s try to ride this story out. It’s an experiment in how much genre shapes the way we understand characters and how differently the same underlying story can feel when viewed through another lens.

Searching Jona concludes Sunday September 6th. The first chapters of A Stranger in Town launch September 13th. Subscribe and follow to see how this twist in writing goes.

Want to catch up before the story takes its next turn? Read The Last Bloom, available in full on our Substack.

Subscribe to receive new chapters, follow the experiment from one genre to the next, and support the work behind these stories. Choose a free or paid subscription below.

“It’s dying.”

“Is that true?” Jona studied the paper carefully. It was tissue-thin, so he made sure to hold it up to the light carefully, mesmerized by the writing on the front page. There were three columns across, but the one in the middle, the widest one, was the only one to absorb his attention. Many words were there, copious words that flowed exuberantly down the page. The symbols were captive, rigidly incarcerated, squeezed into a narrow procession, yet in Jona’s imagination they overflowed the entire sheet. Some were short and some long, some almost understandable and some unintelligible. The type was cast in bold, sweeping shoulders, arms, bars and loops; a clear font without ambiguity or disguise. Jona studied the masthead carefully, trying to understand how it should be read aloud:

ᏣᎳᎩ ᏧᎴᎯᏌᏅᎯ

Right below, but in smaller type, was the key in English:

THE CHEROKEE PHOENIX

Ghigau gave a short sigh. “It is true. The words are dying, not one by one but in a mass extinction.” She gestured out the window. “Oh, they might yet survive up in the mountains for a while, maybe along some godforsaken trail leading to nowhere, used by old timers who don’t mix with anyone. But around these parts hardly anyone speaks our language anymore, not even here in Bridgetown. It’s dying. That’s why I insisted that Tokala learn to read and write in it, but looking back that may have been a hopeless attempt to forestall the inevitable. Do you know what my birth name was? Lucille. My parents named me Lucille so that I could blend more easily, but I decided I didn’t want to mix. I wanted something from our past to live within me, so I took the name Ghigau. I’ve tried for all these years to keep the stories of our people alive on these pages, but when the vowels and syllables of our language are gone and the words are no longer spoken, then what’s the point.”

“But even if that’s true, you can keep the memory alive, right?”

“That won’t happen.” The older woman almost spit out a bitter laugh. “The ones in charge of everything won’t let it happen. The head honchos. The grand potentates. They rule our world, and they want our speech dead and buried. Forever.”

“That’s not fair.”

She laughed again, this time louder. “You’re a funny young man, aren’t you. Look, Mr. Jona, tornadoes are not fair. This is different. This is murder.”

They lapsed into quiet. Jona could hear Murphy and Andrews talking in the hallway, their words muffled, but no other sounds came from either inside or outside. After a few moments, Ghigau turned to close the curtains, covering the large store-front window, raising her arms up with an audible grunt of pain. “Time to leave. Tokala will want to start right after dusk. My son is anxious to get you all to safety. Our town can harbor you for a day or two, no more, regardless of any treaty agreement.”

“Can you wait one moment? What will happen…I mean, who will be the last one?” Jona sensed his imagination racing ahead of his words.

“For what?”

“You know. The last one to ever speak your tongue. The last one who can tell your stories, and recite your legends, and describe your people in their own words. The last one to have that power. You?”

“I hope not, I couldn’t stand it. It would be like reaching the edge of the world, don’t you think? Like a sharp line on the ground maybe, a line marking shadow from light. On one side is everything we’ve known and cherished, and on the other…a smaller, meaner place. For us, a place where we’re suddenly invisible and lost, like ghosts trying to find their way back to a place they can only half remember.”

“Yeah, something like that, I guess. But what I want to know is…” Jona felt himself reaching the end of a long ledge, then stepping off the edge into something unknown. His words spilled out in a furious rush. “Look, there was Adam and Eve, supposedly the first ones, right? They spoke words, some language we don’t know. They’re dead, sure, but we know their story from others. Is it the right story, is it true? Is it just invented by someone else? I feel that way about my father; the story is told by someone else once the person’s own words die out. So who is responsible for telling the world about Earnest Lieb now that he’s dead? What I really want to know, and what I wonder about, and where I am curious, is what about the last ones? The very last ones to come, the last ones to live. That will happen one day, right? Let’s say in a thousand or a million years. How will they talk? What will they say about themselves? About us? If they don’t have all the words, all the ones ever spoken, what will they say? Then what happens to our story? Just lost in space, circling around and around forever?”

The curtains closed with an abrupt whisk of Ghigau’s hands, leaving the room in semi-darkness. As the light fled, Jona felt suddenly dizzy and exhausted, crashing into a disoriented fugue. For the first time in days, he felt a wave of craving surge from his belly up to his head, leaving him nauseated and tremulous. He leaned against the window and slid slowly to the floor, fighting the panic that welled up within him. Inevitably, a searing pain radiated from his hip, adding to his misery. “Please,” he gasped. “Please call agent Andrews to come. Quickly. Please.”

Ghigau did not respond. Instead, she squatted down securely and sought out Jona’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “Tokala told me that man Andrews was your supplier. I won’t judge him, and I won’t judge you, but that’s all changed now. There are no make- believe escapes here. Your father learned that eventually as well. We have courage here, and faith, and tradition, and we have love. Adageyudi, we call it. That’s what you need right now.”

Jona felt perspiration welling at the brim of his brow. “Right now, I don’t need a new vocabulary. I need something more potent.”

“Yes you do. The word will bring the peace you require. Adageyudi. I’m not sure you have ever felt that word. Feel it now.” She pressed his hand harder, and began to hum in a keening, whispered tone that strayed from the past to the present, as if it were a distant memory that exploded, completely alive, into the present moment. The words, if they were words, seemed ancient.

The sound absorbed Jona, moving him, lifting him, channeling him into a different space, one of sadness but also a place of serenity. He began to cry but didn’t realize it until he felt the warmth of tears on his cheeks. “I’m so sorry,” he sobbed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t even know why I’m here.”

“That’s alright, my friend. My enemy, too, in a way. You are both at the same time.” Ghigau grasped Jona by the chin and twisted his face towards her. “You’ve had your own trail of tears, haven’t you. You’ve walked in pain. You must now learn to walk with the Creator.”

“I don’t believe in a Creator. Not of my kind, not of your kind, not of any kind.”

“All the more reason you must walk closer still. Share your pain with something greater than yourself.” She paused, inspecting him intently as she twisted his chin left and right. “Right now you don’t look like you have any greatness within you, so it shouldn’t be too hard to do. Don’t worry yourself about the last ones to come, long after us. By that time they will either be very great, walking hand in hand with a great Spirit, or they will be dead within themselves, and all the words in the world won’t matter.”

“Thanks, but all of that is mumbo jumbo.” Jona jerked his lips derisively, but even so the nausea began to subside as quickly as it had overpowered him.

“Your father had faith in the Creator.” Ghigau let go of Jona’s chin, but leaned closer to his face, blocking the already dim light from his narrow field of sight.

“No. I know that’s a fact that is not true.”

“Well, there’s the truth that’s discovered and the truth that’s revealed, isn’t there. So many questions can lead to so many answers.” She paused long enough to give a half smile. “And to so many questions more.”

Something undefined and enormous suddenly burst up within Jona, a leviathan of emotion breaching the edge of his consciousness and boring swiftly, uncontrollably into his awareness. The words spluttered out from deep within him. “Is Tokala his son?”

There came a pause. Not a stoppage or a cease. An enjambement perhaps, linking one moment to the next with profound silence, the apical instant between the swell of a heart and its contraction, the stay between remembrance and regret, desire and dread, faith and fear; a pause between two portals that each opened into the unknown. Ghigau searched his face with a mixture of pity and melancholy. “Have you always been so fearful?”

“Tell me.” Jona tried to steady his voice but found himself yelling out. “Tell me! I deserve to know! Tell me!”

“Hey!” The door behind them crashed open with a bang. Andrews and Murphy stood at the threshold, their forms outlined by the backlight from the hallway.

“Everything alright in here?” Murphy strode forward and reached down to help Jona to his feet, scowling. “Why are you shouting? Don’t know what you two are up to, but we gotta get going. Tokala is calling.”

As Jona turned to leave, he mouthed his plea again. “Tell me.”

Ghigau waved a goodbye. “Good luck, Mr. Jona. Find the Creator, and all you require will be shared with you. Adageyudi.”

Andrews paced rapidly back and forth, no more than five or six feet in either direction, hands deep in his pockets. Tokala leaned against his car, a scarred and tortured appearing Opel dolloped in rusty red, and continued smoking serenely while Murphy sat on the hood.

“I just don’t know, you know?” Andrews stopped directly in front of Murphy. “We’re trusting this guy with our lives. Why? Who is he really, and what’s in it for him?” He made no effort to lower his voice.

“He’s done OK so far. Got us to this town in good shape. That Amelia dame seems to trust him.”

“That’s just it, Murphy. Why trust any of them! Even Lieb. What did you say about him one time? “

Murphy chuckled. “You mean that he’s less trustworthy than a wet fart?” “That’s right. We’re putting our lives in the hands of these people… I just don’t think I can do it.”

“What choice do we have?” Murphy pointed into the back seat of the car. Gwen was staring out the car window into empty sky with Jona asleep on her shoulder. “Look at them. They’re both helpless and hopeless. One’s a dreamer and the other one is living in a dream. Not the easiest pair to shepherd along.”

Andrews had practiced every aspect of rigid self-control since his youth in Baltimore. The set of his lips, the crease of his brow, the angles of wrists and elbows, the forward or backward tilt of his torso were all carefully calibrated to project the image he desired at any given moment. Most importantly, the words he used, and their spacing and intonation, were tools he used as cudgels to fend off any intrusions into his private, inner world. To everything and everyone on the outside, his persona remained an inscrutable, glacial, and impassable barrier. Now, he stood quivering in the dusk of the day, feeling helpless and enraged. “Fuck! Fuck! Fucking bastards! All of you!” In a bound, he was at the car door, opened it, and punched Lieb on the shoulder and chest. “Get out! Both of you get out! End of the road!”

A metallic click struck its note right behind his head. It was Tokala, quite casually holding a revolver forward, its hammer cocked. His drawl was low but distinct. “Don’t make me, ‘cause I’ll have no problem doing it.”

In a flash Murphy sprang between the two men, facing Tokala. “Hold your horses, pard! Calm down, OK?” His stance was level but weighted slightly forward, like an alley cat ready to spring. “Want no trouble here. You dig my jive?”

The gun dropped a few inches. Tokala smiled, his radiant teeth made luminous by the last rays of a setting sun. “Jive, huh. You really are from up north, aren’t you. See here, Miss Amelia told me to get Mr. Jona across the line, which I intend to do. The rest of you are optional.”

Andrews backpedaled a few steps, straining to recast an impassive mask. “Put the gun away. I’ll leave him alone, I promise. In fact, I’ll leave all of you alone. Just tell me how you think you’re getting us across.”

“Done it many times. Both ways. Easy enough when you know people.”

“Like who? You need army contacts to do that, even if it’s through a hidden ravine, or over a swamp or creek.”

“Interesting. You sound knowledgeable. You study all that in school? Topography, chorography, humidity, rock formations, foliage? You smart, ain’t you? You know, things can change in a heartbeat, no matter how knowledgeable you might be.” Tokala cracked his lips, allowing his grin to sparkle. “I studied some of that in school myself, but I’ll tell you a secret. You forget everything the first time you meet a rattler face to face. Or a mama bear with cubs. Or a mean drunk with a gun in his hand. You get the idea. You gotta keep your sidearm ready at all times and your wits even more ready.”

Andrews turned towards Murphy again. “How can we trust him? Maybe we should go it alone. Or even better, turn ourselves in. I’ve thought it through. Logic dictates that no one’s going to harm us. If we’re captured, we’d be exchanged soon enough. Think about it, Murphy. Exchanged. No bullets flying, no risks, no harm, and we get back home in one piece. Leave this bunch here and let the arrogant Indian figure things out for them. We might even become heroes back home when they learn our story. We’ll come up with something good.”

“Or you might be crushed to death in your tracks!” Gwen howled at them from the backseat of the car. “I’ve just been watching the apocalypse. It was so vivid. It’s going to happen all around us, right here, everywhere. The phantoms of the future spoke to me, so listen to their warning. This is what they said, word for word, so listen up:

There is nowhere to run. Cities will tumble down, the fields and forests will become wastelands, brother will turn on brother, and parents will devour their children. Humanity will sink into the cesspool of its own evil.

There is no safe passage, Mr. John Andrews. So the spirits say. Lance and I will be the only ones to survive, and we will be the ones to repopulate the earth. We’ll have to make love all day every day to do it, but I think we can manage. I know he’s not the most virile specimen around, but I will make it work. I’m really looking forward to it.” She began a cackling laugh and threw her arms around Jona’s neck while craning her neck out the car window. “Come on, take a picture of us. The mother and father of the whole fucking world! Ain’t we perfect?”

“That’s it. I’m out. I’m not risking my own welfare for these two.” Andrews flapped his arms in the air, as if exhorting a host of unseen spirits to appear. “Murphy, are you coming with me? I won’t ask again.” Shaking his head in rage, he turned and strode rapidly down the road in the direction they had come from, towards Echota.

Murphy hesitated a few moments, glancing rapidly between Tokala and Lieb, then sprang after Andrews, calling his name repeatedly. Just as they reached beyond a bend in the road, he was able to clasp the slender agent by the shoulder and tug roughly. “John, you walk about as fast as I can run. What are you doing?”

“Don’t try to stop me.” Andrews wrenched himself free and continued at a vigorous pace.

“Wait. Listen to me a minute. What about the mission? We’re responsible for Lieb, remember? Are you willing to face Mule and tell him you gave up, even if you do get back? It will be the end of your career.”

“I’ve got more than one iron in the fire, thank you. Anyway, he’s crazy, you can see that. She’s even crazier, and they’re glued at the hip. Best thing for all of us is to have him caught and put away for a few years. He’s an embarrassment to everyone, and there is no saying what he’ll say and do if he gets back home.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that he’ll spread all the dirt about how it really is down here. The hate, the ignorance. Slavery in our time, like we’re living in some ancient civilization. What it really looks like, feels like, like what we saw in Atlanta and New Orleans. It’s hideous, right? Our president wants everything to become normal, that was the purpose of our mission. Mend fences and all that. If you let Lieb loose, relations can never become normal. He will be all over the radio, newspapers, magazines. Everywhere.” He cast a glance at Murphy, somewhat sideways, as if a secret was about to erupt from his body. “Many won’t want to hear about any of this. Too upsetting. But believe me, one day, when the news gets out, some ignorant redneck in Iowa will understand what’s really going on down here and want to put an end to it. Then his friends will join in, then the press and the muckrakers. Can’t you see that? Soon enough, every priest, pastor, rabbi, faith healer, snake oil salesman and circuit preacher will urge their flocks to expiate the sins of the past and the present. They’ll pound their righteous lecterns and raise their hands to the heavens, imploring the heavenly master to bless their crusade. They’ll peddle virtue like a cheap sack of onions and demand war as payment. It will be war, Murphy, terrible war, ten toes to the line kind of war. Good God, the country has barely gotten beyond the last one. You know it, you lived that one firsthand. Let me tell you, the next one will be worse than the last. You can’t possibly want to see that. Let’s dump Lieb and let the air out of this balloon before it bursts.” Andrews bent at the waist, breathing very hard and fast and feeling almost overcome by seething anguish.

Murphy loomed over Andrews like a block of granite, hands on hips and chin thrust forward in a show of preternatural power. “Very noble, Johnny boy. Did you get that straight from Hoover? You’re his boy, right? For a smart guy, you’re a moron. You can’t trust him or any of his ilk, and you can’t trust his promises. He’ll chew you up in time of need, then he’ll just find another mouth to feed. Afterward you can bawl and cry but trust me he won’t heed. No, no. That’s how those kinds of guys operate. If necessary he’ll cut you down like you’re a weed. As far as he’s concerned you’ll be just another body left behind, another body among many. Kabisch?”

“And you?” Andrews poked Murphy on the chest, right over the heart. “And what are you about? The Service? This mission? That’s all you’ve got? You’re skin deep, completely empty inside. You’ve been an agent going on fifteen years now, with nothing coming your way other than the next round of whisky. Look at me, I’m on the scoot, looking up at places to go and things to do. You’re looking down at a bottle of booze. The world doesn’t turn on people like you, Secret Service Agent Murphy. It revolves around people like me. I am a maker and a shaker. So, wallow in your hole and excuse me while I move on. Trust me, I won’t be thinking of you on the way up.”

“You don’t care about the people down here? They’re your people, aren’t they?”

“I’ve been down too long to care about anything but me. It stinks, I know that, and I want to hit this hard one day, if I can. Something like this can only be torn down by power, real power, and I aim to get me some. Help ‘em later, when I can. No guilt in that; I leave the hero stuff for others. My conscience is clean.”

The twisting road took another turn a few yards away from where the men stood, and many another lay ahead down a sloping hillside. Trees careened high into the darkening sky on either side of the road, casting long shadows shaped like slender black limbs tapping their way across the macadam. They were out of sight and out of earshot of Lieb and the others at the car, alone and isolated in a lost setting of slow swaying boughs, scrambling white tinged myrtle, and the faintly wafted fragrance of pine.

Murphy took a half step back and retrieved his sidearm from its shoulder holster. “Can’t let you do this, John. Like I said before, we came in together and we’ll go out together.”

Andrews straightened himself, turned his back, and took one steady step down the road before halting. When he stopped, he put his hands up as if in surrender. “If you’re going to shoot, go ahead and do it now. I would if I were you, but I know you won’t. You believe in that phony code, the one that says no man should be left behind. One for all and all for one, right? Hip, hip, hooray, I should be grateful to you, according to the little universe of rules that your head spins in. But I’m not a casualty, Murphy. I’m a survivor, and that makes all the difference.”

They remained frozen for a hazy moment, a silent duet floating from sight in the gathering dusk, two inanimate figures locked in an embrace of unsparing and uncaring time. Color touched both of them despite the looming dark, illuminating them with doleful lapis blue, the dark depth of evergreen, and the earthen touch of live ochre. The last embers of slanted light limned them in a refractive, indefinite aura, blurred along the limits of their bodies, dissolving them into surrounding rock and sky and tree. Neither man breathed, neither man thought, neither man dared to disentangle the fragile web that trapped them both, and both consigned themselves to bear the weight that bound them.

Andrews turned to walk away.

A pair of headlights suddenly appeared, peeking aggressively around the curving road not fifty yards away. Even in the pending gloom, the markings of a trooper’s prowl car were easily discerned.

“There’s my ticket!” Andrews began a quick jog in the direction of the men spilling out from the cruiser, bustling like so many angry hornets debouching from their hive. “They want me, they can have me.”

He began waving his arms over his head as he trotted, in the manner of surrender, ignoring the shouts of the troopers. A searchlight reached out towards him, then very quickly, too quickly, the explosion of a gunshot. Andrews fell, quivering with the flutter of lost dreams and the gasp of unfulfilled ambition. Murphy was at his side within a span that measured no longer than an instant, but no faster than a lost eternity. With unbounded strength he jerked the fallen Andrews to the safety of a roadside boulder even as more shots rang out, splintering clods of asphalt all about them.

The troopers were bellowing, but Murphy shut their voices out; he knew what they were saying, the very same stock phrases he would be shouting if the roles were reversed. He fired a few unaimed rounds in their general direction, then turned his attention to Andrews. There was a large round wound in his chest, very near the center. Murphy placed his hand carefully over the site and tried to wipe away the blood spurting out, but it was like swatting back sea water at full tide. After a few attempts, he stopped. John Andrews was strong and youthful, but he was already in shock, and his breathing was irregular. Life fled from him with a howl, in pain and disbelief, uncertain where to go and left to wander off in confusion. A deep swell of sadness came over Murphy, and yet he felt some release, lying on the ground behind the bulwark of boulder and blinking up at the young night sky. In some way, understandable only by a greater wisdom, it felt right. Quick visions of long ago shot through his mind, blending rapidly into the present moment. He patted Andrews gently on the cheek, and within the calm of the moment some words came from him, easy and pure. “Rest easy, John. Everything will be fine, don’t be afraid. This is a good place to lie, for just a little while, both you and I.”

Tokala immediately understood the meaning of the sounds coming from down the road. Without a word he vaulted into the driver’s seat of the car and revved the engine, causing the tires to squeal with the strain of their rapid flight.

Jona had slumped back into sleep, and did not hear the reverberations from the shooting, but the car’s lurching motion awakened him as they swerved away. When it became clear they were speeding away from the one street that marked the boundaries of Bridgetown, he leaned well forward from the back seat to shout squarely into Tokala’s ear. “What about Murphy and Andrews? You left them…You have to go back for them.”

“My friend is picking them up. Going in separate cars and by a separate route. Look, as Yankee agents they are in more danger than you are if they’re caught. They require extra precautions.”

“When will we meet up?”

Tokala offered a thin, grimly tight grin. “We will meet at the crossing point, when we reach the demarcation line. Right now, we can’t stop for anything.”

The explanation seemed plausible to Jona. When he slid back onto his seat, he found Gwen’s arm there to support him. She quickly curled it around his neck, twisted her body toward him, and placed her other hand on his chest. He nudged her back, but she did not budge.

“What’s wrong, my prince? We’re away from those beasts at last. They were constantly in the way. Assholes.”

Jona squirmed uncomfortably, shifting his gaze to the jet-black darkness outside their window. Nothing could be seen with certainty, but the car’s speed gave the illusion that shadowy objects were rushing towards them and flitting past with immense velocity.

“Lance? Speak to me. I command you.”

“It’s just that I was dreaming when I was startled awake. I wish the dream didn’t have to stop.”

“Well, tell me.”

He hesitated, then sighed. “My name is not Lance. It’s Jona.”

“That was your old name. Your old self. Lance is your new name, your new you. The better you.” Gwen gave him a hard, twisting pinch over his nipple. “Tell me the truth. Were you dreaming of another woman?”

Jona jerked away. The remembrance of his dream was vivid and overwhelming. He felt immersed in a dense fog of rapid-fire thoughts and memories, as if he were plunging into a dream state once again. A hollow throbbing dug deep within him, and he had to stop himself from confessing aloud his feelings of despair. “Tell me this if you can…Why do we love so much?”

“What was her name?” Gwen breathed the words into Jona’s ear.

“It doesn’t matter now.” The memory of his dream overwhelmed him, even as he tried to fight it off, beating it back as if it were a predator leaping out at him from a hidden cave. Jona was able to relive every feeling, just as if he were experiencing it at the moment. He had recovered from polio sufficiently to resume partial attendance at school, where his fellow students shunned him from the day of his return. A case of smallpox would not have repelled them more thoroughly. By the time he returned home he was in tears, and threw himself on his bed despondently. His father was not there at the start, but did come in just as the heaving and sobbing abated. He was holding something behind his back.

“Why?” He asked the question gruffly, not caring very much about the answer.

Jona began to explain, but realized how weak and meaningless any account of his day would be. “They hate me.”

“Who.”

“Everyone.”

Earnest Lieb knew how to meet any moment. He gave Jona a pensive, understanding look, then tossed the object he was hiding onto the bed. It was a teddy bear, appareled in red suit and hat. “Not everyone hates you Jona, and not everyone loves you. But I do. Go ahead, pick it up.”

Jona felt indescribable joy as he toyed with the stuffed animal. “Thanks, Dad. I know you love me.”

“The bear’s jacket has a pocket. Check it.” His father’s eyes softened momentarily.

Jona retrieved a small scrap of paper, unfolded it, and read: “Everything you love will probably be lost, but in the end, love will return in another way.” He looked up at his father, but couldn’t focus because his eyes were swimming in tears. “What does it mean?”

“It means just what it says. A friend wrote those words not long ago and shared them with me. They make perfect sense. So don’t worry. Everything you want will eventually come to you. You must be ready to recognize it when it does. And to accept it.”

Jona squeezed Gwen, trying to catch the dream in an imaginary bag, as if it were old laundry, and put it far away from his thoughts. “But still…Gwen, explain this one thing. Why do we love so much?”

“Good knight, you must mean what do we love so much. We love so many things, and in so many ways. Love of nature. Love of art. Love of soul. Love of body. Especially love of body. Come, I’ll show you.” Gwen reared forward and kissed Jona full on the lips once, twice, and still again.

He pushed her away. “No, not that kind. I’m looking for something else, much deeper. I want an everlasting touch.”

“What you need, baby, is a passionate rush.”

“I need salvation.”

“No, you need a crutch.”

“You’re a cynic. You think that’s why we love so much?”

“I know it is. Everyone needs a crutch sometime, somewhere. Whoever was in your dreams is not here now, but I am. If we do right by each other, we can call it love and we’ll both get by alright. Isn’t that all we’re trying to do, baby? We need food in our bellies and a warm bed at night, not someone or something out of touch and out of sight. A love you can count on, not a love that’s hit or miss. Come on, darling, one more time. Give me just one more little kiss.”

“No.” He hesitated. “No. I’m not in love with you, Gwen.”

“Silly goose. You are. Or you can be, if you imagine you are. I know that can happen; it’s happened to me before.”

“You mean pretend?”

“No, not pretend. Believe. Believe as deeply as you can, and it will be so.” Gwen stroked Jona’s chest very gently. “I know you may think I’m crazy, but people believe all sorts of things that are made up, don’t they? About heaven. About hell. About the soul. About the future. Maybe even about the past. And other things too, like right and wrong, and other shit like that. These are words from a dictionary, words that we invent. They last a while, then new words take their place, and we start believing all over again. So believe that you love me, Lance, like I love you, and for God’s sake kiss me.”

And so he did, and over and over, and he held her tightly, and she him as they careened through the empty darkness, where there were no stars or clouds, nor distant light, nor hopes, nor dreams, guided only by blinded sight. There was nothing to attract, and nothing to repel; their world was deafened by the tolling of the daily bell. They were stranded, exposed, and guileless, with only the touch and feel they two alone could share, and as night bore on without charity or shame, they both received some comfort there.

As first light licked the horizon, they stopped, exited the auto and clambered up a steep, rough-faced hillock. One by one they filed through the narrow mouth of a cave, then passed into a strange new world. There were straight aisles to the left and right, with chamber after chamber, all hewn out of solid rock, budding off the passageways on either side. Wooden crates and boxes were stacked along the walls, each one labeled fastidiously with descriptive tags and bills of lading. Several flambeaux were at hand, hooked onto the wall near the cave entrance, but as Tokala herded them along, and once out of sight of the outside world, he flipped a switch, and the area was flooded with bright electric lights. He ushered them to a door that opened onto a spacious room with wooden plank walls and dirt flooring. Beds and cots, perhaps a dozen, were aligned in order along the edges of the chamber. It was dank, but clean.

“This will be home for today. We’ll move out again tonight. Sleep.” Tokala gestured commandingly, then spun on his heel and departed.

Gwen collapsed onto a bed and with a faint snore fell asleep almost immediately. Jona sat on the edge of a cot but felt restless. His mind was racing once again, contemplating his circumstances, calculating unknown perils, and connecting uncertain clues. He couldn’t think along an organized line, though, as memories and images intruded randomly into his thoughts, flitting off as rapidly as they came on.

He surveyed the wooden walls neatly chinked together, estimating the room to be at least twenty feet square and ten feet high. How is this possible? His mind spiraled at a furious rate, measuring, calculating, imagining. Who created this? It’s miraculous, really. Did dad do all this? His father’s visage loomed abruptly, but with his facial appearance transformed by a snowy white beard and a leather miner’s hat with flashlight affixed at the brim. Why did he forbid me to marry Marielle? Her face now in turn appeared before him with stunning clarity, as if she were standing before him. She morphed rapidly into Elfieda and then into Alex in succession. Where are they now? I’m quite sure they’re all dead, and I just abandoned them. But I did love them. Didn’t I? Yes. No. No-no. YES, I did. Of course I did. Of course I do. I couldn’t do anything to help, I can’t be blamed. No one should be expected to be a hero, that’s not fair, that’s why heroes are special. Most everyone just plays the hand they are dealt, so that’s as much as I could do.

Jona found himself staring at the wooden walls, as if waiting for a signal to appear. Ha ha! No writing on these walls. No moving hands, No codes, no dead languages, no revelations, no memos from the past, no messages telling me what’s coming next. Tomorrow. Tonight. Right now. No warnings, no tips, no advice, but what else would I expect, there is no one upstairs looking after me, right? Gwen is the closest thing to God I know...Look at this handiwork, how the planks are fitted together, it must have taken years to complete. He shook his head in amazement as he studied the chamber. My nerve experiment took years, and left nothing to show for itself. A failure. Even this so-called mission is a failure, all because of me. Nothing was accomplished. Never gave the lecture. Never delivered the O so important letter that would save the world. That’s alright with me, the world has fucked me and everything I have been, so now it can go fuck itself. Alex came into his mind, the Alex who sat next to him on the train to Russia. Grim, dark, uncaring, encompassing every unknown, every menace, every weakness, dissolving himself in the power of the primeval forest that surrounded them. Jona so much wanted to feel that way too. That’s right. You hear me, world? From both of us. No, no, from the four of us! Also, from Andrews and Murphy too. All of us! Go to hell. Tears came to his eyes. He felt them welling up and burning as they emerged from their secret chambers, and he felt his face transfigured as they coursed down his cheeks, cleansing, scarifying and purifying him. I couldn’t kill myself properly, either. I’ve left nothing behind, so there’s nothing ahead for me...Now I’m supposed to go home. What do I tell them when I get there? Sorry, I got detoured by my past. Famous father and all, I hope you understand. Please observe, I did not dig the whole Nazi scene, I found out they are scum. I won’t bring up Russia, seeing as I lost my soul and humanity there. Very untidy. By the way, there’s this human bondage situation going on down here in Dixie, a little bit of sunny hell on earth, which is also somewhat distracting. Anyone not dark has taken slavery as a lover, and doesn’t want to let go. On a different note, I’d prefer not to discuss the whole opium thing, if you don’t mind, but a person has to make it through the day, and then the night, right? In Berlin it’s sex and insanity, in Moscow it’s vodka and paranoia, in New York it’s money and ego. But I do have something very profound and very meaningful that I’ve learned from my experiences that I want to share…He inhaled deeply, then sobbed. Dad, can’t you help me? It’s all your fault, you know. It’s all because you died, that’s what led to here. Every step because of you, and now you’ve left me and I’m lost. Where are you? Jona tried to remember something inspirational from his father’s preachings, but his brain remained overwhelmed, immersed in a pit of woe.

After an unmeasured period of self-pity and quiet bawling, he heard voices and scuffling outside his door. Opening cautiously, he saw Tokala and another man wrestling a large shipping crate into place against the wall. The stranger whirled aggressively towards Jona, both fists balled up. Tokala raised his arm in a reassuring gesture, then took a moment to examine Jona.

“You’re crying.”

“No, no. Something got into my eyes.”

Tokala and the other man whirled around to leave, one with a sneer and the other with a loud chuckle.

“Wait, please, don’t go. Tell me, what is this place?”

Tokala was the one snickering, and he now gave Jona a bemused smile. “I guess you’d call this a depot. Shipments come here, by and large from up north but some from down here, headed for distribution. Mostly consignment. Works well for everyone, it’s been here as long as I’ve been in the business. I’m told it was Dr. Lieb’s idea. He was smart that way.” He crossed his arms, absorbing Jona’s look of confusion. “You know, my grandfather fought in the big war. His outfit operated right around these mountains. They came charging out of the morning mist and disappeared at dusky dark, or so it was said. There were some hot fights, but they left the Yankees in their dust every time. One skirmish, he lost his brother to a cannon ball, shot through the hip and dead before he hit the ground. When the war ended, grandpa still felt hatred. Still wanted vengeance. But, I remember him telling me when I was just a boy and he was stooped and crooked that a man can’t live his life in anger; the Spirits, both great and small, the ones right next to us and the ones far away would not allow it. It took me some time, but I learned that there were many on both sides who felt the same way. Maybe even most. Your father sure knew it. He touched people with the promise of conciliation and prosperity, and here we are. There are what we call facilitators both sides of the line, but around these parts there isn’t a north or south, just folks on one side of the mountain or on the other. We bring our goods over there, they bring theirs over here.”

“But none of it is legal.”

“Well, every once in a while they’ll haul out a scapegoat, usually someone who’s just a bit too greedy or not playing by the rules. That seems to keep all sides happy and smudges the truth of what’s going on.” Tokala paused in thought for a moment. “Only one law, really. No weapons either way. Trinkets, yes. Cigars, yes. Heroin, yes. Fine watches, yes. Bourbon, absolutely yes. Guns, no. You understand that.”

“And smuggled art.”

“Yeah…That’s your father’s specialty. He figured that once anything was sold out of N’allins it was wiped clean. ‘No provenance,’ he would say, ‘No problem.’ Made a lot of money. Shared a lot. Spent a lot.”

“On what? This is a whole new world for me.”

“For one, he bought out a lot of slave contracts. Bought them outright, then shipped those people North. Sold their contracts, turned them into maids, laundresses, groundskeepers, laborers. Difference is, of course, they were free.”

Jona felt stunned, unable to process what he was just told. It could not be true. His father hated slavery and had fled his homeland in protest of what he described as an evil blight. “He bought and sold people? That’s preposterous. That’s an infamous thing to say about him.”

“No, that’s not what I said. He bought and freed people. Set them free, with a work contract, and they were lucky to have it.” Tokala threw an uneasy look in Jona’s direction. “Lost thousands in doing it. Each transaction was a loss. Charged a small brokerage fee, just five percent, so he lost his shirt on every deal. He made me proud of him, and everyone who knew about it. Sounds like you need to grow up a bit.”

“What kind of contracts?”

“What in hell does it matter?” Tokala curled his lip in a snarl. “They got a job and got paid for their work. In fact, a contract was good for them, like a guarantee, and hard labor was nothing new for those folks. For us, it was charity work. Like I said, lost us a lot of money. And by the way, it was a big deal to smuggle so many of them across the lines, and get them to where they were going. Places you wouldn’t imagine, like Des Moines, Sacramento, Utica, Aliquippa, wherever the contract was purchased. So spare me any outrage, alright?”

“Did you know the people who took the contracts?”

“Your father did. Almost every one. Friends. Friends of friends. Potential friends. All worked out well.”

Jona swept his gaze across the multitude of crates, feeling a charge of anxiety sweep through him. He searched Tokala’s face carefully, imploringly. “It was all good, right? He gave people both freedom and a job. It was good, for certain. Work. Freedom. All good.” He stopped and took a deep breath, reassuring himself. “My father was a great man. A great man. He is missed, I’m sure.” Lieb retained enough self composure to pause and take a deep breath. “Let’s move on. What I’m seeing here is incredible, truly. He really was a great man. Has anything changed since his death?” The words came panting out of him in a torrent, eager to leave the past behind.

There are certain rifts in time when Silence crashes down with the force of a demon, a sudden winged death, obliterating the present moment, destroying everything that preceded, and sweeping everything ahead of it into empty stillness. In those interludes a new landscape emerges, treacherous and unknown, without guideposts, a place with no retreat and no exit. The demon of Silence rules everything until it swoops away again, and for this particular moment it reigned supreme. Tokala stood rigidly, as if seized by a mysterious paralysis, leaving only his eyes to dart back and forth noiselessly. “What do you mean, since his death?”

“Exactly what I said. Have things been running smoothly since he died?”

In a deliberate demonstration of slow motion, Tokala leaned against the cave wall, slowly retrieved his cigarettes, and lit up. He seemed to rest his eyes five feet over Jona’s head and took three leisurely puffs before speaking again, very casually. “When did he die?”

Jona comprehended the essence of his question in a flash. He felt a quick tug of euphoria, suddenly aware that he knew something that Tokala did not. There was no restraint as he allowed his response to gush out. “Man, I am so sorry to break it to you like this. This must be a rough blow, given that he was your business partner and all, and a friend to your mother and your tribe. I mean your organizational group, whatever it’s called. I forgot how isolated you all are down here, with limited access to the outside world. No radio. No telephone. Rough. I don’t know if you even get mail. Look here, he died in March. Four, four and a half months ago. It was sudden. By now, I’ve reconciled myself to it, and I’m OK. I’m good. Recovered.”

Tokala continued to tug at his cigarette, not stirring from his niche against the wall. “Interesting. That’s interesting. Tribe is fine, by the way. Don’t be a jerk.”

Jona could not hold back a surge of annoyance. He saw no sign of sadness in Tokala’s face, no indication of shock or agitation. The man remained completely impassive and still except for the smooth, repetitive puffs on his half smoked cigarette. Finally, Tokala blew a ring of smoke, a large one, then poked his finger through it as it dissolved. “I have to say, that’s an awful way of expressing your regrets. What do you mean by interesting?”

Silence descended again, but now only halfheartedly, as if the moment was not terribly important this time. Jona could hear the scuffle of crates being moved, and the low buzz of the electric lights above. Tokala flicked his cigarette to the floor, allowing it to burn out on its own. In a quick moment he stood straight, bringing his forehead very near Jona’s face, and gave him a quick pat on the head. He offered a tight, straight smile, hiding the brilliance of his diamond studded teeth. “Interesting it is. See, he was here a month ago.”

“So you didn’t actually see him yourself?”

They were sitting on the ground in the dimmest of dark, on the lee side of the hill that housed the cave. The moon had risen and was shining somewhere up in the night sky, but its rays were blocked, dispersing light into the valley far beyond where they sat. Almost any movement was shaded by the vale of night that shrouded them. Tokala’s diamonds were buried, his face obscured, and even the wandering red tip of his burning cigarette was attenuated by blackness as it roved up and down.

“Naw, I ain’t seen him, but plenty others did. He sent me instructions, too, about things to do. Straight from him.”

“I’m telling you he died. I was at his burial.”

The cigarette tip stood rock steady. “Let me ask you somethin’, Mr. Doctor sir. Did you see him dead? With your own eyes?”

Jona was unprepared for the question. He rolled back his memory of the funeral. Mahogany casket, shining luminously despite the overcast day. Many flowers and wreaths on top and adjacent. A somber voice reading some prayers. People pressed all around, silent. The minister had his hand placed upon the casket, resting it there. The top was closed.

“This is nuts. He couldn’t stage his own funeral.”

“You don’t think someone with his power and connections couldn’t do that?” Tokala chortled sarcastically. “He might have decided to escape to Poly-watchamacallit. The exotic islands with the palm trees. Don’t worry, he’ll come back here soon enough, just like the barn swallow in spring.”

Jona heaved a long sigh in disbelief. “Can I have a cigarette?”

Without a word, a match blazed briefly. And briefly, Tokala’s grin gave off a twinkle of glacial blue light, then evaporated, subdued and outdone by the sudden flame of the cigarette. Jona retrieved the cigarette gratefully and inhaled voraciously, as if he were starving for days. A feeling suffocated him, a somber feeling, a feeling that lay at the intersection of absolute conviction, flaming anger, and unmoored confusion.

“My father would not have faked his own death. And that’s final.”

“I don’t know. I’ve seen him do a lot of crazy stuff. I’ve heard stories about lunatic shit that he’s done in other places. They say he killed a man in N’Aallins, arguin’ over a bowl of cassoulet. People think he’s dangerous.”

“No. How can I believe anything you say when you tell me stupid nonsense like that. The whole idea is insane, and I won’t believe it until you bring me someone who has looked him dead in the eye, spoken to him, touched him in the flesh, shook his hand. All those things. It just doesn’t make sense. It’s illogical, and he was a logical man, at the peak of his powers, known and loved all over the world. For what possible reason would he do such a thing, anyway?”

Tokala seemed content to just smoke, but after a time he broke into a whisper. “Remember when I said that he was all things to all people? Maybe he just got tired of it, that there were just too many versions of him. Maybe he felt he had to remake himself wherever he went and with whoever he met, always on the lookout for one of the juggling balls that might be dropping from his hold. Maybe he decided it was time to be just one person. Himself. So, poof! Like the magician that he was, he just checked out the back door. Like I said, maybe to the Poly place.”

“Maybe it was a look-alike,” Jona said somberly.

“Ha! Which one? The one you know or the one I know? Was he always the same with you?”

A light flared in the distance. Someone was walking away from the cave holding a lantern that flickered like a star receding into the vastness of space. For some reason or no reason at all, the vanishing beam brought to mind Jona’s boat trip with his father, and the night he struggled in the dark with his hands tied, waiting for dawn to peek through the porthole and release him from his bondage. “He sent me letters almost every week. He was sometimes kind and sometimes not, like any father might be, I suppose.”

“Well, he was never mean to me. Never a nasty word. Always kind and encouraging. He made me what I am today.”

Jona nodded. “Made you. Made me too.”

Tokala drew deeply on his dying cigarette, inhaling loudly. “Yeah. We’re kindred spirits, aren’t we.”

“Did you know that he had a daughter living with Amelia?”

“Yeah, of course. Alithea. Everyone knows.”

“I suppose that would make her my half-sister.” There were stars in the skies above, alive but silent and still. Jona stared at them as he smoked, hoping for a sign or signal, something that would reveal an elemental truth hood that might guide him. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sounds like you’re going to anyway.”

“Did you know your father?”

“Naw. Disappeared before I was born, and my mother never wanted to talk about him. After a while I didn’t want to either.”

Jona let himself fall backward, carefully, to lie supine on the sloping ground. The mountain clay was stony, so that he immediately felt the pain of rocks digging into his shoulder blades and spine. Growing up, he had been told repeatedly that any pain he endured helped him be a stronger person, but he couldn’t remember a time when Ernest Lieb complained of pain. His thoughts spun a thick and intricate web of words in just an instant. Was his stroke painful? Did he have a stroke? Maybe dad couldn’t feel pain. Did he feel remorse, or guilt, or shame? I know he felt longing, but did he ever feel love? He never loved mother. Did he love Amelia or Alithea? Did he ever love me?

Both cigarettes had faded to ash, leaving both men in deep shadow, wordless and motionless. Unexpectedly, Tokala cleared his throat. His voice was husky, almost hoarse when he spoke. “So I’m just going to say again, so you don’t ever ask again. I never met my father. Don’t know if he’s dead or alive.”

“Yeah?”

“Never knew him.”

Jona shifted slightly, trying to find a comfortable spot among the stones pressing against his flesh. “Neither did I, friend. Neither did I.”

Tokala led the way back to the cave and guided Jona to the sleeping quarters. “Gather up your lady friend and meet me out front. Time to get going.”

The room was dark, but as the entrance door swung open, light from the hallway slanted in, illuminating the beds stowed against the walls. Gwen was gone. Jona swept the room quickly, then noticed a folded sheet of paper on her bed. He brought it outside the room, where he could read it more easily. The words were written in small block letters, centered with scrupulous uniformity on the page, as if laboriously transcribed from an ancient manuscript:

My lover Lancelot

I have decided I cannot go with you to the land beyond the

rivers and mountains.

I realize now that the place where you are going will never allow me to be who I am.

They will try to convince me I am not Gwen, and that I am someone else.

They will try to destroy me, but not just me.

They will try to destroy what we meant to one another,

and the love we lived, as if it never existed.

I could not pass a day without the memory of what we shared,

so I will go away and find a place where our love can be cherished,

like a sacred flame that I can tend and keep alive forever.

I have asked, but the future will not tell me if we will ever meet in the flesh again, but do not fear.

Our spirits are bound together for eternity.

You and your love will always be a part of me,

and you must believe that

Long after sun and moon have set

My heart will not forget.

Even so,

I will tell you how you can find me again if ever you can shed the chains that bind you and complete your quest by becoming

Solely Lancelot, pure and perfect.

You must first cross the Bridge of Tears

Then

Walk through the Valley of Affliction

To the River of Sorrows

Then

Climb the Mountain of Desolation

At the top do not hesitate,

Simply

Fling yourself into the Cloud of Oblivion.

And there you will find me.

Waiting.

Your Guinevere Forever

Jona found Tokala standing at the cave entrance, shuffling his feet impatiently. With tremorous hand, he handed over Gwen’s letter. Tokala read it quickly, then gave it back. He scrutinized Lieb carefully with deliberate indifference. “I didn’t know you two were that close.”

“I don’t know. I mean yes. Maybe. We shared a lot in such a short time. She thought it was more than that. Much more... I guess I was too blind to see.”

“She’s gone now. One less problem.”

Jona sobbed loudly but did not cry. “She can’t be far. Can we go look for her?”

“Of course not. She’s crazy enough to be anywhere by now. Hope she doesn’t run into a bear. Even worse, some lonely hilltop trapper.”

“I didn’t expect this.”

“What did you expect?” Tokala shook Jona by the shoulders, appearing genuinely angry. “She’s right. They would have carved her into a thousand pieces and then put her into the nuthouse. What do you think they’ll do to you?”

“Nothing. Some people will be angry, I guess.”

“Some people? Son, you were born yesterday. My mother told me your story. You were sent to mend fences down Richmond way, but somehow you made things worse. Now there’s a manhunt looking for your ass, to capture, maim, or kill you, not necessarily in that order. Some people will be angry, you say? Yeah, the same ones who run the whole show, the ones who like things to go a certain way and no other. Not the nicest people, I bet. You better think long and hard about what your story is gonna be.”

“I don’t have a story. I can’t tell them everything I’ve been through…I’m pretty sure some things I’ve done have been illegal, and I don’t want that kind of trouble.”

Tokala shook his head, still angry. “You’ll have trouble aplenty, don’t worry. You still don’t understand that you are a wanted man, and what that means. We take a wrong turn or even breathe the wrong way and maybe we’re both dead by tomorrow. Get it? Alright. We will drive tonight and rest in the morning. Tomorrow night we will be at the crossing point.”

He gestured towards their car, hidden within a sparse grouping of enormous, low arching sycamores, and Jona followed dutifully. He sat in the back as Tokala drove and was soon asleep. Another dream came to him.

He was standing in a grassy meadow, broad and flat. Right next to him was his mirror image, and on his other side, another. Across from where they stood, not ten feet away, stood Marielle, Gwen, and Elfieda, each facing one of him. They smiled and stretched their arms out, and each of him ran to their embrace. He held Marielle closely, grateful for her touch. She murmured something that he could not understand, and in a fraction of time Elfieda was in his clasp. In his dream, he understood that Marielle and Elfieda had not exchanged places. He was the one who was transformed into his other. It was him, but not absolutely. The skeins and coils of remembrance were somehow jarred, as if his memory had taken a step, just a small adjustment, in one direction or another. Even the field where he was standing was not exactly the same, now pitched very slightly to one side. In a blur he switched again, and now Gwen was whispering in his ear. He was he, but again not exactly. The sense of time felt unsettled, only by a second or two but not as it was before, as if there was a brief delay to each moment. He looked closely. Gwen was not completely identical to herself. The splay of her eyebrow was broad, not narrow as it had been. Everything Jona felt and saw and touched was imperfect; very close to everything he experienced but not precisely identical. Marielle, Elfieda and Gwen were speaking but he comprehended nothing, as if their words were out of sync with his hearing. Somewhere, somehow, something had fallen out of kilter. A spin had spun, a pendulum had cracked and come undone, a ray of light from nowhere had sprung into being, its journey just begun. A million, billion small vibrations agitated abrasively one against the other, birthing a new world born of nothing but his dream.

Eventually the scene imploded upon itself, fragmenting into specks of isolated shrieks, howls, heartbreaks, hopes, desires and fears. But none disappeared; each one hovered like a low-lying cloud at the very verge of his vision. In his dream, Jona watched expectantly, waiting for the images to coalesce again. Abruptly, everything was swept away. Every joy, every hate, every loving moment, every despair and every desperate desire was dispersed by a great wind. Marielle was again in his embrace, holding tightly as if afraid she might be blown away. They stood one against the other, shamelessly skin to skin, and Jona could feel the warmth of her breasts and belly, and every sensation that the power of touch could gift, and not for an instant did he care about his pasts, knowing that all of them, every one, had led him to this moment. The wind ruffled his hair, and he felt the disturbance reaching into his guts. For a brief moment Jona thought he would be eviscerated, that a great atmospheric current would disembowel him, exposing him for all to see. At last, Marielle spoke; he could hear her words vibrating like a drum beat. ‘Hold fast,’ she said. ‘A future is coming. It’s coming for you.’

The Story Concludes Next Week

Jona’s journey is almost at its end.

After a mission that has carried him across borders, through violence, betrayal, love, loss and the buried secrets of his own family, only one final chapter remains.

Next week, the story concludes.

The crossing point is ahead. Questions about Earnest Lieb remain unanswered. And Jona must finally decide what — and who — he believes after everything he has seen.

Don’t miss the final chapter next week.

The heat of day yearned dreamily for the cool of evening, and so the dusk came shyly but obligingly into sight, a bride led step by step, all the while blushing a winsome crimson, promising the consummation of night.

Spreading his legs wide on a pallet of thick clover, Jona propped himself up on his elbows, feeling the sweat drops that rolled down his neck begin to evaporate as a cooling breeze riffed by. They lay together, the three, on a grassy hillock that sloped to the river’s edge, high enough to see the vast and mountainous forest that concealed the far horizon, but not too high to lose the sights and sounds of the river flowing briskly below them. There were rocks large and small in the water, causing a gentle gurgle with each v-shaped ripple, speaking to each other in a language peculiar to themselves. As the light glimmered, an early chorus of cicadas chanted their lamenting plaint in response.

Jona listened attentively to the streaming water, overwhelmed by the utter majesty of a river that coursed without cease, trying to calm himself, trying to make sense of the day that had just passed. Amelia sat cross legged next to him, very quiet, and Gwen lay on his other side, lying on her belly and humming to herself as she picked at dandelion tufts. Andrews and Murphy stood away from them, a bit downstream at the edge of a shrub bordered runnel that fed the river with giddy fervor. It would be easy to imagine the scene as peaceful, flavored with the mellow languor of an old lithograph. Lieb’s mind, though, was in a turbulent, flickering frenzy of thought and feeling.

The first shock had come in the morning, with the realization that the woman at the car door was the mythical Amelia. It seemed surreal, much as if an actress had stepped off a theater stage, right over the floor lights and into intimate encounter with the only person in the audience. He had never really believed that he would find the mystery woman linked to his father’s distant past, but here she sat, right next to him and very real. They had talked of course, quickly in the beginning, and without saying very much that made sense to either one. Lieb had tried to explain about the diary from 1909, and the man with the suspenders in New Orleans, and the obese piebald professor he met in Atlanta, but after a few minutes Amelia had poked him on the arm, curtly interrupting his torrent of words.

“Jona, you are rambling. Don’t exert yourself. We’ll have time to go over everything when you’re more able.”

Lieb had felt guilty leaving Gwen behind, but Amelia insisted it was best for her to sleep and recover strength after her prolonged seizure, and asked that the two agents stay and monitor her when they returned. She spoke rapidly and with a tone of easy command, bolstered by the holstered gun at her hip. And so they left the car and walked together, the two alone, down to the river side by side.

At first, impenetrable stands of cattails and bulrushes blocked the sharp decline leading down to the water’s edge, but with some maneuvering she led him down a well trodden track to the muddy shoreline. She strode easily, lithe and elastic in comfortable jeans and a red plaid shirt with sleeves rolled up above the elbows. Jona thought she blended in with the dense foliage perfectly, as if she were a natural living part of the landscape. They reached an irregular embankment that stretched to a lost horizon. The waters were quiet here, as if the river wished to take repose from the froth and turbulence that was sure to come further on along its journey. Even before they emerged into full view of the river, as they maneuvered through a palisading copse of black willow, Jona could hear the sound of singing once again, louder than before but indistinct nonetheless. A gentle shower began to fall as they walked, a warm patter of drops kissing his forehead and face, growing stronger as they mounted a small rise overlooking the river.

The people in the stream were still there. They stood in place, forming a broad semicircle facing the shore, the water rising to their knees or waist according to their size. There were men and women, some young and some old, some stooped, some straight, swaying in slow synchrony, tugged by the current to and fro. Their line in the river formed a wide arc, like buoys marking safe passage through a treacherous strait. Some, Jona saw, were dressed in white robes, as if prepared for pagan sacrifice. Perched on a rocky promontory by the water’s edge stood a tall, thin woman, with jet black hair flowing to her waist, her arms outspread, her face uplifted, her feet planted in clumps of stonecrop and moss that seemed to clasp her securely to the black earth below her sandals. Suddenly, the morning sun’s rays flared through a break in the clouds, streaming across her face and forehead, turning her features into a mask of emblazoned bronze. As Jona came closer, he could hear her imploring the skies above with arms stretched to the heavens.

“O weep,” she cried, “O weep all of you as the heavens weep above, weep now as you once wept by the rivers of Babylon, and by the Tennessee, and by the Congo, and wherever else our flesh was bred. O weep, where the river meets the rain and where the past brings us pain, and where the blood we shed has left its stain. O weep, and forget not the New Jerusalem, but keep it in your hearts always, for there we shall find glory forever, to the ages of ages.” She lowered her arms sharply and began to sing. The people standing in the river began to sing with her and now he could understand their words:

Sometimes I feel like a motherless child,

Sometimes I feel like a motherless child,

Sometimes I feel like a motherless child,

A long way from home,

A long way from home.

A long way from home

The words hovered over the water, a rhythm deep and sad, a gentle pulsation from long ago, so long ago that it was almost long gone before it was even born. Jona could hear the people but did not really listen. His mind was bound up with shapeless thoughts that flitted in and out without rhyme or reason. He realized suddenly that his hands were shaking and his hip was burning.

“Her name is Alithea.”

“What? Who?” Lieb stumbled as he responded, clasping Amelia’s shoulder for support.

“Her.” Amelia pointed at the woman leading the singing. After a brief pause, she continued. “Your father brought her back from Africa as a young woman.”

Jona felt a quick shiver of anger. “Brought her back? What, as a souvenir?”

“Yes, I think, something like that. A trophy, in a way. He named her, too, when he baptized her.”

“She didn’t need any baptism.” Lieb did not attempt to hide his bitter sarcasm.

“Oh, but you’re wrong. She did, in order to begin her work. The work she’s doing now, as you see. One thing must follow another.” Amelia shot a hard stare in his direction.

“I see plenty. Plantation Sally is taught the so-called gospel and then does what she’s told. She couldn’t help herself, and couldn’t think for herself, her mind was so filled with poisonous ideas by the likes of the great Earnest Lieb.”

“Oh, oh, oh…” Amelia spun towards Jona, placing both hands firmly on his cheeks while gazing into his eyes with a penetrating look. She was neither angry nor pleased, but cocked her head slightly to one side as if examining his face for defects. Jona took a step back, startled. He stared as well, searching her face in turn. She seemed young for being old, at the very midpoint between the grace of supple youth and the blemish of jaded age. Her chin was still sharp, her straight hair dark blond, and the web of lines below her eyes nothing more than a faint trellis of shadows. “All of us have ideas that are planted in us from early on. It’s necessary. Biologically necessary. That’s how we grow and adapt.”

“Yes, yes, I know!” Lieb found himself shouting. “Right, right. Ideas are planted, right? Some become fruits that nourish the body, some bloom into flowers of beauty that are cherished, and others become weeds and vines that trap and choke, that snuff the goddamn life right out of you. Right? Right?”

“Calm yourself. I won’t tolerate nonsense. What are you saying?” Amelia began to squeeze his shoulders tightly, almost painfully. Her eyes bored steadily into his, clear and unflinching.

“You know what I’m saying.” Jona was bawling loudly now, exhaling deeply after each breath, speaking rapidly. “I’ve heard that trash a hundred, a thousand times. Don’t lie to me, you must have heard it too. Both of us from the same source. From him. One of the little platitudes he was so pompous about. He had a million of them, like little vipers that were meant to bite and sting, and that I was just supposed to endure. How about you? The same? Bitten also?”

“In a way, I suppose. We are given from the past in order to create the future, it’s that simple. You weren’t raised in a cell, were you? Of course you were given teachings which prepared you for life. Anyway, anyone can change if they really want to, can they not? If you will it so, it will be so.” She continued to hold Jona by the shoulders with strong hands, firmly enough that he could feel himself trembling within her grasp. “Are you alright?”

“Yes I’m fine. No. I need a cigarette.” Then, after a short pause, he slumped in her arms. “I need to sit down.”

Quickly, they sat down on the pebbled riverbank, Jona first then Amelia opposite him, uncaring of the wet slime and mud that soaked them. The rain returned, coming down harder now, firm pellets that struck with force and dripped down shoulders and chest in rapid streaming rills. Soon, without wishing to, Jona found himself sprawled on his back, supine, his body simultaneously rigid with pain and shaking spasmodically. Amelia placed the palm of her hand firmly on his forehead, pressing downward as if trying to squeeze out his torment. Her face remained impassive.

“How long have you been suffering?”

He exhaled deeply before answering. “I can’t remember. All my life.”

She pressed harder. “I remember you as a child. You were mostly quiet and alone. Never wanted to talk to others, but you talked to yourself incessantly. Your mother feared that a demon possessed you.”

Jona tremored. A staccato olio of images swarmed rapidly through his mind, bursting bubbles of remembrance, none of them complete or coherent. The pain in his hip flamed down his leg.

“You knew her?”

“You’re asking if I knew her?” Amelia twisted her mouth into a strange contortion, half smile and half sneer. “Of course I knew her.”

Jona picked up a smooth, palm sized rock, hefting it a few times before heaving it into the water. “I just want it all to disappear.”

“Nothing disappears, Jona. Nothing. We can move things from here to there, place something in one closet or another, bottom shelf or top, but nothing is ever truly gone. Even when we can’t remember, it’s still all inside.” She tapped her forefinger over her head, then smiled ruefully and waved her hand at the dense gray low lying clouds above. “Or maybe it’s all out there, collected in a cloud, who knows?”

“You believe that?”

“I do. Find even a trace of a smile, or a stain from a single teardrop, and the life it came from can be traced back to its beginning. And then back even more, and back again. Nothing is lost. The universe does not allow it. It’s science, not imagination. Conservation of information requires it.”

“So, you think that if you know where something is, then you know where it’s come from?”

“Something like that.”

“But what if it’s not like that at all.... Sometimes things just happen, like meeting someone out of the blue. Sometimes there’s no before, and sometimes no after. Haven’t you ever felt that?”

“Things go in a straight line. There is always a before and after. Anything else is just your imagination. A perverse imagination.”

Lieb tried to lay still, allowing Amelia to massage his brow with a deep, probing pressure from her fingertips. “It feels strange to me to be here right now. I shouldn’t have come. I want to go back where I was.”

“Certainly,” she answered crisply. “Did you belong where you were?”

Jona shook his head, gritting his teeth. “Did my father belong? Anywhere?”

“Of course. One place. The only place. Here. With me.”

“You think this was home? You’re wrong. The world was his home.”

“No, Jona. The world was where he moved. This is home. I am his home.”

Jona paused. The rain diminished as quickly as it had started. His hair was sopping wet, and his shirt drenched. Despite the sauna-like heat of the day, he began to tremble. “Why did he leave here? He had everything he could have wanted. He couldn’t know what his future would bring.”

Amelia laughed, making several quick guttural exhalations as if expelling something unwanted from her system. “He didn’t have everything he wanted down here. Prestige and position were not enough, and nothing could hold him. The world beckoned, and he responded.”

“You loved him. He loved you.”

“Well.” Amelia smiled, the kind of smile that can come from a long ago pleasure or an ever present ache; a contortion, a twist, a curve in time stretching across the face from the past to the present. “They say that love is a gift freely given, but I guess that’s not really true. Sometimes love is extracted, dug up, like mining for something precious. You find it, maybe, but it’s painful and exhausting work, and maybe you spend more time worrying that you’ll lose it than enjoying it. And then....”

“And then it’s gone and you never get it back?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps that’s it for some. But for others it’s not enough. Whatever it is, whatever the feeling, some want more, that’s all. Some lust for more and are never happy enough, then turn around one day and feel like maybe they never loved at all.”

“And which were you two?” Jona let his head sink back onto a smooth, water-worn stone.

“Which were we? I still don’t know for sure. I can shut my eyes and see it one way, or open them wide and see it another. Which is more real? Sometimes the feeling changes from moment to moment. One thing I know…Neither one of us could imagine life without the other.” She stroked Jona’s cheek briefly, lost in remembrance, then in an instant withdrew her hand. “You see, you’re not the only one with questions.”

“Tell me about him.’’

“Is that why you’re here? For answers? Solve the riddle of Earnest Lieb? Close the book, complete with explanations, tidy annotations and footnotes? Who are you to ask? You have no right to those answers. Nobody does. Nobody. I understand, Jona. You want to know what he did, and where he went, and when, and who he knew, and what he accomplished, and why. But you’re not asking what he was. What he felt. What he believed. What he desired. I may be the only one who understood what he was, and what moved him, and that has helped over the years to make me feel complete. Can you comprehend that? Unless you open your heart, your journey here is wasted. Maybe you should tell me about you. Are you capable of doing that? Truly?”

“I don’t know.”

“He wanted more. More than I could give. More than anything here could give. More than any one thing at any one time could give. That was your father.”

“Is that why he left? In 1909?”

“He was driven by belief. To make the world better. And, to be honest, to make himself better. Along the way he connived with the times and the people he encountered. It was not a game, it was a method. And, along the way, he discovered that beliefs can change, and so he changed as well. Is it so hard to imagine that?”

“Can a leopard really change its spots?”

The sound of splashing came from the river. The people standing in the water began to wade ashore, crowding around Alithea with a fricative buzz, a murmured cluck of greeting and farewell. The rain stopped again as quickly as it had started. Golden laced leaden clouds skittered across the sky, opening like great guard gates and unveiling a ceiling of blue and the brilliance of a still arising sun. Alithea descended the low bluff that served as her pulpit and mingled among them, speaking to each one, hugging some briefly and clenching the hands of others. Soon, the crowd dissolved, and she began striding towards Amelia and Lieb. In the span of moments she was towering over them where they sat, fists firmly on her hips, her skin afire where it was pierced by powerful darts of morning sunlight. She seemed huge, hovering high in the morning air, her forehead, eyes and lips dominating the span of Jona’s vision.

Amelia clambered to a kneel, grasped Jona’s hand and raised it to touch the smooth hem of Alithea’s skirt. “Jona, meet Alithea.”

Jona said nothing, merely cupping his hand to shield his eyes from the radiating sun and from the blaze of her face.

Alithea bent at the waist, blocking the sky completely as she hovered gigantically over him, studying him closely with eyes that embraced him with penetrating luminosity. “I’ve been told many times you might be coming by here one day.” Her voice chirruped with the bright energy of a pine warbler, her words rising and falling in quick, harmonious cadence. “It gives me great joy to meet you at last, Jona. I am your father’s daughter.”

Jona could feel his own breath, a thin fume pluming to and fro with a long and distant sigh, the only sound that could be heard. He was lying on a bed that was foreign to him, in a house unknown, in a darkened room that he somehow knew was located in the second story. Hesitantly, he lifted his head to look out the nearby window, expecting to see a revelation, a conclusion, an explanation of everything as soon as he could focus clearly.

He was down there, in the garden, playing among the azaleas that screened the house. There was a small rock he had found, very shiny in the blunted light of late afternoon. It was round and flat, like a coin, and he imagined it contained precious metals that had lithified over the course of ages. Over and over, he struck it against a much larger, dull brown stone, hoping to free the magical contents from imprisonment. He felt safe where he was, and happy to be on the verge of a great discovery.

“What are you doing, Jona?”

It was his mother, appearing unexpectedly. In his vision, Lieb startled in surprise. He could see her face, as real as if she were alive and in his presence, a face he had not seen in so very long, and never in his dreams.

“Nuthin’. Just finding gold, that’s all.”

She erupted in laughter, a vibrant, shaking jingle that twisted through the air with a roundabout curlicue bouncing from leaf to leaf and flower to flower until the blue budded azaleas shook with her mirth. “You think you’ll find gold there? What are the chances?”

“Dunno.” Jona kept throwing the rock, watching intently for the blossom of gold he was waiting to see. “Maybe 50-50. Or maybe more if I try enough times, like a hundred or a thousand times. I’ll get it eventually.”

He could almost feel his mother shaking her head. “But gold is so dear and rare. The chance must be less than that.” Very gracefully, she gathered up a handful of pebbles and threw them high in the air. “Look, Jona. See them flying through the air. You don’t have to count them to know they’ll all come down, there are no chances to play. They go up and they come down, over and over. Do this one hundred times, one thousand times. None will turn into clouds or wind. That would be impossible.”

Jona flushed with anger. “Maybe it’s not like you think, something different could happen...You can’t know things will happen only one way, that’s not fair. Gold is there somewhere. When I see it I’ll know it.”

“Will you, though? Have you ever found gold? What would it look like? And what would you do with it?”

Jona shuddered in his bed, attempting to curl into a ball. The questions, so many, oppressed him, fettering him with unbearable chains that bound him tightly in their grasp. He squeezed his eyes closed, wanting to fly away, free from the garden below and the upstairs room he lay in, but escape was hopeless. He remained weighted down, imprisoned within his body as securely as if he were embedded in stone.

A raven lit on the brick sill outside his window, cocking its head towards him to stare with one leaden eye. In a moment, a second raven fluttered down, nudging against the first, then another, making three. Jona could hear them cawing at him, exclaiming in unison:

“You thought you would be king, that you would be the ruler of the day. But now your dreams have flown away, like a bird on the wing.”

He realized with sinking heart that he was back in Boston, and at the river Ob, and in his deserted New York apartment, and in Berlin, and everywhere he had taken breath and exhaled and endured both the thrumming thrust of life and the deadened passage of the day. He felt the burn of bile in his mouth, and the red heated sear of agony in his leg, but only momentarily. Little by little he pushed back on the pain and despair. He saw himself extending sinuous arms and moving a weighty boulder that blocked his path. He squinted. Beyond the boulder was a steep declivity. By stretching his neck forward Jona could see downwards into a deep void obscured by uncertain, thready wavelets and vague lines of shape and color. And there was more. He could smell an indescribable fragrance, and feel the grit of sand, and hear the creak of a gate opening and closing. Somewhere down there, beyond where he could see...down, deep down, he knew was either a chamber embroidered with silver and gold or a twisted maze of horrors. One or the other awaited. What were the chances?

He heard a voice whispering, hissing. The crows fluttered closer, one landing at each foot of his bed and one by his head. Or, they said. Or....Or...

Or what?

Don’t bother asking if you don’t already know. It requires imagination to know.

Try me. I can imagine.

Are you sure? One crow fixed him with eyes of beaded ochre, the other with a greenish gaze, and the third with a glance of seductive blue. Imagination can be dangerous, you know, they said as one.

How so?

Imagine Marielle dying in agony this very moment. How would you feel?

Jona felt a sudden surge of nausea. Devastated.

Why?

Because she’s dying.

But she’s only dying in your imagination.

A memory nagged at Jona but evaporated quickly. He strained to look out the window once again, unsure what he would see. He was still in the garden, playing with the rock.

But it feels real.

If you say so

The chip, chip, chime of stone striking stone continued. “It is real. I can feel it.”

“What is real, brother?”

Jona bolted up with a rigid spasm. The crows were gone. The window was gone. The garden was gone. He was gone.

Alithea loomed above him in the semi dark, her face a metallic cyprian orb, floating like a half-moon in the surrounding firmament.

“How long have I been here?” He shook his head to clear the fog of his dream.

“You’ve been sleeping several hours. You passed out, in pain, I think. Your companions are downstairs waiting for you. I thought I should be the one to keep vigil here because, after all, we share flesh and blood.”

“Do we?” Jona swung his legs around, testing his balance. He found himself clear minded and without pain. Sleep had rejuvenated him, and for the moment at least he felt no cravings. “Do we really?” He measured Alithea with a dubious stare, but very quickly. It was somehow uncomfortable to gaze directly at her for more than a few moments. “You look nothing like my dad. Or me.”

“Well, maybe not what you can see on the outside.” She flashed a dazzling smile, her teeth shining like a procession of stars. “But we are very much alike, believe me.”

“Really now? How?”

“We are all seeking glory. Father in his way, I in mine. And you in your fashion as well.”

Jona felt his teeth clench. “Glory? That’s an odd word to use. I’m not looking for anything of the sort. I’m no hero.”

“In a way you are. You are a seeker. That’s why you’re here, and why you came all this way and to this place. I believe that’s why we’re all here. Looking. Exploring. Searching to find something. You, especially.”

“Why me?”

“I can see you Jona, as you are. The passage of time has injured you. You’ve passed your days trying, trying so hard to save a life...after so much struggle, and as the days ahead narrow down, you think that is the only thing within your heart that you still hope is true. You tried to save a life, Jona, a life you hardly even knew.”

A few moments dragged by. Jona found himself almost dreading what he wanted to ask. “Did you know him well?”

“Maybe. It’s hard to know whether I knew a man or a myth.”

Jona felt a shiver, as if a window had opened unexpectedly, letting in a freezing draft. “Why...What...” He could not continue.

Alithea placed her hand on his shoulder, looking steadily into his eyes. Lieb avoided her gaze, looking down at his own hands instead. “Jona, you’re afraid of almost everything, aren’t you. And yet, you’ve been incredibly brave.” She paused and held her index finger straight upwards. “Listen. Can you hear the angels walk?”

“There are no angels. Anyway, angels fly.”

“No. They walk. Behind us, before us, even over us. We can’t see them, but then there are so many things we cannot see. Just listen closely and you might hear them walking, maybe in puddles of rain, or on concrete city sidewalks, or on fallen branches coated by the first hard frost. They are there, pushing and prodding, pointing us towards glory even when we ourselves don’t know it.”

“You can’t prove any of that, it’s irrational. You’re either a deliberate liar or insane.”

“The angels are there, walking with us. They guided me to our father, and him to me.”

“What in hell is that supposed to mean?” The words exploded out of Jona’s mouth. “I’m sick of this bullshit.” He shifted his legs as if to get out of the bed.

Alithea raised her hand, palm facing outward. A jeweled ju-ju flashed at her wrist, a beacon strobing in the semi dark. “I will tell you the story about me and our father, then you will tell me yours.” Jona stopped moving. He sat motionless, mesmerized by the amulet. The room’s low light played tricks with the gems as Alithea’s hand wavered slowly up and down, causing the bracelet to glow, then go dark, then glow again, seeming to throb with the purr of a slow and steady pulse, like a carnivore at rest. He placed his own hands over his face and sobbed without meaning to. “Go on.”

“Hear me then.” Her hand dropped, the flashing stopped, and the room went dark.

“I was married to my husband when I was nine. Well, almost ten. The course of my life was bent in new directions when that happened, taking me far from my quiet village life. Before that, as a girl, I had no memory of my father, only the stories my mother would tell me, about a tall white man with blue serpent eyes and a smile that could haunt your dreams. I was curious, and I asked questions, but never learned much more about him, only that he had gone back to his own country, a place much farther away than we could ever walk to. My mother was sad when we talked about him but was never angry, and after all I was not the only one in my village without a father.

The man I was given to was much older, though I never learned his true age. Seventy? Younger? Maybe older. His name was Diop, and it was rumored that he had traveled the world to make his fortune. My mother told me he was my grandfather’s brother and would only marry within the family, and she told me the names of his other wives, all three, all cousins from our village. They were good women, well into their years, she said, and would look after me.

The men who came to claim me gave my mother gifts that were acceptable. One of them sat down with my mother to bargain my price. Later I learned his name was Kuru, a strange name around our parts. I was not allowed to join them, but could see and hear them from our garden, where I crouched among the okra sprouts, pretending I was invisible. The discussion was not long. Their offer included, I will never forget, a gold coin with the portrait of a queen stamped on it.

My mother was a very proud woman. Even though we had little, she gave to me a mandala pendant with a small bright blue cabochon in the middle, and a macramé bracelet set with fiery stones, both very beautiful. That was my dowry. She placed them on my body with pride and I held my head high as I was taken away from everyone I knew and loved.

The men did not tell me beforehand that we would need to cross an ocean to reach my new home, so you can imagine my worry as we boarded a long black boat with patched white sails, billowing giants that lived by consuming the wind. I was never on a boat before, and I spent the voyage in terror whenever the ship rolled and rocked. Also, the ship reeked of tobacco. The stink was only a minor inconvenience, though, as I soon learned. There were no arrangements for a young girl, and no privacy. The men in charge of me threw up some straw mats in the corner of the cargo hold and told me to hide myself there when I wanted to be alone. It was disgusting down there, so I spent as much time as I could up top, whenever the ocean was not angry. The men did not like me up there because it was unlucky, they said, to have a female on deck. That was my first ever encounter with stupidity. I didn’t care and went up as I wished. There I could feel the wind fly against my face and see the rolling of the waters, churning as if a giant hand was stirring and kneading deep below. How often I wondered whose hand it might be.

After ages passed, we arrived at a port that was no more than a hamlet of limestone and wooden huts dropped randomly around a wharf, a place called Asha-Oyri. It was there, they told me, that my new husband was waiting to meet me. I had no means of washing myself, and though I felt unclean, I dressed as best I could, and wore my dowry of sparkling jewelry with pridefulness. The men led me to a big brick Customs House, the kind the whites would build, and then up and up and up, so many flights of stairs! The higher we went, the more important I knew Mr. Diop must be. When they ushered me into his office my little heart was racing so hard I almost jumped with fear of what lay before me. That was a young girl’s silliness, though. There would be time enough in the future to be frightened.

He was propped behind a small desk, curled up on a chair, looking smooth brown and purple, like a chuuma nut, lean in the eyes and covered head to toe in a mud blanket that almost buried him. His face was alive, though. He did not smile at first, he was so preoccupied in his examination of me, searching me up and down. Eventually he spoke, but in a language I did not understand. Kuru, who was now my chaperone, explained that Mr. Diop was speaking in the manner of English and would speak no other tongue, certainly not Yoruba as I was raised to learn, and that before long I would be speaking English too. That seemed impossible to me, but time allows for all things, doesn’t it? Next, Kuru told me that I was to be married to Mr. Diop right away. How strange that seemed to me. Where was the feast? Where were the guests? Where were the other wives, the ones who were to look after me?

Instead, some papers were put before me, and a pen, something I had seen but never touched before, and I was told to make a mark in a certain spot. I drew a picture of my village house with simple lines. My husband also made a mark, a long one, then folded up the papers and put them in a drawer. Only then did he smile. Kuru also smiled, and congratulated me.

“Your life is filled with good fortune,” he said. “You are now the wife of a great man, and you will have sons who will be great men.”

“But where are Magamba and Dunudu, and the third wife, Gaman? And where are their sons?”

Kuru shook his head and waved his hand to stop me from saying more. “That is not your concern. They are not here, and you are the favored wife now. All honor to you.”

And that was all.

My mother had explained everything to me before we said our goodbyes, and what I should expect from a husband, and that I should submit with obedience but always with my dignity wrapped around me as tightly as a heavy kitenge. In our village we knew all those things from early childhood on. I was apprehensive, but I was ready. Then nothing happened. I was given a room where I slept long hours, and food was brought to me either by Kuru or an elderly woman named Rifa, who spoke my tongue. She was a Mganda woman, very short, and walked so bent over that her waist was a swivel that moved only left and right, not up and down. Every motion she made brought her pain. I knew when she was coming to me because her grunts and moans sang her unhappy song long before she arrived. There was nothing given to me to do: no cooking, no herding, no garden weeding.

Days went by, then weeks. At last, one day Kuru came to me. With few words he told me we would be leaving that place and going elsewhere, to our real and proper home, and to prepare accordingly. I had nothing to get ready, nothing but what I wore on my back, so when we left the next day I was prepared for nothing and for everything. We went on another boat, this one much bigger and with noisy engines instead of sails. I was given a cabin that I shared with Rifa, and again I spent much time on deck, inhaling the vibrations of low blue sky and rolling wave. I did not see my husband at all during the voyage. I assumed he was very busy with important matters, but Kuru came to me every day, once or twice at least, and over time he began to smile and rub my head for encouragement. “Blessed one,” he would say, “Have faith that your best days are yet to come.” I sensed a comfort in his voice and felt not so alone. Over time I learned to accept each day as it was. My mother, my family, my village, all of my past slipped away like a silent dream, lost in the monotony of waves and wind and the wake of foaming bubbles.

Our destination was a great city owned by whites, called Loanda. I did not know then that I would spend the next five years there. Kuru explained that the city was a great port of commerce, where good things of all kinds drained from the inland forests, acquired by merchants like Mr. Diop, and then transported far away, especially to the lands of the whites. That is how my husband had made huge riches and become a great man.

“You must understand this above all things,” he told me. “We are the House of Diop, and we are traders. We buy and sell anything that one man might want of another.” Kuru would always bow his head and touch his chest, very delicately with two fingers, when speaking my husband’s name.

The house I was brought to was a palace unlike anything I had ever seen or imagined, with large cool rooms that inhaled the ocean breezes that swept up from the bay. I realized at that moment how fate had smiled on me and how lucky I was to have such a husband as Mr. Diop.

The morning after our arrival Kuru called me to the garden in the courtyard of our grand house. The garden was drenched in riches beyond compare. There was vibrant kudu crawling about in abundance, a sprawl of sugar bush treasure flowers, and tall red bloomed calla growing in tiered profusion. In the middle, spreading its wealth and power over the width and breadth of the garden like a giant parasol, a baobab tree ruled supreme. The day was still but somehow the air danced with gentle grace, fragrant with the smell of the flaming nandi and crane flowers that grew along the walls. There was something else I remember, another kind of smell, more difficult to place, weaving itself gingerly through the air. It was a mixture of things, of salt water and sand, seaweed and drying fish. And to my young senses, there was adventure and excitement and the lure of the unknown bursting in every direction. The sights and smells created a blend of magic and artifice, a promise of tomorrow, and then tomorrow, and the next day and the next, forevermore. I was so happy at that moment in the garden, and so happy to see Kuru there. He sat on a bench of whitest marble, grasping the edges of his seat with hands so black they rivaled the hue of a raven. A slab of sable inlaid upon the purest ivory would be no more beautiful. Actually, my little heart told me he was beautiful.

He was not alone. There was a young man sitting by his side, a white man dressed in a black frock, broad trousers and a wide brimmed hat with all the edges turned down. Even though his face was shaded by his hat, he wore narrow brown tinted glasses which obscured his eyes completely. Kuru waved me to a nearby bench, picking up a bundle from the ground as he did so.

“This is Leopoldo Rafael Carlos de Sousa Caldron.” He said each strange word carefully, as if reciting a difficult poem. “He serves Mr. Diop. He will be your teacher.”

The man stood and bowed, wrinkling his forehead in the way of greeting.

“I will be happy to learn.” I spoke as if the matter had no importance to me, deflecting me neither left or right. Simple girl that I was, I thought I would just continue as I was told, much like a guinea fowl following the other hens. “What will I learn?”

Kuru withdrew a book from the sack he was holding. It was an enormous book, almost the size of a winnowing stone. “You will learn the language of English from Mr. Caldron.” He tapped the book. “And you will learn from this.” He stood to emphasize the importance of the task. “Whites pray into this book. They don’t believe in river gods or spirits of the grasslands, or immortal hyenas or talking vultures. They have their gods and spirits inside this book. Understand the book and you will understand the whites we trade with. That will help Mr. Diop in his enterprises.”

I took the book from his hands with some trepidation. It was very heavy, and I needed both hands to keep it steady. When I opened it, the first page that appeared showed a drawing of three men standing in a pit of flames. They had their hands clasped together and were making no attempt to run away. How strange that was to my young eyes! Even a tortoise knows to run from fire.

Kuru was not finished with me. From the satchel in his hands he withdrew garments and fabrics of different sizes and colors. There were cool cotton dresses, elaborate silken scarves, and soft linen blouses, all marvelous in their pattern and feel, and in so many colors that they made me dizzy. “These are for you. Mr. Diop is happy with you, his new wife, and offers these gifts as a token.”

My heart at first soared like a crane, but quickly I felt troubled. Why did not my husband give me these presents himself? How was it that he could be happy with me when we had not seen each other in so very long? I remember Mr. Caldron smiling at me, as if I had accomplished something wonderful, but I had done nothing but what I had been told to do.

So time, in the way of years, went on. I wore my pretty clothes as I pleased, and received new ones more often than I could have wished. Rifa served my every need. Leopoldo, for that is what Mr. Caldron insisted that I call him, met me almost every day in the morning and evening, teaching me words and phrases from the big book, and instructing me to speak them properly. From time to time he taught me little poems and simple songs, and made me learn the words for all the things of earth and sea and sky. And, he told me about his home far away near the river Temes, where his mother and brothers still lived, and how and when they prayed and ate, and feasted, danced, and fasted. He was actually from two different places, he said, and now lived in a third, and he explained how someone could be a mix of many origins. I remember wondering whether I might have different origins one day.

In the coming years I saw my husband only once, very briefly. He did not touch me or speak to me, he merely smiled at me with lips so yellow and creased and crinkled that they reminded me of dried jackfruit. I wanted so much to like my husband, but his appearance frightened me. He came to me during my study time, observed a few minutes, and had me stand to face him. Then he left without another word, evaporating like morning dew fleeing springtime grass at the first lick of sunshine.

There were no other actors in my little play. Dunudu, Magamba and Gaman were never seen and never mentioned again, disappeared like shadows immersed in darkness. From my mother, I received no word, not ever.

Kuru, though, came every day. Sometimes he would join me for ogi in the morning, or samosa in the evening. Sometimes he merely sat and watched me as I read with Leopoldo’s guidance. Occasionally, though, he came to sit with me in the cool of the garden when my studies were done, and stare at the clouds above in silence. When he did, I would stare also. I can remember that he liked to slip off his sandals and curl his toes on the grass below our feet, and by doing so myself I could feel and share in his pleasure. Without any thought about it, my heart told me everything I wanted to know about Kuru. Nothing was ever said between us, but I came to believe he shared the tug of ardor that grew within me. As months and years passed, I began to wonder what the future might bring. After all, my husband was very old. Very old. One day a silent wind would blow his dust away back to his ancestors, leaving me alone. Kuru, though, was tall and straight as a quiver tree, and with hair that rivaled club moss, it was so dense and thick. And, I was untouched by the hand of any man. So, why shouldn’t I dream my dreams?

One day came when Kuru did not also come. I waited that day, then two days, and finally my distress could control itself no further. I asked Leopoldo about Kuru as cleverly as I could, but I was yet unschooled in the art of connivance, and he promptly gave me a look that pierced any pretense. He explained with a sympathetic smile that Kuru was away and would be away for months to come, on a trading expedition for the House of Diop.

I bit my tongue at hearing this news, and kept my lips pressed firmly in a straight line, but my spirit crashed. For the first time in my life, I experienced profound sadness and was so afflicted by melancholy that it colored my every thought and action. My studies became indifferent to me, prompting many scoldings from Leopoldo.

So, you can imagine my happiness when Kuru appeared in our courtyard one morning, bursting into view as if materializing out of wind and cloud. He brought me a wide straw bonnet as a gift, handing it to me with a pure smile. I wore it immediately, not as a guard from the sun, but because I was afraid he would see the tears in my eyes. Once again, we resumed the routine of our daily visits. In the coming years, though, Kuru was to leave again without warning twice more, for months at a time, leaving me despondent until his return.

The days and months passed unevenly, sometimes in a blink, and at other times in long, drawn out lapses of wearisome tedium and routine. Leopoldo did his best to keep me engaged in my studies, and I learned very quickly under his tutelage. At first, I was simply happy to master the language of what I called the Big Book. The words began to make sense to me, and before long I could conjure up images of the characters and places I was reading about. As I learned more and more, though, I came to realize how preposterous some of the stories appeared. Why would a just man lose everything at the whim of a god? Why would a god demand the murder of an only son? And why under heaven would there be only one god? What about Anansi and Osebo and all the other spirits I had grown up with? Why were they not in the Book?

Leopoldo was very passionate about this point, and stern, and insisted that I must stop my belief in such fanciful creatures. He made a special effort to teach me the word “expunge”, which I found very difficult to pronounce properly. He instructed me to expunge all that I had learned about the forests and rivers and mountains and all those who were funny and clever and powerful and wise who lived there. I should expunge all that, he said, and that would make me new. How odd to think I should hollow myself out to begin all over. If I were emptied out as he wished, was there any certainty that I would ever be filled again? I did not argue aloud, but inside I resisted. I did not want Leopoldo and his inventions to occupy the whole of my spirit. Just a portion, perhaps, and even that part I might want to take back one day.

Still, the stories I read stuck to me like glue. No, wait...Stuck like thick honey, because some of the tales were sweet, and somehow attracted new ideas and thoughts as thickly as a swarm of flies. So, I remained engrossed in the Big Book while the sun and stars and skies tramped their courses back and forth, over and over, unchanging through the heat of summer and the rain of winter. But there was change. I was the one changing and didn’t realize it. I was the moon, shifting shapes through its heavenly phases, and I was the sun, steering high and low across barriers of cloud and rain. At some point, at some hour or some moment, and without understanding it, I became transformed into something more than anything I had ever been.

One morning, we had a great storm that came unexpected and without invitation, as it was the dry season. I didn’t mind the tumult, though, and happily breathed in the howling as the wind and the sky turned to stony gray, remaining that way all through the day. Night followed day, and thunder followed night, marching in lockstep with the darkness. The clash of clouds above and the ferocity of rain reminded me of the great flood story I had studied in the Big Book, when all the people of the world had once drowned in a great storm, all except for a favored few. The god living in the Big Book was impervious to feelings of guilt and remorse, I thought, and might be doing the same thing again. Was the world of people about to be expunged and everything made new?

It was a strange feeling that filled me at that moment. Actually, not one feeling. It was more than that, more like having a host of feelings all at the same time, as if they were gathered around a feasting table, some whispering, or talking, or shouting, and some silent, but all craving to be fed. I was anxious, yes, but welcoming somehow. My years were still young, but my childhood had already soured, like a curd of milk turned rancid. For some time, thoughts had been coming to me that were different from before. Restlessness had invaded me, doubt separated me, and new, unaccustomed urges rapped at the edges of my mind. More than anything, anger had discovered me, tripping over me as it wandered the world in search of new and eager acolytes. I felt an urge to leave the safety of my prison and the boundaries of my feigned, unsubstantial marriage and move on, into the night if necessary. In that instant, I realized that I was no longer who I had once been. Changed forever, but like a clay pot still spinning on the turn-wheel I was not yet fully formed.

Feeling the urge to flee, I ran to the great door at the garden entrance and flung it open as hard as I could. The rain pelted and the wind pummeled but I cared not. The blackness beckoned, calling me out into the soaking moil and din, step by step. I somehow felt I was being judged and weighed by sky and earth, and that the storm would decide my worth and guide me to my proper place in the darkness. Looking back, I think the angels were walking right behind me at that very moment.

As my feet moved blindly, a voice came to me, calling my name. I thought for a moment it was the god of the Big Book, coming at last to explain the flashes of lightning, and the torrent of rain, and the turning of the days, and the meaning of loneliness and desire and every other possible thing that remained unknown. But it wasn’t the god. It was Kuru, stepping out of the doorway into the rain and reaching out his arms.

I ran to him, and as he embraced me I felt as if released from bondage. I was free, completely, and could spill out all that was trapped inside me. We stood as one, clasped tightly together in the eye of the drenching storm, and did not move or speak for an eternity. As if in a dream he led me to the shelter of the baobab tree. We leaned against it, arms locked and beheld the majesty of the tempest engulfing us. My spirit soared up through the swaying tangle of groaning leaves and boughs and I felt my soul nestle like a new-hatched dove among the tossing branches above. In that hour, the whirlwind had become paradise.

I must have whimpered, because Kuru spoke to me. “Are you afraid of the dark?”

“No,” I answered. “There is no darkness where there is love.” It sounds today like a simple-minded thing, a saying that I learned as a child, but I was so young and desire was so strong within me that I spoke as if reciting holy verses.

“You are the wife of Mr. Diop. There can be nothing for us.”

“There is already something for us. It can only grow. In your heart you know it to be true.”

He was silent for a long time, squeezing me to himself as if I were a precious cargo. All around us the wind screamed and sheets of rain poured down from a giant cauldron high in the heavens, but we were safe under the branching arbor of our guardian tree. When he spoke again it was in a whisper. “No. In a few days I will be leaving.”

“What do you mean? Leaving for where?” I must have pushed him away, because the damp cold enveloped me immediately.

“On a trading operation far away. I will be gone for months. Mr. Diop commands it.”

I don’t believe in indelible fate, and I know a vine can twist in many different directions as it seeks the sun. But I do believe that something pushes or pulls us down one path or another, one particular road out of many, and that it can’t possibly be our own doing alone. There are spirits that prod and tug us towards the light, and I sensed their touch at that moment.

“Then I am going with you!” It was my heart that cried out, but my mind was already churning furiously, as if the storm had somehow engulfed me, energizing me with its power. “I will arrange a meeting with my husband tomorrow.”

“No!” His voice was a shriek, a brittle, almost metallic blare that overcame the maelstrom surrounding us. “You must not! In any case, he will not meet with you, little one.”

“Yes he will. I will tell him I am ready to help the House of Diop make money in dealing with the whites. I will speak to him in English.”

“You must not do such a thing. Believe me when I tell you it could lead to no good.” I felt him clutch my shoulders fiercely, but only for a moment, and then he embraced me tightly once again.

As I clung to Kuru’s arms I felt the thrill of wind and welter deep within my heart, and I was certain we would never part again. I hardly noticed that he began shaking with deep sobs, and mistook the tears coursing down his cheeks for raindrops falling like silver pendants from heaven above. All would be well, I thought. I would seek out my husband in the morning, and he would not deny my wish. Wherever Kuru was to go, so I would also go.

Of course, I don’t know for sure why my husband agreed to see me, but I think he was curious to hear me speak, more than anything, and to judge the progress of Leopoldo’s teaching. It had been over five years of daily study, after all. I was fresh and eager when I came into his presence the next day. He seemed tired and remote. Since I had last seen him his eyes had become dark yellow and his skin almost corrugated, lined with the deepest of furrows. Time had confiscated all signs of youth as a tax on the excess of his years. His head and shoulders were buried under an enormous dusky shawl, and his legs were curled tightly under him on his seat, as if captured in stone. I held my breath for a moment, thinking he might flick his tongue out like a Mwanza lizard seeking morning prey. He twirled his finger a few times, indicating I should turn for him. As I did, he smiled without showing teeth.

“My wife, you have grown.” His words were steady, but I realized that he spoke his English poorly. Leopoldo would never approve of his diction.

“Yes, and it has come time for me to help my husband and the House of Diop. I am ready. Send me as a trading envoy with Kuru.”

He gestured with his hand to come close, and then he touched me on my leg, very high. Nothing I can tell you can describe the panic and revulsion that I felt at that moment, but he did nothing further and withdrew his fingers with a tremor. “I should keep you here and enjoy you as my wife. I can take a certain remedy, a potion that will restore my old urges and powers. You would make me young again.”

The floor creaked behind me. A presence was there I am sure, an angel, pushing me forward a step. I realized suddenly that I towered over Diop, and that he was no more than a feeble, dying soul wrapped in a dried out residue of worn and faded skin. “Husband, you can be with any woman that you want, and whenever it pleases you. But as for me, you have trained me for this great task from the day we wed. Would it not be a terrible waste not to use me? And also...” Here I paused to heighten the moment, and donned my most alluring smile. “I am young. I can use my charms to advantage with the whites in order to advance your interests.”

In seconds, his cheeks flushed a dull red, and chameleon-like his face blended into the folds of thick knitting that cowled around his head, his features receding from view like a ghost leaving this world without a sound. He nodded, and with a low sigh waved me away. I had won.

In three days, I fled my cocoon. We left by ship, a squat looking tug this time, with two tall funnels that spewed smoke and soot so black and thick that the afterdeck became coated with a tarry, sticky veneer. I was alone, without Rifa, and allowed only a few items stuffed into a small leather bag which I tied to the end of a sturdy stick. And also, I brought the Big Book, packed into a knapsack. Leopoldo insisted that I bring it and continue my studies, and Kuru agreed.

During the voyage Kuru avoided me completely. I understood that it was best to leave a space between us, but that only made my longing for him grow greater by the day, as if to fill that space. Yes, my heart soared with softly beating wings and my mind filled with intimate thoughts and imaginings, especially at night. You see, I was in a state of desperate, desperate love, and felt I would take any chance to be with Kuru.

For two days the boat hugged the coastline, like a crab crawling slowly but deliberately, until one afternoon we entered a vast, green tinted estuary, calm as a pond, with barely any movement on its surface. At first, cautiously, we navigated along and around oval-shored islets of bush willow and mangrove sprouting out of the water in random riot, creating a hundred narrow river channels that veered left and right in no particular order. Surrounding us on all sides was our boundary; a towering, somber, endless vista of jungle. A dozen miles or more along, and the river assumed a more ordinary appearance, with discernible shores to the left and right, lined by fortress walls of angular limba and towering kapok trees. This was the river Congo, I was told, the great vein feeding the trade routes that enriched the House of Diop.

The next day we arrived at our destination, the town of Matadi. What a strange place! The town itself sprawled along angular hills that heaved up from the river’s edge in a most unnatural way, as if a long-ago leviathan had risen out of the water and cast mammoth boulders to left and right. The ramshackle piers that jutted from the shoreline were infested by boats of all sizes and shapes, of steel, of wood, of reed, flashing colors of blazing reds, or blues, or yellows. Crawling like beetles along the docks were stevedores and laborers sweating under loads twice their size, carrying sacks, sheaves, crates, bales and timbers of every length. Piles of hidden goods wreathed in burlap were heaped here and there, forgotten in the din of activity. There was a continuous hubbub of shouts and curses, harsh-sharp notes rising above the background buzzing of human voices. It would take a great poet to describe the organized frenzy and chaotic hustle erupting there, a volcano of energy where jungle met river.

Kuru came to me as we disembarked. I remember his eyes, flitting left and right with the movement of dark brown moths seeking light. He would not look directly at me and made a point of staying at arm’s length. “Little one, I beg you,” he said, speaking as if afraid to be heard. “Get back on the boat and go home, where you belong. I can arrange it for you now, but once we leave this place there will be no going back, and there will be no guarantee of safety.”

I responded proudly, with chin up and neck stiffened, just as my mother had taught me. “I am not afraid, and I will not leave your side, even if you cast yourself to the four winds. My only safety is with you.”

I moved my hand to touch his arm, but he shrugged it away. For the merest instant he looked into my eyes, and I could see with certainty that he loved me just as I loved him. Yes, yes, yes, I could feel it though he would not say so. I knew it to be so, and remained calm within myself.

A man met us shortly after. He was loitering near the train station as we approached, oblivious of the to and fro flowing around him. He was of a foul appearing middle age, wearing a ragged, dirty white agbada made of dusty, threadbare linen. He had some kind of malodorous, weeping skin condition over his face and arms and where his chest was bared. Four meticulously straight and equal scars, one above the other in neat parallel rows, marked his left cheek. All in all he looked and smelled like a mangy dog, reminding me of the wild men described in the Big Book; men who lived in the mountains, or in the jungle, surviving on roots and honey, men of wind and dust who cared nothing about bodily existence.

Kuru waved at him and beckoned with confident intimacy, calling him Patrice, and the man joined our circle. That made us three, to my dismay. How I wished it would be only me and Kuru, just we two.

Shortly, we boarded a train. Kuru spoke to me quickly, tersely, telling me we had an overnight trip to our destination. Like the tug, the train plumed smoke, black as night, back along its length, so much like a charmed boa that followed wherever the train would lead. Our wagon was almost empty, but Kuru had me sit next to Patrice while he sat a few rows behind. I could not understand why he did so, leaving me both confused and angry. The smell coming from Patrice was a nauseating mixture of deep, dried sweat and rotting fruit. How different his asphyxiating odor from the gentle aroma of citron surrounding Kuru. I leaned away from him as much as possible, afraid to come in contact with him and contract whatever horrid condition was devouring his skin.

It was not long before he spoke to me, or tried to. He talked rapidly in a language I did not know. I could tell that he then tried another tongue, again one I did not understand. Finally, he said a few words in miserable English.

“My name Patrice. Yours?”

“Right now I don’t have one. I am between names.”

He gave a gruesome, crooked smile, and a gurgle from low in his chest. “That is good. Then I just call you girl. You are girl, no? Or between?” He waited for the angry flash of my eyes, then laughed louder, nodding to himself as if a great truth had been revealed.

We fell into silence. I expected him to ask me about myself, and why I was there, and on and on...but he did not, and I had no intention of speaking to him about anything at all. I remained sequestered within myself, and slowly I was overcome by the train’s sway and squeal and shimmy and shake as we traveled into the curve of night. In fits and spurts I felt anxiety about Kuru’s aloof demeanor, but that did not stop me from drifting into a deep sleep, dreamless and fearless.

When I woke, the sun’s rays were already groping over the mantle of thick forest lining the tracks on either side. Patrice was hunched over, absorbed with something he held tightly in his lap, hidden beneath the spread of his hands. I pretended to yawn and glanced as quickly as I dared. He was holding a pencil to a scrap of paper, immobile and lost in thought. I could not hold back my tongue, perhaps because I was still half in sleep.

“You are writing?”

“Trying...” He did not look up but after a moment he bent down even more rigidly. “Oh, I understand...Yes, I write.”

I felt no shame, though I should have, only perplexity. My own writing was rudimentary despite my years of study. “How?”

He grunted out a mocking laugh. “With pencil.” He must have seen the desired effect on my face. “The whites teach me. In their school, as a boy, as a young man. Want to make me a priest. A priest to the Africans.”

I knew what priests were, there were quite a few in the land I came from. They disgorged into the countryside like locusts every spring, invading one village after the other. “But you’re not one? Are you?”

Now he gave a genuine laugh, loud and uncaring, shaking his head and arms as if he were a puppet suddenly come to life. I swear my eyes saw dust and dirt flying out from his hair. “No! First they teach me to write, then throw me out when they see what I write. Not what they like. Throw me out and tell me to leave my country. But look, I’m here still. Here I be.” He began to speak in a gibberish singsong, nodding his head with great satisfaction, left and right, back and forth:

“Here I be,

Still here, you see,

Here I be,

I be here, you see,

And one day they won’t any longer be.”

The man was so peculiar and his words so jarring, I forgot about his smell and skin, and leaned closer. I wanted to know more about him. “Where are you from?”

“From the train station, don’t you remember?”

Thoughtlessly, I grabbed his wrist. “No! Tell me! Who are your people?”

He shook himself free and again lowered his head towards the rectangle of paper in his lap. “Right now I don’t have any. I am between people.”

Just then the train began to quiver and jerk. Piercing shrieks and screaming steam accompanied the long, loud whine of a whistle. Kuru came out of his seat and moved towards us, waving us to disembark as the train dragged itself slowly along a long dun colored platform.

Patrice sprang up and clapped his hands. “Arrive at last. Leopolvie.” He gave me such a wicked grin as he clapped, his head bobbing as if it had become unscrewed from his neck. “Now the fun begins. Here we meet my porters. Eight. Picked myself, strong and willing, fifty franc apiece. Here we have our cargo ready. And here we take the river, take it to Monopo. Three weeks with luck. And there we will meet the great Towusu, and there we trade for ivory and pangolin scales, and with luck some gold.”

“And what do we bring to trade?”

“You don’t know?”

“Tell me.”

He laughed again, a contrived, irksome laugh, and his throat jounced up and down as if words were drowning there by the dozen, unable to escape. “Well, then,” he said. “Maybe you. Maybe you are the goods we bring to trade.”

In a few moments Kuru joined us, clearly irritated. He motioned me to move along but I stood my ground and found my voice. “Kuru, what cargo are we bringing to Monopo?”

“Stop!” Jona’s voice erupted into the darkness. “I know what it is. I can tell by the way you’re building up to this. The old man was a crook, and his whole operation was criminal, some kind of a syndicate maybe. They were trafficking in guns, or booze, opium, little girls, or whatever.”

Alithea’s face contorted into a frown, her mouth dragged downwards by a great, immeasurable weight. “No, not illegal, but yes, criminal. We were transporting men and boys as our merchandise. Special men and boys. Kuru explained it to me. Workers at the rubber tree plantations were punished by the whites if they didn’t meet their quotas. The penalty was cutting off a hand or even an arm, usually the right one, as a warning to others. Sometimes many men in a village suffered so, hundreds of them every year. The men were unable to care for their families, and the families too poor to care for them. Many agreed to be purchased by Diop so their wives and children and parents could survive with the money paid. Diop in turn arranged to sell them where their value was greatest.”

“You mean as workers?”

“If you prefer.”

Jona rubbed his palm violently over his forehead, attempting to suppress the headache that began to flame. “But it doesn’t make sense. They were crippled.”

“Do your sums. Two men equals two arms. Diop would buy four for the price of one and sell three for the price of one. Or the bargain might be two men and a boy for full price. Lucrative, don’t you think?”

“No. No, no, no. The bastards.”

“Who? The men who bought and sold or the men who cut off limbs?” Alithea raised her wrist and shook her bracelet gently. The gemstone shot a stab of lustrous blue light as it trembled, unveiling itself for just a moment in the sullen gray of surrounding murk. “Who would you say, Jona? All? None? The whites who performed the monstrous deed? The villagers who took the money? Maybe you want to blame the men themselves, the ones I saw walking meekly to the boats as we embarked downriver, without a whimper or complaint?”

“Save the philosophic bullshit. I know what, how about we blame God?”

Unexpectedly, Alithea reached out a forefinger and touched Jona’s cheek very briefly; a quick rub, a swipe, as if taking a forensic sample for later analysis. Jona did not notice immediately. His mind, porous to every thought, had wandered to the earliest recollection of his father, and the latest memory of his mother, and the infinite moments in between, memories strung like a long strand of boxcars racing forward at a breakneck, imaginary speed while ordinary time struggled sluggishly just to reach the present moment. Eventually he swung his eyes in her direction. The room seemed even darker than before, but he could just make out the silhouette of her cheek, a bronze contour splitting the blackness into left and right, up and down, in and out, then and now.

“So what happened?”

Alithea did not hesitate, resuming her narrative as if she had never stopped, but speaking more crisply now.

“The expedition went underway as planned. The boats leaked, the flies were immense, and by the end the food was rotted. For me, the days were filled with terror of what might lie behind every bend in the river or submerged below every shallow narrows. When we tied up at night I could barely sleep because of the heat, and the insects, and the jungle noises...Every rustle and snap I imagined to be from the paw of a creature on the prowl, or the slither of a snake, or the crawl of a crocodile. But for me there was even worse. Kuru made a point of ignoring me whenever we had a chance to be near one another. We barely spoke during the journey, and never intimately. I was put in the third dugout boat, the last in line, while Kuru traveled in the first. I could see him, but not be near him, and this in turn drove me wild with fury and confusion. I did not doubt him, or so I told myself, but I was angry that he remained serenely alone while I struggled with the whirlwind within my heart.

There was one thing, though, that gave me uplift during the river passage, though this may strike you as odd. The first two canoes had small lateen sails that made their travel easier. The men in those boats could paddle and scull their way along with modest effort when the wind was right. My dugout was the largest, without a sail, and carried the men who were our cargo, about twenty souls. They manned oars and used punt poles to push us downstream. How, you ask? Two men would grasp a single pole with their left hands, and with a gentle rhythm propel us forward, yard by yard and mile by mile. There was a grace in this effort that touched me greatly. I saw something in each of them, something spiritual in their faces; there was longing, determination, anticipation and despair. They touched, embracing each other for support as they grasped their poles, lashed one man to the other by bonds of rope, but also of hope, and of destiny. There was elegance in their movements, but there was hatred, too, within their eyes. For them, any future was better than the hell they had already endured. I tried speaking with them, but our tongues were strange to one another, and the men did not seem eager to talk with me. It took some time to realize that they saw me as one of their oppressors, at one with Kuru and Patrice and the others who were hauling them down river to be sold to strangers. They were bound and I was free, and the chasm between us could not be closed. Some words from the Big Book came to me one day, overpowering me, admonishing me that whoever hides their eyes from those in need will be cursed. I felt shame that I could do nothing to help them. I also felt it strange that those words had the power to touch me so deeply. They were only words, after all, and from a place so foreign to me.

Mopondo looked much like all the other riverside settlements we had passed, with one exception. A flat field had been carved out of the jungle, creating an enormous campsite adjacent to the village. Our trading partners were already there and waiting for us, along with curious children, dogs, and chickens scampering about. Kuru was the first off the boats, calling out and waving at the strangers assembled at the water’s edge. As we gathered our packs to offload, Patrice sauntered up, his feet splashing loudly in the shallow water, his head bobbing as if unconnected to his neck.

“Here at last! Now we make exchange, and soon many francs will fill our pockets!”

I felt great bitterness hearing these words just as our prisoners were being herded onto shore, each man tied by the waist to the one ahead and the one behind. “Money means quite a bit to you, doesn’t it. More than the lives of these people.” I did not try to hide my disgust for the man.

Without hesitation, he grabbed me by the elbow and squeezed tightly with shocking strength. He stood rock still, his mouth straight and eyes half closed while the scars on his cheek burned an angry red. In a moment he had transformed from a clownish lout into a monster to be feared. When he spoke it was in a low, intense hiss that raised the hairs on the nape of my neck. “These men are already dead. Dead to the world and for most of them, dead to themselves. They can be sacrificed. But see, others still live today, and more will be born into this life tomorrow. Make money now, and use it. Do what is needed to change everything. Use the same lessons the whites are teaching us against them. One day, all this will be over.”

I understood what he meant. I had heard similar sentiments in the past, from others in my own village. But the men I had traveled with for so many days did not look dead to me. They were lean and scarred, but they laughed and cried and sang the songs of their homeland, both happy and sad. They each had a spirit, and their spirits deserved to live within their bodies as freely as mine lived within me. I nodded to Patrice and he promptly broke out with a crooked grin again, and his head resumed its rhythmic waggle back and forth.

I sought out Kuru in the meeting-field and touched his shoulder. I will never forget the look he gave me, the look of a dying animal in its last throes. He spoke to me as if he were a ghost. “Go back to the boats and stay there. Keep away, I don’t want to see you near me again. Whatever you imagined before was the silliness of a child. We have nothing between us.”

My body had traveled many miles to reach that place, but my mind and heart had not budged one inch so far, still trapped within the imaginary web of love I had spun for myself. In that instant, though, I had a glimpse of my future, just a glimmer. Learning the truth, the real truth, does not come as a sudden ascension to understanding. It’s a winding staircase, really, taken step by step. Once I took that first step, I could not stop. I have still not stopped.

The next day a large crowd gathered at the field, including the one they called Towusu, a giant with thin, bleached white bones piercing through his ears and nose, who strutted about very grandly together with his retinue. The men we had brought with us were lined up, still harnessed together, and Towusu marched back and forth before them several times, inspecting them I suppose, speaking loudly and gesturing with great bombast.

At first I stayed with the boats, watching from a distance. When I saw Kuru and Towusu recline under the shade of a sloping fever tree, legs crossed and canes in hand, I knew the bartering had started, and without any thought at all I made the most fateful decision of my life. With fear and trembling, but with the faith that I was somehow doing what was meant for me to do, I approached them. Did the angels of my inner nature propel me forward? Was I yanked and pulled by my own future, reeled in by a power greater than myself? Or was my act foreordained long ago, determined when all the stars were still mewling infants feeding at God’s feet? Know that answer and you know the mystery of life itself. As for me, I believe I felt the gust of hot breath at my back, and heard the rustle of unseen messengers guiding me on.

The two men were so wrapped up with themselves that they did not see me until I was upon them. As I came close Kuru jumped to his feet, his eyes and arms frantic. “Go back to the boats!” His voice gurgled, as if his life-blood was draining from his body.

I ignored his command, striding up to both men purposefully. “No!” I shouted with all my strength. “I go where they go!” I pointed to the line of men drooping in the heat.

At first, Kuru could say nothing. His jaw and mouth twisted in every which way, but no words came out. When he did speak, it made my decision even stronger. “You are a foolish girl. Leave us and get back where you belong.”

“I have fifteen summers within my breast, the courage of my people within my soul and the knowledge of the whites within my head. I am neither foolish nor a girl.” I paused, enjoying the glory of the moment, then I pointed at the bound and mutilated men. “I am tied to them as tightly as they are tied to each other. Wherever the four winds may blow them, that is where I too will go!” I sought out Kuru’s eyes as I said those words, hoping to remind him of the last glance of love we shared at Matadi. All I could see now was a look of rage.

He gestured at Patrice. “Take her back to the boats and rope her down like a pig if necessary. I don’t want to see her face again until we leave.”

“Hold!” That single word crashed upon us, louder than the thunder of a djembe drum. It was Towusu, the great Towusu, pointing a finger straight at me and planting his cane into the earth as if claiming a continent. “I will take her, too, with the others.”

Have you ever felt the earth and sky go still? They say that happens as you die, that everything just stops and God’s time means nothing, nothing ever more. So, everything became frozen for that moment, an intimate portrait of fear and jubilation. I don’t recall whether Kuru shouted or whispered when he said “No.”

Towusu shook his stick furiously. “The House of Diop has become great standing upon my shoulders. I have helped you all these years and have never said no to you. You will not say no to me now.”

Kuru bowed his head in supplication. “But this is the master’s wife...”

“There are no wives here, no attachments.” Towusu clapped Kuru on the shoulder with a huge sweep of his hand. “And no jealousy. Only goods are here, meant to be traded. That is the secret to our success. Diop himself has preached that lesson. Anyway, she’s not the first wife to come down the river, is she. Why is this one any different?”

So, once again, my life slanted in a different direction. There were no regrets as Towusu led me away, and to this day I regret nothing that transpired after. The memory of Kuru left a stain of sorrow in my heart, but over time that faded under the influence of sun and stars, rain and wind, and the heartache that was to follow.

A prince of his people, Towusu ruled from his seat of power at Stone City. It was apparent that he was greatly loved there, judging from the outpouring of adulation and celebration as we entered the city of winding streets and white plastered houses. This did not surprise me; how can any man be called great if he is not beloved? What did surprise me was the crumbling home he called his palace. It was an ancient fortress, squatting along a crown of hill overlooking the ocean beyond. It was spare, but it became my home as surely as it was his.

Towusu was a fair man who had allowed his boyhood to tag playfully along even as he progressed in years. He was neither husband nor lover, but he did come to me sporadically, I suppose as his mood suited. There were already many children in the palace, and in good time one of mine was added to their number. My child first came to me in my dreams, long before his small body came into my arms, beckoned by a song sung in my soul. I think that song was within me before I myself came into this world. By the time I kissed his birth face, I knew him and he knew me. I named him Oju, because he gave me a second sight into the mysteries of this world. Through his sight I saw everything anew, including myself.

In a way, life for me had settled, just as stagnant water might settle and slowly turn earth into mud, then slowly revert to earth again. There were no more tempests, no more adventures, and no more longings. Oju’s smile became the landscape of my happiness, and I was content to merge my world with his.

I continued reading from the Big Book, and in not too long I was teaching all of Towusu’s children from the book as well. From time to time the Prince also came to settle himself on the cushions spread among his children, and would ask questions about the stories that I read. One day he asked me whether I believed in the words I was reading, and whether he in turn should believe them. I had never been asked that question before. My cheeks flushed crimson, and my forehead smoldered suddenly as if a burning branch had been pressed upon it. I could not answer, but he did not mock me for it.

Time remained motionless until, one day, whites arrived at the shores of Stone City. They appeared as out of a troubled dream, emerging out of the morning fog, their enormous metal ships materializing out of the ocean’s mists. Towusu called me to his side to speak his wishes to them in their own tongue. I did, telling them they could depart in peace if they left quickly, and in turn they spoke their wishes to me. One of them huffed and puffed importantly, proclaiming that he was the representative of his great King, the King of Empire, who extended cordial good wishes to his brother king. However, he was quick to explain that all good wishes would evaporate if the whites were not allowed to build a naval base along Stone City’s sandy cove. Towusu’s guards, armed with the most modern guns and brandishing their ancient Kaskara swords, encouraged them to flee back to their ships. Alas, however, the ships did not leave. They hovered on the horizon like a line of Philistines arrayed for battle, dreadful and ominous.

Three days later the great illness began, coming as a voracious beggar might come, pleading to be fed. Where it came from no one knew, though many wondered if it had been decreed by the King of Empire. Much later I learned it was called cholera, but at the time we spoke of it as the emptying sickness. It flared like ground fire through the city and into the countryside beyond, taking old and young, taking so many and so quickly that it erased the very meaning of life. The land became a graveyard, haunted by the howls of hungry dogs at night. Looking back, I can close my eyes and imagine that all of us were herded into a long, serpentine line, marching in single file past the Goddess of Cholera. As we passed, silent worshippers at her feet, she touched some on the forehead and smiled benevolently at others, as it suited her.

Oju was touched in the first week, and succumbed quickly. As his spirit arose out of his body, I saw through his eyes, the eyes of an infant. There was no sadness to be seen and no remorse, only happy images of life in all its beauty. For Oju, that was enough.

O brother! Can words speak? Can they tell a story, or bring us love, or glory? Can they make the heavens flash in rage or sound the cymbal’s clash of joy? Can words bring back my little boy? I sought out words that might restore death back into life, words that would change the world and blot out every curse that could be hurled by either god or man. I thought that I could find Oju by fleeing from the common herd. Day and night, I studied the Big Book furiously, page by page, agonizing over every word. I found some consolation there, and comfort, but not peace.

The Goddess touched me in the third week. At first there was great pain and violence within my body. Soon though, very soon, all became strangely serene and I lapsed into a mute oblivion, lost within my own depths. At a given hour I found myself treading towards the entrance to a vast valley, silent and verdant. It spoke to me somehow, drawing me forward, entreating me to come in, promising me peace and understanding. I took some steps, small ones only, but then I heard my name whispered. I opened my eyes to the sound.

There was blue. Intense blue, the kind of indigo blue that can be seen from a high mountaintop on a pure clear day. I heard my name once again, then fell back to blackness. When I awakened the same eyes of blue drifted into my vision, and yet again when I came awake once more. Time staggered backwards to raise me up, the spark of life blew into me with a gasp, and my name was uttered over and over by unseen lips that hovered nearby. Were they the angels of my spirit? When finally I gained my senses I found myself looking into the face of my father.

Of course, at first neither of us knew it to be so. I was on a bed, defenseless, in a room with many others. Some were silent, some shook in spasms, while others cried out for release. The foul smell and the explosive noise and filth of unending evacuations was enough to drive me to the edge of hysteria, but my most overwhelming sensation was one of desperate thirst. One of the household women serving as a nurse gave me a salty drink I was told to sip slowly, but continuously.

By the next day I was moved out to the courtyard, where the summer breezes spiraling up from the bay soothed my brows with their cooling touch. Understand, please, that the story I am reciting might have ended right there. There were at least a dozen others convalescing and I was not in any special place of prominence. But, as the daylight began to falter, father came out of the sick ward and walked straight to my bedside, uncannily. I know he was pushed to where I lay by an unseen hand. I remember him well, as he appeared that evening. He was very tall, lanky, gray at the temples and thinly burnt in the face, with eyes of sapphire that penetrated right to my heart. When he spoke, I thought I could feel his words vibrating somewhere inside me.

“I’m told you’re the one reading the Scripture book.”

“The Big Book, yes.”

He smiled at me and patted my arm. “Why bother? None of it is real, you know.”

I surprised myself with my answer. “You’re wrong. Even if the stories are false, the words are very real, and come to me with their own truth.”

Father has a certain mannerism. I have noticed it many times and you must have, too. When challenged, his face becomes a cliff; sheer, impassive, a chalk board blank to any words. In a moment or two anything might be written and drawn there, but for a brief spell there is nothing. I have often thought that in those moments he frantically recreates the sky and earth, the stars, and all the moving parts of the universe in order to justify whatever he is about to say next. Or, maybe, he might quickly reassemble the earthly past, all the sod, the soil and sand, the spreading vines and bushes, so that all the collected parts together created a luxuriant garden where truth would grow. His truth. The only truth.

After not very long his face softened and he said the most curious thing. “Do the words come to find you, or do you go to find them?” I barely understood what he meant, and I could not answer. So curious a question to ask...a question I have been grappling with ever since, still with no answer.

When he saw I couldn’t respond he placed his hand on my wrist, turning it to expose my bracelet, the one you see right now. “You are a dangerous person.”

“How so?”

“Because you’re interested in truth. What is and what isn’t. People like you have caused great grief in the past. Believe me, I know.”

We talked then and did not stop until the stars spewed out from their heavenly bucket, cascading across the night sky in a brilliant gush. He asked me about myself, and how I had come to be there, and where I was from, my age, the name of my village, and my mother’s name. I told him my story just as I am telling you now. Finally, with a purr like that of a narrow runlet draining into a shrouded lake, he asked me what I knew of my father. I hardly had to answer.

So, there you have it, brother. Father told me he had been on his way to a place called Rajastan to study at the temple of the Goddess of Cholera, but had learned of the outbreak in Stone City. He was up the coast, not too far away, when a messenger, a man with one arm, was brought into his presence to report the sickness. Father decided in an instant that he could help. He calculated that when the epidemic came under control, the King of Empire’s ships, still loitering on the horizon, would take him on. With the story told, he revealed his wonderment at how all had unfolded.

We did not embrace, not then, but he held my wrists under the starlight and told me there was a place where I could study the Big Book and help others who were crippled by the mighty arm of man. He told me that I could choose to take a hand in spreading truth or spreading love, a place where I could be servant or master, but not both. That place is here, brother.

That is my story. I wrestle with the meaning of myself every day, and interrogate the Big Book for answers. The words have revealed that we are placed here to love others, though we don’t always know how. The angels guide me back to love when hatred peers over the crests of the hilltops, or creeps through the underbrush in my direction. They steer me towards the sun, always towards the sun, and now I know that it is in sunlight that I will end my days. Father explained my mission to me when he brought me to this place. He told me that after so much wandering, I would find certainty in my life through the love of others, and that is what I have tried to do. And, he told me one more thing. He told me it was something he himself was unable to do.”

Alithea stopped, drew a breath, and turned her face towards Jona. Her eyes drew light somehow, two moons orbiting steadily within his sight, fixing him in place with steely beams, pinning him so that he could not move. “And now, brother, tell me your story. Everything.”

And Jona did, beginning from a childhood bereft of a father’s presence, born of a mother who lived only in his fantasy, seeking dreams that were long lost, drifting in a current of pain that had no name. As he spoke, he could hear the crows cawing outside his window as they fled into the dark, and felt release from the chains encasing him, and could see the stone cast from his hand. He felt free.

Subscribe now

Chapter 35

Dawn was exhumed from the night, pale and frail, materializing out of the gloom as an insubstantial wraith. Like a babe learning to take steps, it stumbled haltingly over trees and hilltops, pausing briefly by the riverside before attempting to toddle further. Jona slouched against a creek maple at the water’s edge, watching, smoking, gauging the progress of light by the inch. When the first rays touched the pebbles by the water’s edge, he could almost hear the river ripple and shiver in response.

“Hey doc.”

Jona recognized Murphy’s voice. He took another drag, not bothering to turn around. “Early for you, isn’t it?”

“Couldn’t sleep too good. Too much dreamin’. What’cha lookin’ at?”

“The water. Why?”

“That’s what you was doin’ on the boat to England, remember? When we started out on this little gig. Dark then, sorta like now. You were thinking, too much probably, and you were scared. Didn’t know what was coming your way.”

Jona squeezed his eyes closed, remembering. “Yeah. I was scared.”

Murphy took a cigar out of an inner pocket and puffed up quickly, without any fanfare. The sky had turned to a mellow pallor, barely lighting the low lingering clouds that hovered above. There were no sounds. All was still.

“So. What’s next, doc? Where to?”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said. What’s next? The day is young and decked out all nice right now, peaceful and whatnot, but it won’t stay that way for long. I have a pretty good feelin’ that something pretty bad is gonna happen pretty soon. Firstly, looks like rain to me. Second, some folks are gonna come tooting down that same road we came on yesterday, looking for us. They won’t be in a pleasant mood.”

“You think so?” Jona pressed his forehead against the tree trunk, trying to drive every thought in his head deeper into his brain.

“Look, this Amelia person isn’t some random lady living in a shack down by the river. She told me this is a government layout, and she runs it. They know who she is, and where, and her connection to you-know-who, and can figure out she’s only four hours from where you were last seen. We don’t have much time. So. What’s next?”

“Where’s Andrews?”

“Still getting his beauty sleep. Good for the skin.”

“O.K. You tell me what you think we should do.”

“Three choices, doc. One, we wait polite and peaceful-like until the nice policemen come and we turn ourselves in. Two. It’s about 100 miles to the Kentucky line. We take off now and hope for the best. Deal with the border when we get there.”

“You said three choices. The third?” Jona didn’t try to hide the irritation in his voice.

“Well, well.” Murphy’s cigar flared to an incandescent blue-white, partially illuminating his mouth and chin. He patted the left side of his chest. “Got my 1911 right here. Andrews got his. Maybe grandma here has a goody she can let you use as well. We wait, and duke it out with the bad guys when they get here, try an ambush, then we take option two. Gives us a few hours of head start. Will really piss off the bad guys, though. You understand, give them a bad day.”

Jona shook his head wearily. “I’m sick of death.”

“Yeah, well death ain’t sick of you, pal. It’s looking for you, kinda wanting to meet up with you, maybe even today. What’s it gonna be?”

“We should talk to Andrews.”

“Still the same three choices.”

“What if we hide? They come and search but find nothing and go their way“

Murphy cocked his head back and whooped a full throated, sarcastic cackle. “Our car is out in the open, and so are the tire tracks. You ready to trust mama Amelia with your life? What about the other one, your so-called sis? And by the way, what’s the story with that wacko, your friend...Her name is Gwen? Any money says her name’s not really Gwen. She’s on the lam for sure. A lot of loose ends there, doc. We’ve gotta decide what to do. Hit the road, and quick. What’ll it be?”

“We are all seeking a road.” The words came unbidden to Jona’s lips, hoarse but audible. “We are all...” For just a moment he thought he could see Alithea standing before him, tall and straight, her face radiant in the light of the dawning sun.

We are all seeking a road. Those were her last words to him when they parted the night before. After their shared story-telling she had taken him by the hand and walked him down a narrow dirt lane lined by wild myrtle and willow.

“I want to show you something,” she had murmured. “We have a Common House where we meet in the evening. Come see it.”

The House was nothing more than a coarse, porous, propped up log structure that guaranteed cold drafts and cloying dampness. Jona took a deep, involuntary breath when he stepped inside. There were people in there, illuminated by kerosene lamps lining the walls. Men and women, some sitting on roughhewn benches, others standing, a few cross legged on the floor, some slapping their cheeks and foreheads with both hands in rapid repetition, two or three babbling aloud in gibberish, several staring vacantly into space. A repulsive smell hung in the air, an odor of body sweat mixed with foul breath.

Jona took a step backwards towards the door, but Alithea maintained a firm grasp of his hand. “These are my people, brother. Our father once said I could be either master or servant when I came into this domain. You recall, he said not both. My conscience guided me to choose which I should be, and it was not at all hard to decide. You see here the people I serve, the ones I have devoted my life to. Do not shame yourself by looking away.”

There was a rustle from the doorway as a man entered behind them. He was tall, and black, and all bones, and bowed deeply towards Alithea as he passed. He had only one arm.

“Hey!” Jona gasped, clutching Alithea’s hand in turn with a sudden ferocity. “Hey. Is that one of them? The men on the river?”

“Yes. Joseph. Father asked for him, from Towusu.”

“He was a gift? In gratitude for healing the sick?”

“No. His blood price was paid in full. Father came to love him and considered him like a son. You might say that he is almost like your brother. I was the gift. To Towusu, I was much the greater sacrifice, and worthy of being gifted.”

Neither one let go of the other, hands intertwined as strongly as living roots twisted tightly together. Jona wrinkled his brow as he stared at the gathering, trying to understand what he was seeing, squinting hard until everything appeared magnified manyfold. He saw and measured and registered with eyes that had already seen much of humankind’s debris. Cratered skin, wide spaced eyes, odd scalp whorls, sunken chins, stunted shoulders, deformed nostrils, protuberant bellies, sloped foreheads, vanished lips, divergent pupils, shrunken skulls; all, all appeared before his vision with vivid clarity. A faint tingle speared down his hip and leg. “What is this place? This whole place, all of it? Tell me.”

“This is where we live, brother, and walk and talk, and love, laugh and cry. Where we exist today and from where we will pass on tomorrow. Does there need to be more?”

Jona felt a bitter brash rise up into his throat, almost choking him. “This is the place. This is the 1909 place, isn’t it, where it all happened. 1909 is still alive, right here. All these people...” He raised his voice to a throaty shout, pointing at several of them one by one. “All-these-people-are-already-dead, victims of a monster.”

“They have both spirit and flesh. They are alive.”

“You have to listen to me. The people here were deliberately poisoned, contaminated by my father. Alright, by our father. Did you know about that?”

Alithea turned her head slightly towards Jona, so that the lamplight played across the texture of her cheeks and illuminated the brown depths of her eyes. “Yes, he confessed it to me.”

Jona shook his head, suddenly nauseated. He wanted to run outside to cleanse himself in the humid night air, but he could not break the bond their hands had forged one to the other. “I don’t understand how you can be so calm about it. It was evil. He was evil.”

“You are wrong. Good had not yet grown within him. It did, later. Think of him as infected, or deformed in some way, then healed.”

“Don’t make me laugh. Like he was blind and could not see? I’ve heard that one before. Shove it.”

“He was injured and could not feel. Eventually he did feel and yes, he did see, and good appeared within him.”

Jona felt his hand begin to tremor, but was quickly steadied by the strength of Alithea’s hold upon him. He sensed his voice weakening but managed a whispered snarl. “Yeah, well tell that to all of them. Go ahead, shout it! Hooray! Earnest Lieb is good now, at last! Isn’t that great! See if that makes up for everything they’ve suffered.”

“Brother, walk with me” Alithea clasped Jona’s left hand firmly with her left, and his right with her right, and side by side she guided him down the House’s center aisle, slowly and with cadence, as if walking down a wedding aisle. Along the way she spoke the name of every person they passed, and they in turn murmured her name in response. Mo. John. Lizzy. Deborah. She uttered the names as if offering a supplication. Steve. Ruth. Cass. There was a weight behind each name, a freight transported over vast distances. Mary. Sam. Each name a star, or a moon, or a planet, turning, turning, turning, each one turning to square its face towards the sun. Abe. Zach. Every name a flowering garland connecting to another name, and place, and time, a seamless ribbon that bedecked the past and future at the same time.

“Why are you doing this?” Jona felt that he was weightless, gliding through the air without wings while holding Alithea’s hands.

“All the people you see here have already acknowledged the wrong done to them. They know it was father.”

“And they’ve forgiven him?”

“Only a few, and are at peace with it. Some don’t really understand. Some would forgive if I instructed them to, but of course I would not do so. Some are not part of this world at all, have no care for it, and turn their face towards the day in their own special way. Some do bear memory, and ask for justice. You see, we’re no different from others. There is one thing that unifies us, brother. Love. That is ours. Love yesterday, and love today, and the promise of it tomorrow. We create love, for ourselves and for anyone who joins us. For us that is sufficient. In a way, the damage done to my people in the past has made it easier for them to understand they are cherished in the present.”

Jona bowed his head. “Love can be bought. Earnest Lieb purchased love, didn’t he? The great hero used his fame to acquire love. How the masses adored him!”

Alithea turned towards Jona, placing both palms upon his chest, her fingertips brushing against his shirt very gently, as if touching a sacred garment. “Brother, try to see the world anew, as if through the eyes of an infant. What would you wish to see? A smile? Adoring eyes? The brightness of life? Try to feel with the hands of a newborn. What would you wish to feel? Tenderness? Warmth? Understanding? No matter where you are in the course of your days on this earth, you can remake yourself. Father tried to.”

“Easy when you’re praised. He never paid the price for his sins.”

“You don’t know that. It’s true he wasn’t put behind iron bars to eat gruel and die, but sin exacts its own price, and can execute its own vengeance. His agonies eventually chased him far and wide, enduring many sufferings. Perhaps it was his pathway to penance. Have you ever sinned?”

The question struck Jona unexpectedly. He wanted to push himself away immediately and press against the log-timbered wall at his back but found himself unable to move. The bilious, noxious air hovering densely in the room made him feel sick; he sensed himself suffocating, compelled to breathe with deep gasps. The House began to spin around him, forcing him to close his eyes, and as he did he could see Elfieda’s blond hair swaying to and fro in a rhythmic flow, and feel the texture of Alex’s long leather coat, and...and...He tried to suppress the image, but Marielle appeared, floating supine on a nonexistent gurney, sightless, senseless, motionless, breastless, and...and...He heard a laugh, a low cracking cackle as if the ground below him was splitting in two. Alithea’s hands burned into his chest, seeming to bore their way into his heart. He groaned. “Please stop.”

“Have you?” Alithea’s voice changed, no longer high pitched; now somehow somber, a deep bass bathed in sorrow. “Have you?” She persisted, raising one hand to touch his forehead, a delicate tentacle probing for truth.

Jona let himself fall upon her shoulders, allowing his tears to flow down his cheeks and onto her neck, weeping as bitterly as if the whole world was exploded high up into the skies above. In a moment, he felt an odd pressure on his back. It was Joseph, placing the stump of his arm on Jona in a limbless embrace. Soon, others crowded around, hugging or touching, sighing or moaning, some witless, some grinning, some crying, all of them wordless, as if any spoken sounds would be a desecration. Slowly, they pressed closer and closer without boundary or border, their skin feeling smooth against his, their breath mingling with his, their hearts beating over his. He could feel fingers and hands touching him and clutching him, and hear the trickling of throats, and taste the salty streaks of tears. So many surrounded him they became like a living shroud. Jona felt himself lifted and carried, swung in space and whirled around and around faster than any thought could travel, further than any eye could see, higher than any pain could reach. His lower body became numb, but he grasped those around him with both arms as tightly as he could. He had reached a threshold, a climax somehow greater than the sum of all his past suffering. He raised his head up and let out a wail loud enough to chase away the demons stalking him.

As if summoned by Jona’s shriek, Joseph abruptly relinquished his embrace, strode to the front of the room, pounded the wall loudly several times with his good arm, and then continued with a softer, rhythmic beat. He shouted to them to cluster closer. “Let us sing,” he cried. And he began:

O, de blin’ man stood on de road and cried

O, de blin’ man stood on de road and cried

Cryin’ O, my Lord,

Save-a me...

De blin’ man stood on de road and cried

Cryin’ what kind o’ shoes am dose you wear

Cryin’ what kind o’ shoes am dose you wear

Cryin’ O, my Lord

Save-a me...

He stopped in mid-voice and pointed at Jona, his lips quivering with emotion. “Deah brudda in great pain now, ain’ you. You in da road now, blind, goin’ where it lead. What shoes you gonna wear, huh? You can only save yo by deciding that, my brudda.”

Mo and Liz and Deborah and Abe, John, Ruth, and Sam, and all of them, also began to speak, each babbling in their own way, each voice bouncing off the other, high and low, soft and gruff, their words becoming indistinct, blending one into another, a living chorus of cacophony. The House shook, as if alive with the vibrations of words colliding with words. Soon enough, though, with Joseph leading them, their voices merged into one, raised in a great disturbance, and they began to sway in unison, back and forth, and clapped hands in metered precision, pushed by a tide of emotion. “What shoes you gonna wear? What shoes you gonna wear? What shoes you gonna wear....”

Later, Jona would not remember how long he remained there. At some point Alithea placed an arm around his waist and led him out of the House, out into the muggy, sweat laden night air. They were silent as they walked, but the woods all around them were alive with the rhythm of cicadas. There were thousands, a million, a billion, each one making itself known in its own language, their sound swaying back and forth in rhythm, in time drowning out the sound of singing coming from the Meeting House. Jona felt agitated as he walked. While standing among the sufferers, embracing them, feeling them, he had been overcome by a sense of euphoria bordering on exaltation. Now, though, a new feeling pierced him with anxious barbs. It was a notion of regret, or contrition, a feeling that he had committed a great wrong. Ridiculous, he thought. There is no reason I should feel guilt. There are a thousand other feelings I’m not allowed to have, I certainly should not feel guilt. It was my father who should have felt remorse. I’m innocent of all this. He cast a quick look back, but the House was hidden from view, obscured by trees and the darkness of late evening. I never wanted to see them, anyway. It was Alithea who forced me to come. He stole a glance in her direction. She remained impassive and silent, her face motionless in the gloaming. Never wanted to see them… the words continued to float through his mind, pinning him to that moment mercilessly and without respite.

The main residence was set on a bluff overlooking the river, only a modest incline from the road, but Jona labored in pain as he maneuvered upwards along the path. “Brother, are you alright?” Alithea was barely audible, and barely visible in the darkness.

Jona gritted his teeth and plowed on, angry at himself. “What was that back there? A show for me? I behaved like a fool.”

“A show maybe, but not for you. For them. Their journey demands it. They understand that the road is very much before them. Before all of us. You too, brother. You’re not nearly finished.”

An inner voice cautioned him, but Jona could not stop himself from snarling a response. “Look, I know you wanted to show me the true outcome of my father’s experiment. I understand, but I feel no guilt for their pain. None. Anyone might at any time have a legitimate illness, or accident, or war wounds and wind up the same way. It’s just unfortunate, that’s all. Not my fault and not my responsibility. I will tell you one thing, though. I’m finished with here, that’s for sure. It’s been too much, I’ve had enough. Too much pain around here. Outta here in the morning.”

Alithea turned towards Jona. The slightest sliver of light marked her forehead and lips in a silver lunate curve, and he could see that she was smiling. She answered as if she were somehow both burdened and free, remote yet profoundly present. “I understand. You should know that you have changed my life, brother. I am so much the better that we met today, just knowing that you live and walk and seek the comfort of light. But, I understand we each travel on our own path. Sometimes we stumble along without much thought about it. Sometimes we think the road is well marked and are sure of ourselves. At other times we struggle through swamp and jungle, feeling lost. I know that has been true for me. But we go on, don’t we, and as we go we all choose our own burden, whether we deserve it or not. So, peace to you, brother. Go. Just as it should be, we are all guided by our own angels, seeking our own road.” With those words barely said, she waved him on to the house at the end of the path, turned and dissolved into the darkness as she walked away. Within moments the sound of shoes scraping on gravel faded into a profound and deepest dark, her form faded from sight, and she was no more.

Lights were lit inside the house, but the approach to the doorway was lightless. As Jona fumbled for the handle, he saw movement on the ground just by a nearby bush. A voice rang out, sharp and strident. It was Gwen.

“Oh La-ance...I’m over here, in all this ivy shit. Come over and join me.”

Jona followed the sound of her voice, finding her hidden form curled up tightly on the ground behind a row of begonias. He could see the glint of a bottle waving in his direction. “Why are you lying there? You’ll be filthy.”

“I’m molting. Here, have a drink of auntie Amelia’s best brew.”

“What in hell do you mean?”

“I mean take a swig. Come on. Get filthy with me.” She giggled and held the bottle higher, shaking it so that the liquor sloshed loudly.

Jona knelt down next to her. She was illuminated by starlight alone, but he could just make out that she was on her side, naked, her thin marble-white thighs pressed up against her belly. “What do you mean you’re molting?”

“Exactly that. Molting. Turning into something else. Don’t you know nuthin’? Here, drink some of this, then you’ll understand.”

For an instant, an impulse came over Jona, a sudden feeling that he should strip his clothes off and roll on the ground, and bay like a wolf, and drink booze until he turned blue, and eat Gwen raw, beginning with her brains, and light fire to the house and burn the whole fucking thing down and then fire the Meeting House and burn all the crippled and demented and deformed, burn them into charcoal...He sat down next to her and took a gulp from the bottle. It was a surprisingly smooth whisky, leading quickly to another drink, then one more long swallow. Without meaning to, he touched Gwen’s breast, poking at it. “What are you turning into?”

She laughed, snatching the bottle back. “How should I know? It hasn’t happened yet, are you blind? Ask me tomorrow or the next day. I hope I turn into something beautiful, like a porcupine. A nasty old hippo will do. You know, I don’t have much choice in the matter. The season changes, and presto! Anyway, whatever form it may be will just be shed again one coming day. How about you, Lance? Molting anytime soon?”

Lance tried to give some consideration to the question, but a buzzing in his ears kept him from thinking clearly. He wrested the whiskey bottle from her and tilted it up to his mouth, propping it there until the last drops drained onto his tongue. With an effort he threw the bottle against the doorstep, shattering it into a thousand fragments. “Don’t know when, but maybe I’ll turn into little Jack Horner, or Peter Pecker, or Johnny-on-the-Spot. Someone famous like that.” He poked her breast again, this time harder, and kept his finger there a touch longer.

Gwen giggled again, louder than before. “Oh my! You are a sweet talkin’ son of a sailor, and I really can’t imagine what you’ve got in mind. But Peter, dahling, or Jack, or whoever you are, that’s not a titty, it’s a feather, or a scale. Some kind of reptile hide, maybe. Definitely not a titty, though. I’m surprised at you, acting crazy like that.”

“The whole damn world is crazy. Life is crazy. I’ve just been in a house of crazy. Everything that happens is crazy, no sense to it, so why not me.”

“You shouldn’t think like that. Life has great meaning if we can only grasp the truth of it. Finding the truth, and then accepting it, is so hard though. And it’s a great burden to take on, like a weight that gets larger every day. Even so, that should be your goal, Lance.” She tittered a muffled snort. “It’s like being constipated. Whatever comes out is hard and takes forever, but the quest is worth it. Life is so much like taking a crap.”

Lance squawked at the mention of a quest. The innards of his head heaved up and down and back and forth, and his eyes clouded, contracting to a narrow, unclear focus. The whisky sat in the middle of his chest like a burning faggot slowly consuming its victim. He lay down on his back with his head cushioned on Gwen’s belly, deciding to count the stars above. “I’m going to rename all the heavenly bodies,” he mumbled. “Every one, starting with that red one. It’s now the Jona star.”

“Who is Jona?”

“You’re right. That’s nobody. I’ll name it Lance. Do you want one for yourself?”

“No. I couldn’t see it anyway. You know I’m half blind. I shouldn’t be able to see at all with my affliction, but I do have special powers. No matter how far away, everything that’s on the outside of me I can see on the inside of me. I can even see when I close my eyes. I’m in great demand because of that little trick; you might even say I’m very desirable. Very. “Gwen cradled his shoulders with one hand and pointed at the night sky with the other. “Look.”

A thin silver rim appeared above the canopy of trees surrounding them, touching the horizon with delicate radiance. Lance gazed at it with awe and wonder. “It’s the moon, right?”

“Yes, silly boy. It’s almost full, you’ll see in a minute. So beautiful. You can understand why people pray to it. When it rises completely it will fill the sky. Tonight it’s special, it’s the strawberry moon. It has the power to seduce. Stare at it long enough and you will covet things you never dreamed you wanted. Or better yet, things that you only wanted in your dreams.”

Lance wondered about that, trying to imagine what he might be longing for. He could not stop staring at her breasts. “You’re pretty.” He waited a beat, then rushed his words very quickly. “You’re a smart girl.”

“Yes, I know. My daddy always took care to tell me so.”

“He must be smart too. What does he do?”

“Nothing now. He died.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“That’s OK. I shot him dead a month ago. That son of a bitch abused me all my life. He sold me into prostitution when I was twelve. Shooting him in the head was too good for him.”

Her words soaked into Lance’s awareness slowly, drop by drop, percolating, distilling, pooling at last at the base of his brain. “Was it hard?”

“Naw. Took me a second.”

Lance hesitated, trying to twist his tongue in just the right way, so that everything came out just as he intended. He wiped the drool from his cheek. “And...is he gone now? I mean really gone? You sure?”

“Sho’. Gone. I left his body in the desert for the coyotes. No, no, no, wait. The desert was someone else. I mean I dropped his body in a lake. Went fishing there the next day and caught a million water critters but no sign of him. He’s nowhere, not even in my dreams. He’s dead, I’m alive. There’s got to be a correlation there, don’t you think? An ipso facto kind of thing? Oh, just look at that moon, Lance! Isn’t it glorious! It’s speaking to me right now, piercing me to the bone. Get up. I want to dance, and sing, and feel alive. I want you to hold me close. Take your clothes off so I can see you, just like you’re seeing me. There are a million things we both want, things we’ll never have unless we try for them. Let’s take a chance. Come on, let’s dance.”

By straining his eyes, Lance could see that the moon was now suspended freely in the sky, a large globe untouched by any earthly impediment. He searched carefully for his father’s face on the surface but it wasn’t there. Nor was Alithea. No one was there. He closed his eyelids tightly. Nothing appeared. “Can’t dance, I’m crippled. Anyway, moon looks blue to me and I’m feeling blue myself. Time for bed.”

“Not yet, please, you’re my only playmate. Let’s make up poems to the moon. Lots of people do that. You first.”

“I can’t, I’m crippled.”

“Sure you can, my knight. Moon, moon, it can rhyme with soon, and strewn, and dune, and tune, and loon, and so many other possibilities. Each rhyme is sublime, almost endless really and I do not lie, no matter which you choose you cannot lose. Come on, just try.”

Something triggered in Jona’s mind. Not a memory and not a thought, just a sensation. The hairs at his nape shivered as he examined the moon once more. “Not everything about the moon is so benign. I was taught long ago that it can be frightening. The moon can see right through you, down to the last inch don’t you know, and create a demon that matches you perfectly. Even you.”

Gwen reached out with open palm and stroked Jona’s cheek. “I’ve never heard that Lance, but that’s why I love you. You know much more than me, but the moon can also set you free.”

“It can unleash monsters, though I suppose that a monster doesn’t have to be evil. Did you ever hear about the mooncalf? It’s famous; ‘Mooncalf, speak once in thy life, if thou beest a good mooncalf.’ I learned a lot of shit like that before I became Lance.”

“There’s no reason a mooncalf can’t set you free. Or eat you alive, if that’s what you prefer. Whichever, you’ll be different afterwards, which is what you really want, don’t you, Sir Lancelot.“

Lance shook his head, unable to speak and barely able to see and hear, feeling almost overcome by an alcoholic haze.

“Well, If you won’t dance and you won’t make poetry, my crippled prince, then I will, even if the moon is blue or there’s an ugly mooncalf hiding right behind it.”

Gwen leapt to her feet, leaving Lance lying on the ground. Pausing only a moment, she raised her arms above her head, twirled in an elegant pirouette, then began to sway back and forth with small steps to left and right and back and forward while turning and twisting and gyrating, her naked shoulders and hips a silhouette of blurry motion enveloped by the beaming cast of moonlight. Then she began to sing, her voice both husky and tremulous:

Oh, moon so blue

You’re the only one whose heart is true

How I wish you’d turn back to your native hue

And smile so lustrously as if you’re new

Oh, moon so blue

We’re stranded on a distant shore

You and I

Dreaming of a long lost sigh

And nothing more

Just writhing shadows trapped within a starry mesh

Our whispered words turned into blood and flesh

Oh, moon so blue

Past memories are now so few

My life has flown away like morning dew

And all I owe has now come due

Oh, moon so blue

I think that I’m in love with you

She stopped abruptly, arms raised up, eyes turned skyward, alabaster legs spread firmly on the ground, chest heaving, a smile of elation on her face. “I am!” she shouted. “I really am!” The moment was all deceit, the figment of a still life created by firmament and sky; time had paused, the cicadas had ceased, not a tree swayed, there were no clouds above, the stars were dumb, and Lance held his breath within him, not daring to mar the moment. He could sense that for an instant, all the earth stopped in adoration of dancing Gwen.

A light flared behind them, penetrating the darkness without care, and Jona heard the unmistakable click of a shotgun being cocked. It was Amelia standing at the doorway, a flashlight in one hand and a double-barreled long gun in the other. She spoke with a voice of command. “You two are making quite a ruckus out here. Look at all this broken glass, and look at both of you. Disgusting. Especially you, you shameless harlot. Time to come in.”

Gwen stalked forward a few steps, arms akimbo and skin glowing soft white. “You go to hell you saggy bitch!”

Amelia did not hesitate, raising the shotgun to her shoulder with ease. “Any more commotion and you’ll be in hell long before I will. My Snake Charmer here will riddle you so full of holes you’ll be wormier than a rotten log. Get your dress on and both of you come on in.”

Jona struggled to his feet unsteadily while Gwen dressed. When the light caught her face he could see her eyes darting back and forth in a fury of rapid, spasmodic repetition. She leaned close to whisper. “Let’s jump her. You can sit on her while I carve her up, beginning with her tongue. We’ll have it for breakfast.”

“That’s not human.”

“Yes it is. Listen, listen, listen to me, you don’t understand. It wouldn’t be a murder, it would be a sacrifice to the gods. That’s very different. Believe me, I know what I’m saying. The High God is a doctor, just like you but a doctor of the mind and soul, and I talk to him every day. A sacrifice would be the greatest thing, better than any song or dance or poem to the gods could ever be. The immortals are not too interested in those. They want meat. It would be like gifting them a slice of humanity. We would make a covenant that would bind us to the gods, can’t you see? They get the carcass, and we get the juicy parts, like the brain and the heart. They would join us and we would join them. Maybe we might be made honorary gods for the day. I think they’re expecting something like this, actually, and if we don’t give it to them, why then the gods would become angry, and curse us. Then you’ll never complete your quest, Lance. What do you think?”

Jona sighed with exhaustion. He felt as if his spinning head was dropping into a bottomless pit, and that very shortly everything around him would simply turn a formless black. “Can’t go on a quest, I’m crippled. The High God will understand.”

“Alright. In that case I’m going to go shit in the kitchen. That’ll show her who’s boss, and it will mollify the gods. They’ll get a kick out of it. Hey Lance, I have an idea...” Gwen began skipping towards Amelia. “Let’s make up poems about shit! Rhymes with sit, pit, mitt, kit...Also rhymes with tit! Got it, Lance?” She guffawed and sped into the house with great purpose.

Amelia waited patiently as Jona weaved his way towards the door. He could not see her face clearly, but thought she was scowling, and he attempted to stutter words of apology. She grasped him by the arm for support and helped him over the threshold. “No need for words. She’s not in her mind, I can see that. And you’re not the first drunk I’ve seen. If you think you can drink yourself sober, you’re wrong. I’ll show you up to your room, you need to sleep it off. You also need better manners.”

“Hold on. Where’s Andrews? Murphy?”

“Your boys are in the barn tonight. By the way, the big one needs better manners more than you do.”

They staggered together to a small foyer at the front of the house. Jona was so fatigued he felt hallucinatory, barely able to place one foot before the other. Before turning to take the stairway up, a shape caught Jona’s eye. It was an exuberant painting, hanging askew at the foot of the steps. He shrugged Amelia off, and leaned forward, staring at the painting with as much concentration as he could assemble. He could see a palette of colors; a shock of orange and greens adjacent to a bright splash of blue. There were figures he could see, many figures, massed together and heaped one upon the other in promiscuous clumps and clusters, each one distinctly different, a squirming array of form and movement; alive, shamelessly vibrant, indulgent, garishly nude, provocative, uncaring.

Faint threads floated through Jona’s memory, tugging at him, ensnaring him in a delicate web woven in the nether space between reason and madness. He stretched a finger tentatively towards the canvas, tracing some of the paint strokes without touching. The voice in his head stammered, causing him to mumble and slur aloud. “I know what this is ...I’ve seen it before, a long time ago, I was with...Wait. How did you get this?”

Amelia glanced at the painting before staring down at Jona from a mountainous height. Her forehead and eyes and lips ebbed and flowed in ribbon-wide rivers up and down within the cow-like contours of her face, defiant of gravity, and her sodden hair dripped down towards her shoulders like molten wax. She answered with the syrupy contentment of a well fed cat. “From Earnest Lieb of course.”

In a flash, Jona remembered. The memory inundated him: He was a child standing attentively behind his father and another man while they examined the painting and argued about the meaning of color and form and boundary and indistinct horizon lines and curves and naked transparency and belief and custom and the essence of free will and why humanity was doomed. All of that and more was extracted from the painting. It was Bathers at Moritzberg Lake. And here it was on the wall, hanging in obscurity, forgotten yet present nonetheless. His mind twisted violently, swirling as if flushing itself down a very long drain pit. “But how did it get here?”

Two eyes, two lips and a single tongue protruded straight out from Amelia, leaving behind irrelevant teeth and gums and throat, only stopping fractions of an inch from Jona’s face, accompanied by heavy breathing, the faint odor of jasmine, and the tiniest droplets of spit. “Why, he brought it here himself...”

Sirens began ringing in Jona’s ears, wailing loudly, warning of an oncoming disaster. He saw her lips begin to open again, and more words were cued up on the tip of the tongue, easily visible, waiting impatiently to be uttered aloud. The sirens turned into deafening explosions that rocked him almost senseless, causing him to stagger backwards against the banister. The room fogged and began to sway rhythmically in precise tempo, becoming a great pendulum suspended from somewhere above. Amelia herself was transformed, changing with each cycle of sway into Marielle, then to Elfieda and then back again to Amelia. All three were smoking and smirking simultaneously and Jona could tell that they didn’t give a damn about what he wanted and didn’t want. NO he shouted to himself, unable to speak to them by saying words aloud. For God’s sake say no more...

“As I recall, it was at Christmas some few years back.”

Jona collapsed on the stairs with the taste of vomit on his tongue. He had a brief vision of a nanny handing him a present wrapped in red with ribbons of green, telling him his father was away. He had torn it open to find a recording of Tosca, one that he later played over and over with immense joy. “Many years back?”

The lips turned into oyster shells, snapping open and closed with barely a hint of the pearl that lurked within. “Maybe three or four years now. He always brought something special at Christmas time. Never brought you of course, that would have been quite a bother.”

Jona had known defeat before, many times. Despair had befriended him, then jilted him, then come back again in a never ending lover’s cycle, always nesting deep within him, a secret companion hidden from the world. He lay back on the steps, splaying his arms out to either side, seeking comfort. “He came often?”

“Whenever he could.” Amelia’s eyes soared overhead and circled around him, up and down and side to side, connected to her skull by long thin cables that glowed a hot red as each pupil and retina conducted its probing inquest. “You’re wondering why he went to the trouble to come back as often as he did. It was to see me. I never went out into the world like he did. I stayed here. I was his rock, and yes, he often needed a safe harbor just to stay sane. And also, of course, he came to analyze the long-term outcomes of the subjects. We did that together.”

A calculator appeared before Jona’s eyes, tethered to the ether, rattling off exotic numbers and computations in strange symbols, clacking out a ticker tape made of graven stone. The numbers added up higher and higher, an astronomical sum that reached the heavens above. Some of the numbers reached so high that they turned into stars, traipsing in solitude across the night skies for eternity, shining faintly on the foolish mortals who wandered below.

“The outcomes. Maiming? Imbecility? Death? Those were the outcomes, weren’t they? While he wrapped himself in the holy garments of science, he committed murders for money. The price was paid by the people you’re hiding here.”

“Your father was a great man, a hero who saved millions. What price do you put on that? A few dozen subjects? Wake up to the world as it is, and tell me where we would be without him and others like him. We seek heroes and glorify them for a reason, little boy. They are the ones who save us. At the very least they nudge us forward. The rest of humanity just fills in the cracks, a meaningless mass of protoplasm turned into human glue, that’s all. Like you. He traveled the world just to gain one inch, one inch forward, and you’ll never know how much pain he endured. Now get upstairs and out of my sight, and don’t you dare spew any of that phony ethical slander again.” Amelia rocked on her heels and punched Jona hard across the forehead, right above the eye.

The blow shivered down Jona’s neck and spine, and after a very brief prologue of pain, delivered him to the unconsciousness he craved.

The memories of the previous night were blunted but still ragged by morning-time, sniping at Jona in irregular intervals. It was true that his world had not been tidy since the day his father died, but now the last shred of cohesion between reality and belief was gone, evaporated like morning mist in the meadow. He had awakened earlier than usual, and though still feeling stuporous he had decided to come down to the cool flowing river in the predawn murk, guided by the splash and the gurgling treble of swift waters. Jona found no peace there. He watched expectantly as the stars faded out from the canopied sky, and then as the umbral gloom was softened by the first aura of light in the east. He hated the world for all of it. Everything he saw around him was a routine that had played out for eons. The sun went down, the sun came up, over and over again, without deviation, without surprise, in accordance with an infallible formula. In contrast, his life was now in tatters, buffeted by random, manic blows outside of his control.

Control, he thought. That’s funny now, a big joke. I used to think I could stay in control of everything and everyone around me; my job, Murphy, Andrews, the so-called mission...Now I’m not even in control of myself. Nor even of my own thoughts. They come in and out of my brain as if they had a will of their own. Images, ideas, imaginings, all of them...Maybe they’re directed by some clever impresario, perhaps a poker player somewhere out there in the great unknown, someone who likes entertaining games that have capricious twists and turns. Or maybe a lunatic. In the meanwhile, I’m here, an irregular existence living at the center of a regular universe, bound by my biology but living a fucked up nightmare that I’m supposed to accept as my life. Is any of it real? Am I real? Was Earnest Lieb real, or just a happy fiction that pleased everyone but satisfied no one? No. No. I want out of the unknown, out of the unpredictable, out of the game. I will either play myself or play no one.

Murphy’s unexpected arrival in the morning gloom was another unanticipated intersection, a transitory gust of wind meant to deflect Jona towards a new direction. Now Jona could feel Murphy’s energy, his hard stare pushing at him, shoving him, challenging him to turn to a decision.

“Doc, we’ve all been wounded the last coupl’a months, maybe you more than anyone. But we’re here and that ain’t changing. Waddya say? At the very least let’s get moving. Somewhere, anywhere.”

“I’ve already made my decision. Get Andrews up, I want him ready. There’s nothing for me here. Mister Murphy, I want to go home.”

“Wow, never heard you talk so decisively...You’re still Jona, right? You’re right on target on this one.” Murphy strode close, readying a congratulatory handshake, when they both heard a soft whinny and the sound of leaves crumpling.

A horse appeared, first as a silhouette, then fully embodied by the touch of dawn’s rays. The man riding it, subdued under an enormous round slouch hat, hunched over the withers as if searching for something on the ground. He slowly raised his gaze directly at Jona. “You Lieb?” His voice trembled like a brisk wind darting through autumn leaves. The man gave a leisurely glance at Murphy, then came back to Jona. “You Jona Lieb?”

Jona stood frozen, thunderstruck by the apparition appearing before him. He struggled to see the man’s face but could see nothing but a dark void under the protective brim of the hat pulled low over his forehead. After some hesitation, he answered. “Yes. Yes I am.”

With a ponderous and elaborate sweep of his arm, the man removed his hat and doffed it in Jona’s direction. “I am Tokala. Miss Amelia sent me out to find you and bring you back, she says it’s very important. You have to leave the farm, she says. Now.”

“You probably have a few hours, but that’s cutting it close. Tokala has been keeping his ear to the ground and hasn’t heard about anything unusual as yet, at least not nearby, so there’s nothing very imminent. I made a telephone call a little while ago, to my patron in Richmond. Someone is coming here, Jona. They suspect that you’re here and they’re coming for you, and soon.” Amelia paused to study Jona’s face. Apparently satisfied, she turned towards Gwen. “They’re looking for you too. I wasn’t told your identity but you must be pretty important, because the Director asked about you several times, uhm, Gwen. He described you pretty well, including your little idiosyncrasies. You’re not one to fade into the wallpaper. Good thing I didn’t shoot you last night.”

“Hold on.” Andrews began pacing up and down the small parlor with frantic energy. He was shirtsleeved and without a tie. The morning light slanting in through the windows highlighted the stubble on his chin and cheeks. “Who is the Director? Is he the patron you mentioned? In charge of operations here?”

Amelia eyed him coolly, twisting her lips into a crooked smile. “You boys didn’t do any homework before coming up here, did you. I gather you drove here on a whim, just because Jona read my name in a journal some time back. Well, I hope you get out as easily as you came in, because they are coming in earnest. You don’t need to know who the Director is, suffice it to say that he has been a long time sponsor of our program, and a good friend to me and Earnest. He’s not the one coming, though. He says it’s some new fella, a northerner of all things, a big shot with a funny name, he’s called Mr. M. Gracious me, what drama. This M fella is running the show and hell bent on catching the lot of you.”

“How many are coming? Did your friend say?” Murphy spoke through clenched teeth, his face a rigid mask.

“I didn’t ask, but it’s only one car. Four or five I suppose.”

Andrews looked out the front window nervously. Tokala was right outside, lounging on the front porch and sipping coffee. “And what exactly does your friend in Richmond propose we do? Give ourselves up?”

“Lord no. He doesn’t want you caught. He wants you gone. Although it wasn’t said in so many words, it’s obvious that he doesn’t particularly care for Mr. M. Who knows what the politics of this might be, but he made it clear he wants all of you out of here and preferably out of the country completely. Go back north where ya’ll belong.”

Jona felt the tension building in the room. Even Gwen appeared disheartened, keeping her face averted from the others. He took a deep breath to compose himself. “Just how are we supposed to get back? Magic carpet ride?”

“Sure, why not.” Amelia shook out a pack of cigarettes and offered it around. Both Murphy and Gwen plucked one out and the three lit up. Andrews continued to fidget by the window, trying to get a good view of the road. After letting out a long circle of smoke with a deep sigh, Amelia nodded towards Jona. “Don’t worry about that right now. You’ll get there.”

Murphy grunted a response, pointing at Andrews. “See why he’s nervous? ‘Cause he can’t see a way out of this, and neither can I. We are Federal Agents, lady. Federal Agents of the wrong country as far as your pal in Richmond and the mysterious Mr. M are concerned, and we’re not getting a slap on the wrist if we get caught. Shit, they might decide we’re spies for all I know, and then it’s curtains.” He took a long drag and exhaled quickly, letting the smoke brush his face with wispy gray swirls.

Andrews pounded the window with the palm of his hand, looking desperate. “Too many people are counting on me right now, waiting for me to deliver. I’ve made promises I intend to keep, including to myself, and I can’t do that from a prison. Murphy and I will make a run for it, maybe try to cross the river until we come up with a plan. Lieb, you stay here. You’re the one they really want, and the girl here, whoever she is. Once they have you, they may lighten up on the chase, make it easier for us. Anyway, you would just slow us down.”

Jona stood motionless, dumbfounded. “You want to leave me behind? I thought...I thought we were...”

“We were nothing, Lieb. I was just an agent assigned to babysit you, that’s all. A business arrangement. Now the mission has gone to hell in a hand basket, and our little arrangement is officially terminated.” He jerked his head towards Murphy. “Am I right?”

Murphy contorted his face into jagged stone, exposing deep creases around his eyes. “Wrong, Johnny. We came in together and we’re gonna go out together. Like it or not it’s ‘we’ and not ‘me’.”

Amelia clapped her hands impatiently. “Quiet, all of you and pay attention.” She rapped on the window loudly and gestured to Tokala to come in. He appeared in moments, still slouched under his hat. Amelia pointed at him emphatically. “Tokala will take care of you. First, he’ll take you over to Bridgetown. That’s Cherokee land. No one can go in there who’s not allowed. Not police, not Guard, not nobody.”

Andrews appeared unconvinced. “And then what? Hibernate for a few years? No thanks.”

“Of course not. He’ll guide you to safety from there.”

The old, familiar feeling of agitation began to gnaw at Jona, causing his hands to tremor uncontrollably. “How could he do that? The whole way will be swarming with Guard and Army units.”

Amelia grasped Jona by both shoulders, giving him a quick but firm shake. “You’re a worrier Jona, I can appreciate that. Don’t you worry though. Tokala will get you over the border, just like he got your father back and forth these many years. For someone who knows, it’s not that hard. There’s a system.”

Almost in the same instant, they all turned their eyes towards Tokala. In acknowledgement he raised his head, stood tall, pushed up the brim of his hat, and smiled. The morning light, sweeping in through the windows, gleamed against the tiny diamonds embedded in his teeth with a sparkling, almost blinding brilliance.

Share

Chapter 36

Gray.

Gray.

Not black.

Not white.

Just before dawn.

Just before night.

There are so many possibilities in gray. But then again, not really.

There is no love in gray, not really.

There is no hate in gray, not really.

As seen by an audience of one, emotions and thoughts in gray appear like actors on a stage, clothed in comfortable tunics donned for the duration of the play only to be cast off at the end, becoming nothing more than vapors viewed vicariously from within the gray.

Gray. Homogenous, shapeless, incoherent, purposeless, pluripotent, from where anything at all may come.

Or nothing at all.

MENTOR stared out the window framing the gray of cloud and drizzle, and wondered idly what was really out there, out where nothing could be seen. Gray is an illusion, he thought. Better yet, a hallucination. Color and movement and life are all out there, out beyond sight or sound. The stupid choose to process only gray, pretending they’re still in their own womb and that their tiny one sided universe is all that matters. If they can’t see it in all the gray, then it doesn’t exist, so they say. They, so easy to compel, coerce, convince. They, creatures of a lower order...they themselves are the gray, and they prefer it that way, willing prey to anyone with the power to see beyond.

Like me.

How I despise them all.

He cast a quick glance at Amelia before returning his gaze to the ashen sky outside. For some reason he found her attractive, in a dull, physical sort of way. Her figure was ordinary, and she was clearly older than his usual desires demanded. Nonetheless, there was a certain energy about her, a vibrancy in the way she swayed her bosom, as if it were alive, and flicked her eyes back and forth, much like a creature of the night on the prowl. MENTOR was always careful with women. He would not be influenced or corrupted by a seductive glance or nod. No, he was the seducer. Better yet, a despoiler who could force himself on anyone as he pleased. His pleasure would be someone else’s pain, always. Nonetheless, he did find himself drawn to Amelia. And, after all, she was Earnest Lieb’s woman. That fact weighed very much in the balance.

“You say you didn’t know who they were. Is that right?” He growled the words, hoping to intimidate her.

“That’s right. How could I? We’re quite remote out here. I speak to the Director once in a while, when the lines are up and working, but not recently.”

MENTOR paused, pondering the moment. Is she gray too, or is she alive? “Yet you put them up for the night. Four people you didn’t know. Four strangers...Odd, don’t you think?”

Amelia stood tall, very close to MENTOR, unafraid, eying him through half closed lids. “Alright, let’s cut the chatter, shall we? If y’all want to interrogate me, then call the Director and see what he says.”

As she spoke, spittle sprayed from her mouth onto his chin, something that caused an enjoyable tug within him. Definitely not gray, he thought, forcing his mind to move on quickly. MENTOR had the clarity to see he was in a bind. Amelia’s story was superficially plausible, and the Director was a powerful sponsor who had personally described her as an important government asset. There could be no rough work here. But even so, there could be pain. She would be a pleasant triumph, almost certainly a quick one. Then, on to the next, and the next after that.

He offered a smile, hoping it did not appear to be a sneer. “I’m not looking for a confrontation. Just an... accommodation, that’s all.” He touched her arm as lightly as possible.

Her gaze did not waver. “What kind?”

“Well, for starters let’s be friends. No reason not to be.” MENTOR waved in the direction of the window. “Must be hard for you, a bright woman living out here alone with all these illiterates. I’ve been on the road for over a month now. I’m longing for someone with some intelligence to talk to, and I can only imagine how lonely you must be.” He took a chance and placed his hand on her shoulder. “You know that the government leadership has been wiped out, right? We’ll get the bastards who did it, though, don’t worry. Lieb might be involved in some way, that’s why we want him so bad.”

“You mean Pickett is gone?”

“Heart attack. Dead.”

“What about Patton?”

“Also dead I’m afraid. Awful explosion, the worst kind of assassination. Terrible event. Looks like I’m going to be pretty high up in the new regime, probably the new Director. I can be a good friend, and a valuable one.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “What do you say?”

Amelia stood still, almost rigid, then blew out a breath very softly. “Yes. We can be friends.”

“That is excellent! Excellent!” He squeezed her shoulder more firmly, but deliberately tamped down the surge of excitement that erupted within him. “Now, why don’t we sit down and discuss your research program over lunch. From the beginning. I find your work here to be fascinating.”

Amelia nodded at the four gray forms huddled tightly together right outside the window, smoking, shifting nervously while shielding themselves from the rain. “What about them?”

“My men? Oh, I’ll get rid of them, send them to the next town over, Bridgetown I think, try to catch a scent of our quarry there. Let them snoop around the area, see what comes up. And then we’re on from there. Logically, the northerners are headed to Memphis, but they won’t get far.”

“Bridgetown is Cherokee. Treaty land.”

“Nonsense. The state gets what the state needs. Treaties are never permanent in any case. I like to think of treaties as toilet paper. When the time is right, use them to wipe your ass clean.” MENTOR smiled broadly, feeling a genuine sense of power and anticipation. “So, I can stay around a day or two, while the boys get the lay of the land.”

Amelia smiled as well, low and slow.

Later in the day, after a spartan lunch of cauliflower and turnip soup, they walked a dirt trail through a small, unkempt garden back of the house. Amelia enjoyed walking there, brushing past thrusting, wild-swaying branches of blackberry and upright mounds of untamed rosemary. The dead bough of a splintered chestnut tree dangled dangerously close to the ground, entwined by wild lilac. Nature reigned in the garden, remaining unsullied by human cunning, ruled only by the twin dogmas of sunshine and rain. The ground, the scents, the sights were all so familiar to her, awash with memories of past strolls, and close embraces, and sighs, and long touches, and burning desire, and dreams upon dreams upon dreams. How odd, that so long ago she had set out to capture Earnest Lieb, but in the end she was the one captured, now in his thrall for what seemed eternity. Closing her eyes, Amelia brought it all back, and imagined that Earnest was at her side, his hand cupping the small of her back. A moment of sadness pierced her. However much that we had laughed, she thought, we could have laughed some more. However much that we had dreamed, we could have dreamed some more. However much that we had loved, we could have loved some more. I had this much, but how I yearn for more, and I will never have it.

His pup, Jona, had wanted to know about the past, asking to speak to her as if an angel had commanded him to grovel at her feet.

“Please,” he had begged. “I’ve come all this way to find you. Tell me, please.”

“What exactly do you want to know?” She spoke brusquely, hoping he would be dissuaded from further questions.

“I want to know about you. And him too. Both of you.”

Amelia did not wish to be amused but could not refrain from a raspy chuckle. “Africa, right? You want to learn about that. You know, when we first met he was immersed in infestations. Filariasis. Hookworm. Malaria. On and on, he was fascinated. It was a peculiarity of his, his ability to become lost in a subject, totally and abjectly. He became interested in me immediately, because of my work with giardia. Do you know about giardia?”

“No. Never heard of it. An infestation?”

“Yes. Don’t blame yourself. Giardiasis is quite common but very few know about it, at least not yet. I had just completed my thesis on the subject, describing the life cycle, and Earnest became engrossed right away. My God, could that man ask questions! We spent an afternoon walking on the beach, talking about cysts and trophozoites. He has exceptionally clear brown eyes, but you know that already. He had let his hair grow, looking very much like a pirate or better yet a fierce Viking, his skin shone like shiny brass and he felt like steel to the touch. Yes, Jona, I fell in love with Earnest Lieb that day, but whatever it was that I felt has grown and changed and inflated and compressed ever since. We decided together that he would come back, and that I would stay by his side from that day. Questions answered?”

“Yes, I suppose.” Jona waited only a fraction of a second before blurting out, “Why didn’t you marry him? Did my mother know? Why a secret dalliance?”

“You are exhausting. It was all a long time ago. A lifetime ago, really. We didn’t want marriage. Sorry. Let me amend. I didn’t want marriage. I wanted to be free to continue my work, and later to manage the Farm. And, young Jona, I did not want children. Right or wrong, I valued my freedom more than anything, and Earnest respected that. Remember, though, there is no me without him, and there’s no him without me. Not really, not unless you’re only interested in newspaper clippings and hand-me-down tales of travel and adventure. All that was just the fixings. The main course was the man himself.”

“You told me that seeking love was like mining a precious metal. Difficult.”

“Yes. A constant trial.”

“But you loved him, right?”

“I still do.”

“And he loved you?”

Amelia reached over to pat Jona on the arm. “Is that very important to you?”

“Yes. I think so. Yes.”

“I said he was submerged in the study of invasive species. I think he viewed love that way. An invasion into the heart and soul, something from outside. He told me once that it was an enemy, an enemy at the gate. Love was, but so was hate. So was envy, and lust, and desire…You get the idea. So, yes he loved me, in his own way. Not the way you might think, but for me it was enough.”

They sat in silence. Jona brooded over her answer while his mind teemed with questions. He straightened abruptly. “What about my mother.”

“If I let you go on and on you’ll have a million questions. I can only tell you about the two of us, nothing else.” Amelia made a noisy exhalation. She sat on a gouged and marred leather settee; with some reluctance she gestured Jona to sit next to her with a simple flick of her wrist. “Let me ask you a question. Do you believe I can be seated both here and over in that chair at the same time?”

“Of course not.”

“So a person can’t be in two different places at the same time.”

“Correct.” Jona did not attempt to hide his annoyance. “What are you getting at?”

“Just this. Can two different places be in one person at the same time? What about you, Jona. Have you ever felt two different presences in you simultaneously? Three? Five perhaps? All rolling around inside you, all actually in the here and now. Have you?”

As if ushered into view by a master conjuror, visions of coffee houses, bright green baseball fields, placid lakes and laboratories with beaker stacked upon beaker all swam into Jona’s vision, swirling, coalescing, dissolving, then re-forming again. “All the time.” He whispered the words, a confession made with wonder.

“Your father lived his life in a dozen places at a time. Probing, planning, scheming, always thinking. Your mother was a pleasant woman, straightforward, but she needed a man who would stay at home, in one place at a time. That was not Earnest.”

“You knew her?”

“Yes. There were no games. It was not a secret liaison, not secret at all; she was my friend. I’m the one who introduced them. She came to know everything before they exchanged vows, and was accepting.”

Jona sat back on the couch, curling up as if wishing to disappear. When he spoke, Amelia understood that he was not speaking to her. He spoke into a void, a hole that warped through time and space, a conduit to a lost past. “I can still hear her crying,” he murmured.

Amelia remembered the lost expression on his face, just as Jona declined into a deep sleep. She had left him on the couch, to sleep and dream away the demons that roiled within him. Now, as she walked past eucalyptus and wild sunflowers, she felt the claw of demons swirling within her as well.

As they walked in the garden, MENTOR sensed that Amelia was distracted and distant and tried to adjust his calculations accordingly. He felt restless, wishing the afternoon would end quickly and allow night to consummate the day. Night was his time, the best time. When others might nod in weariness, he felt most alive. At night, plans and schemes nested and twisted within the clever plots and strategies that erupted from his brain in an endless stream of creativity. In the senseless game of life, the only satisfaction came from defeating all others, beating them senseless with the power of his mind alone, destroying anything they treasured in the process. Victory after annihilating victory provided a panorama of achievement and if it could be done with clever technique and opaque strategy, so much the better. To some degree, this was his protection from the grim realization that the game would one day end. And then the gray would come.

“Miss Amelia, are you still attached to all this?” He waved vaguely in the direction of the Community House as it came into view.

“This has been my life for three decades. I care deeply, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“And the blacks who are still here, the ones still alive, do you care for them?”

“I have a medical file on each of them going back to the beginning. I give each of them a medical examination personally every three months. I know them intimately.”

“They are an excess of humanity, don’t you think? Not just them, no, no, but so many others as well. They are among us, but unnecessary. Just like marbled steak, you can cut off the fat or keep it. Consume it or throw it away, it’s up to you, and no one would blame you either way. You didn’t answer though. Do you care?”

“I know what you asked. Yes, I do care.”

MENTOR paused at a bend in the path that overlooked the river. “And Earnest Lieb, did he care?”

Amelia did not stop, but slowed. “You like information, don’t you. You crave it. Earnest often said that information was the key to success, the kind of success that moves humanity forward.” She turned back towards MENTOR, holding both arms tightly against her chest as if protecting herself from a stiff wind. “You want success, I can see that. Do you also want to move humanity forward?”

“Nothing so grand, I’m afraid. I’m no Earnest Lieb, after all. Tell me...” He paused as if embarrassed. “What drove him to seek such fame in the world? After his great medical discovery here, he could have rested on his laurels, but he didn’t. Why not?”

“That’s easy. He had passion. His passion was the elixir of life, driving him on, and the more he drank of it, the more he dreamed, the more he believed, the more he struggled, the more he braved. Can you understand that, Mr. MENTOR? Do you have passions?”

MENTOR felt momentarily stunned, as if a dormant nerve had just been tapped. Amelia was indeed a formidable woman, and the realization stoked his lust to lay her low, and cover her in filth and dust, and trample on her, and drag her behind his chariot at full gallop, and more, until she herself was no more. He took a deep breath, relaxing himself, tempering the fire that raged within. He forced a smile. “To be truthful, I am an artist. That is what I do every day, every hour, every minute. My art moves me, and I hope that one day others will be moved by it as well, once I’m recognized for my work.”

“What kind of artist?”

MENTOR smiled broadly, a genuine smile that quivered across his face with a surging intensity. “Thank you for asking. My canvas is human emotion in all its extremes. There are no boundaries for a true artist like me, and nothing can be exempt. In fact, disgracing the sacred is a necessary technique to my artistry. Love and hate, pain and pleasure in all their fullness are just some of the tools I utilize for my creations. Lust is useful too, it is so human.”

“That sounds cruel. “

“I am beyond that. I did not invent the rules related to cruelty, and they do not apply to me. The beauty of my artistic expression is that it gives my life meaning. I gorge myself in the consummation of my artistry. Human beings are my canvas, and words are my brushes. How simple, yet how elegant, don’t you think? And what a vast space to work in! People of all kinds...young, old, men, women, frail or strong. The lines of perspective are without limit.”

“That is beastly.”

“Don’t be judgmental, my dear. I am not the first artist to exploit human suffering and pain. Traditional artists portray pain. I provoke it. What could be more creative? And my subjects accept it! Some desire it. Do you know what they all have in common? I’ll tell you a secret. They all want to feel something. That’s all. Feel something. The ignorant will say they want love, but the truth is that they want anything, anything that tells them they are alive, even though they may be dying. Or dead already. They are willing subjects of my artistry. When I’ve done well, really well, I come to the brink of fulfillment and gratification, and beyond. Do you understand? I live for my art, but please comprehend that my approach requires intellect, and thought, and mental preparation. What you call passions are just derivatives of our thoughts. That’s how it works, not the other way around. I’m sure Lieb believed that as well. He was a great man, I think, because of his great mind. Actually, zeal can be a hindrance. Intelligence, uncompromising intelligence, is everything.” He shook his head ruefully. “I wish I could have met him.”

Amelia smirked. “That sounds like you’re feeling a little...let me me guess...Jealousy?”

“You’re a very bright woman, Amelia, and a beautiful one.” Abruptly, MENTOR grasped her roughly around the waist, pulling her towards him in a smothering embrace. “Now,” he thought. The time of preparing the composition was over, and the colorful canvas standing in his arms was now ready to be devoured. “You know he died in the arms of a whore, don’t you? A black whore, a black whore far from your snowy white bosom, my dear. You do know he’s dead, right? Are you aware he had syphilis at the end? Oh what irony! He failed two treatments with his own medication. I’m told the coroner was revolted by the sight of him. I bet you didn’t know that about your pristine lover, did you? I hope he didn’t transmit it to you while he was pursuing his so-called passion. It turns out you were just one of many all over the world. Did you know that? Oh, what a grandee he was, oh so full of himself, a veritable Everyman. Chink, wop, nigger, yid, kraut, wetback, spic, mick...That phony pretended he was all of them wrapped up in one. The Universal Man, feeling every feeling, thinking every thought, suffering every pain. Don’t you hate it? You should forget about him and start all over with me, Amelia. I’m alive, and I’m here. In the flesh, as you can feel. Come on, you know it’s time to move on.” He squeezed himself upon her and began kissing her neck, sucking on it until the skin blushed bright red.

Amelia did not struggle. Instead, she drew herself even closer so that she could whisper in his ear. “Not here, we’ll be seen. Let’s go up to my room.”

They hurried back to the house arm in arm, and Mentor, giddy with incipient ardor, felt the deep pleasure of the moment. In the foyer, she pushed him back playfully. “Is there any other art that you can ply?”

“There may be a few more tricks that I can try.”

“So can I. Give me a few minutes to get ready. First room on the right.”

She left him with a coy smile and scurried up the stairs. In her bedroom she quickly changed into a long, flowing yellow chiton, something appropriate for the moment, then flung herself flat on her back and sighed with a mixture of sadness and resolve. When she heard the knock on the door she reached down under the bed and retrieved Snake Charmer, aiming it carefully just to the inner side of the door handle. The stock felt cool and soft as she tucked it to her chin and shoulder, very much like the smooth surface of a grand master’s violin. She didn’t play, but envied musical mastery. She imagined very briefly that she was about to give a performance, a concerto perhaps, in front of a clamorous audience. Or play a stately pavane, ancient but still vibrantly alive, and the music would dance and dance, from earth to heaven and back again in the rhythm of a throbbing heart, and this time the music would never stop, but go on and on until every last drop of passion was moaned aloud. Unbidden, Earnest Lieb’s face flashed within the music, looming just above her. Peeking between the notes as they rushed by, his chestnut eyes shone brightly with the frantic look of immediate desire, and his soft, soft, parted lips smiled ever so slightly. Darling, he seemed to say. Darling. Darling, come.

There was a second knock.

“Enter,” she called. “I’m ready for you.”

The room was dusty and almost bare. A small bed occupied one corner and a decrepit bentwood chair occupied another. There were no windows, the whitewashed walls were peeling, and a faint yeasty smell permeated the air. A kerosene lamp hung from the ceiling, casting a meager aura of dim light evenly around the room. Jona collapsed on the bed awkwardly, stretching out his hip and leg with some relief. He gave an embarrassed smile in Tokala’s direction as a sign of gratitude. The cramped ride to Bridgetown had taken more than an hour, over rutted, dirt roads that seemed to meander purposelessly through north Georgia backcountry. Lieb had endured the trip in great discomfort, jammed between Andrews and Murphy in the back seat.

The ride was made even more uncomfortable by Gwen, who opened her front seat window to shout incessant profanities at the trees and bushes as they sped by, naming them as if they were an enemy host intent on her personal destruction. “Fuck you, eucalyptus. Eat shit, buckthorn. Sassafras, kiss my ass!”

Finally, Murphy had had enough. “Close your potty mouth,” he bellowed, “Or I’ll apply a liberal cleansing with soap. That’ll shut you up.”

She calmed down immediately, turned around in her seat to face him with a quizzical look, and reached back to pat him on the head. “Why, Mr. Murphy, you are shouting at me. I’m surprised you can talk at all.” She exaggerated a long, slow drawl to stretch out the words ‘aaat... aaaall...’

He snapped back instantly, swiping her hand from his head. “What do you mean?”

“Well, a man in your condition.”

It was Murphy’s turn to appear confused. “What in hell are you talking about?”

“Oh baby, you know what I mean.” She paused to blow a kiss in his direction. “A man without a dick, like yourself, shouldn’t raise his voice to a lady.”

Murphy gaped in purpled, blotched astonishment but recovered quickly. “Oh yeah, you foul mouthed bitch? Who raised you, anyway, a pack of hyenas? How about I raise my fist instead, right up to your pretty little jaw once we’re out of this car. Believe me, I’ll do it.”

“No you won’t. I know you won’t.”

Jona decided to intervene. “Don’t aggravate him, Gwen. You never know. He just might do what he says.”

“He won’t, Lance. I know positively he won’t, because... Because. I’ll tell you a little secret about me, something I would only tell a knight, and only when they’re about to die trying to save me. I can tell the future. Not just the far future, but what’s actually gonna happen real soon. Everything that’s going to happen. Everything.”

Murphy guffawed loudly. “Really? You a carnival freak? In that case, blab what’s going to happen to us.”

She placed two fingers lightly across her cheek and shrugged. “Cigarette first.”

“OK. But then you entertain us.” He offered up a cigarette, placed it in her lips, and snapped a match to light it. “Alright, what’s my future?”

Gwen inhaled with agonizing slowness, then breathed out gently through her nostrils, allowing the smoke to settle over her mouth. The cigarette smoldered a dull red as she pointed it directly at Murphy. “Dead.” She whirled in her seat, pointing at Andrews next. “Dead.” And last, she moved just the tip of burning ash in Jona’s direction, rotating the cigarette slowly, as if shooting a beam of illuminating light towards his face. “Dead and alive.”

Andrews cleared his throat. “Don’t wish to intrude, Miss Gwen, but that is a nonsense statement. No one can be both alive and dead. Illogical. And, without being disrespectful, your prediction is hardly noteworthy. Everything that is alive in turn dies. We are alive and so....A, therefore B. Modus ponens.”

“Silly boy.” Gwen inhaled hugely, and again streamed thick plumes of smoke outward, almost obscuring her face. “Not everyone who is dead has been alaaaaave. Right?”

Andrews shook his head in exasperation and slumped back into his seat to brood. Murphy remained silent, retrieving a cigarette for himself. Jona, pressed on either side by the two agents, shifted forward.

“I want to believe you, Gwen, I do. Give us more predictions, something with teeth in it.”

“Well, I can tell you this. There’s going to be a big war.”

Murphy sprang forward, so agitated his lips began to twitch. He jabbed his cigarette in Gwen’s direction with short sharp thrusts. “Already happened, sweetheart. It’s in the past, not the future. I should know.”

“It depends on when you are living. If you live in the past, like I do, then it’s all in the future. I live in....oh, I don’t know. Maybe 1900, 1905, 1909. Maybe 1933, it changes. The war is coming. And you, Mr. Agent Man, will die in the war. Right next to your comrades in arms. On top of them, actually, stacked up one by one in a very neat pile, just like empty clam shells. Your corpse was buried in a deep forest somewhere, or is going to be. You might still be breathing for a while afterwards, like you’re doing now, but you die then.”

Quiet descended. Murphy became rigid, puffing furiously, staring into empty space. Andrews remained submerged in the darkness of his corner, and Tokala continued to drive impassively, chewing on a toothpick. The vast expanse of ash, oak and pine outside their windows pursued them relentlessly as they drove deeper into the heart of the hill forests.

After a few moments Gwen began to titter, quietly at first, then louder as she waved her cigarette in wide, majestic arcs. “Why, you boys are suddenly so serious and so withdrawn. What about you, Mr. Andrews, don’t you want to know more about yourself?” When he didn’t answer she waved the cigarette like a wand. “Poof, there’s your future. Oh dear, Mr. Andrews, look! You are like the marvelous Mr. Murphy...you don’t have one! The difference is, you never had a past either. It’s all gone, obliterated. Come on, Johnny-John, that’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? You appeared on the scene like you were a virgin birth born out of a thornbush. No mammy, no pappy, no story. You just are, out of the blue so to speak.”

“Stop. Those are just words, meaningless words.” Andrews barely mumbled, withdrawing even deeper into the hidden enormity of his corner, as if burrowing into a cave of his own making.

“But words are what make the past, my Johnny. Without words there is nothing before this moment, and with every second that passes more words are needed to fill in the void. Oh, it’s true that you can have pictures floating around in that oversized brain of yours, maybe a movie, but without words we don’t call that the past. We call that insanity. Believe me, I know. If you have no words, you have no past. That describes you perfectly. Did you think you’d come down all this way and people wouldn’t see right through you for what you really are?“

“And what is that?”

“Why, empty. Completely empty.” Gwen gave a shrill laugh and shifted herself to face forward once again.

“Gwen!” Jona blurted out her name and regretted it instantly. She gave a coquettish smile in return. “Yes, my Lance? Do you want to ask about yourself?”

“Yes. No. Maybe. I think so. Alive and dead?.”

“If you’ve ever seen a reflection of yourself, not straight on but just out of the corner of your eye, frozen for just an instant in time, then you’ll know what I mean. An image of just that single moment, twisting quickly into something different. That’s how I see you. It’s as if you’ve lived and died a dozen times already. That means you could die tomorrow. Or live tomorrow. Either one. When it happens and we see it, then we’ll know.”

“And you? What about you?”

“I’m sorry, Lance. Yesterday and tomorrow never seem to sit in one place. I live from one moment to another, whenever that might be. I fell in love with you in 1919, or 1939, or the moment after that, which might be yesterday or today, or some time real soon. Does that really matter? The only important thing is that my soul lies with yours, my knight, my love, my savior. Through all time. If there is time, that is.” She glanced back, locking onto his gaze, but only briefly. Her eyes fluttered violently back and forth in a pantomime of total blindness.

After that, the ride seemed to last forever, an eternity really, and not another word was spoken.

Tokala remained silent as Jona surveyed the room.

“Thanks Mr. Tokala. I need this.”

“Thank Miss Amelia. This is for her, seeing as I don’t know you from Adam. And... Don’t call me mister. I have one name only. Tokala.” He hesitated at the door, as if torn between leaving or staying. Finally, he tossed his hat on the floor and sat on the chair. “So, what’s your story? Your father is Dr. Lieb?”

“Yes. I’m a doctor too. Also Dr. Lieb.” Jona lay back on the bed, forearms crossed under his head. “Not like my father, though. He was special.”

“Yes. Special.”

Jona realized that Tokala was staring at him closely, studying him. “Did you know him well?”

“Know him well enough. As well as you can know someone like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like you said, he’s special. Special in a lot of different ways. Your father would try hard to be whatever you wanted him to be, and he was usually successful. What did you need from him? Healer, professor, adventurer, idealist, pragmatist, saint, sinner...he had the uncanny ability to know what moved you before you knew yourself. That’s his true genius. He was always good to me and my mother. Respectful. Attentive. I love him for that.” He gave a quick throat clearing cough. “And that’s exactly what I wanted from him. He figured that out quickly.”

It was Jona’s turn to scrutinize Tokala carefully. He was fairly pale for a Cherokee. “You speak well.”

“What? For a Cherokee? Like I said, I don’t know you, so fuck off.” He spit the toothpick out, in Jona’s general direction.

“Sorry, truly sorry. No, you speak very well, period. Better than anyone else around here.”

“English, you mean. You don’t care how I speak my own language though, now do you. My mother taught me how to speak and how to write in our nation’s words. She also sent me to Birmingham when I was young so I could learn to talk well with the likes of you.”

“I was just trying to compliment you.”

“A common stupidity. Comparing others to your own standards, and trying to make them feel good about how they stack up.” He gave Lieb a sharp glance. “That’s all right, I guess I do exactly the same. Doesn’t work out well for you, though, when I do.”

Both men lapsed into a prolonged and deliberate silence which became progressively more awkward, but Tokala seemed disinclined to leave. He settled squarely on his chair and stared intently at Lieb. Unnerved, Jona finally spoke up. “This your house?”

“It’s our house. People use it as they need to. I have had your father here many times. He slept in that same bed.”

“He came here often?”

“Sometimes once a year, sometimes twice. One time he stayed the whole summer.”

Jona stilled the impulse to ask what summer that might have been. “And it was a secret, right?”

“Dunno about anyplace else, but not around these parts. Folks welcomed him, especially at the ranch. Miss Amelia and the others. The subjects. You met some, right?” Tokala’s words echoed briefly, circling around the dry stone walls before expiring.

“Doesn’t that make you angry?”

“Like I said, he’s been good to us. Not too many of your kind have been.”

“How did he get here?”

“Come on, now. What kinda question is that? Doctor Lieb is a big shot, biggest man in the world. Always came by limousine.”

“Not what I meant.” Jona paused again, then inhaled deeply. He overcame the urge to stay sprawled, raising himself upright at the edge of the bed. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sounds like you’re going to, no matter how I answer.”

“Are those really diamonds in your teeth?”

Tokala’s face lit up as he gave a big smile, turning his head left and right to showcase the glittering specks studding his teeth, sparkling brightly even in the dim lamplight. “Diamonds, yes. Small ones, sure. My own people ask me about it all the time, wondering why I had it done. It was years ago, and it was your father who gave me the idea.”

“How?”

“That’s a story, but I’ll make it short, if you really want to hear it.”

“Of course.”

“Ok:

We were convoying a shipment of goods across the border, lots of stuff he had smuggled back from Egypt and some place called Ethiopia, I believe. It was my first trip with him, and I felt lucky that my mom got me the job because there was five hundred bucks for me at the end of that rainbow. Even so, it was still nerve wracking. The more expensive our cargo, the worse it would be for me if we were caught, and sure enough the items were very valuable. Your father, though...He was bulletproof, immune from arrest, as if he had taken some kind of a vaccine that shielded him against the law, so he didn’t worry about it at all.

Anyway, in those days Dr. Lieb insisted that he personally accompany our cargo all the way to N’allans for sale there. Made lotsa dollas in those days. He changed later, when I took charge, but that’s the way he was back then. So we were together that trip, loaded up on the Lady Louise, only one, maybe two days from docking. We were on the afterdeck, it was a beautiful night, and our only company were the fireflies that flicked around us. My people wonder whether fireflies might be special for us, maybe flashing us signs from our ancestors, a secret code maybe. I don’t know, but I thought that night they were sending me a message of contentment and peace. Tranquil is the right word. We sipped a little Tennessee healing water, and your father took a few pops of black button, which he enjoyed doing from time to time. Said it helped him think straight. The night sky was right orderly, stars aligned to perfection, no skeeters buzzing around, and the both of us were sailing real smooth. Man, it was alright.

Something prompted him, who knows what, and don’t you know he takes something out of his coat pocket. It was a little painting on wood, a few inches by a few inches, a somber old fashioned lady with a round face, wearing a golden crown. A queen. The frame looked real fancy, like something you never see, and your father explained the details to me. I was mesmerized by the words he used to describe it. I like words, that comes from my mother, so I had him say it all over again the next day, when I was sober, so I could learn and write it down and say it exactly the same way. It went like this: Red glass and enamel along the outer edge, silver and niello along the inner side, earth stones on top and bottom, a ruby over the lady’s crown, and a double row of melees lining the border over a background of terra verte. Beautiful, huh? I can see it right now, even without closing my eyes. Dr. Lieb told me it was five hundred years old, and now it was his. He seemed kinda proud of that. I had an inkling it had something to do with the white people’s religion, and I asked him about it. I said, ‘Do you pray to this?’

He didn’t answer for a long time, maybe even an hour, or two, can’t be sure ‘cause I was toasted. Finally, he said “No, and yes. But it does help praying, if you have a mind to. I know your mom prays, though not this kind of way. You might say it’s like whisky, or the night air. Helps you get through the cracks and to the other side, if you know what I mean. Some people, though, they pray right into this little square of wood, like it’s gonna answer one day.”

I didn’t understand exactly, but I said nothing, just kept sippin’ on the bottle and staring at the heavens above.

He didn’t like that and leaned over to nudge me kind of rough. “Look close. Look at her eyes.”

I did. She was looking a bit sideways, but I didn’t see much else. “They’re big.”

He nudged me again, harder, almost knocking me off my seat. “It’s a snap glance. Is she looking at you, like she’s a friend turning your way, or is she starting to look away, like you’re a pile of shit?”

I couldn’t really answer for sure, so I gave him the answer I thought he wanted. “She’s coming my way, boss.” I think he liked that answer, because he settled down for a bit. The more I thought about it, the more I thought she did look kinda interested in me. In my condition at the time, I couldn’t tell.

It was like an hour later, when he spoke up again. “Well you are indeed a pile of shit, that’s why it means something important, the fact that she’s looking at you. Not looking away. Know what I mean?”

Actually, I had no clue what he meant, when just on a whim he handed the picture to me, you know, to share friendly-like so I could admire it. I won’t hide the fact I was pretty jarred at the time, so my fingers were like jelly. The little picture with the woody frame lasted in my hands about two seconds before I dropped it. The thing cracked, and a whole bunch of the little diamonds scattered over the deck.

Your father behaved kinda peculiar, but that was the essence of your father. Most men would start hollering stuff and say a lot of shit, and maybe do much worse. Even though I was loopy I steeled myself, not knowing what he might do. Well, I didn’t expect that he would start laughing. I mean really laughing, as if we were watching someone slip on a banana peel and do a double somersault before landing on their ass. He told me it was the night’s way of sending a message, that we shouldn’t love things so much, and we should throw away the past, and we should cut the chains that bind us, and all kinds of real deep stuff like that. Look, I know that a little bit of Mescalero chew can make a man say crazy things, but that’s just the thing; he wasn’t talking crazy at all, not as far as I could tell, just laughing and cursing a bit, and going into all this other stuff about life, and history, and fame, and I don’t know what all. Honestly, all that talk was wasted on me, even though he grabbed me by the lapels and talked right into my eyes.

Finally, he said to me, ‘Tokala, pick up all those little diamonds, and the ones you can find you can keep. Right now, I can see your future.’

I answered him, ‘Boss, what would I do with such tiny diamonds? Don’t think anyone would buy them, can’t be worth much.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said. ‘Take them. I know a Koasati in Chattanooga who will set them right into your teeth, right in the front. People you meet will think you’re seriously nuts, or seriously rich, or both. Saw this in Texas more than once. Think of the power that will give you over all the timid little souls out there. Plus, it’ll get you women, I guarantee it.’ Then he started laughing even harder, and I have to say I started laughing too.”

“So you went to Chattanooga and had it done.”

Tokala took on an odd look, squinting as he averted his eyes. It was a moment before he answered. “No, not right away. Not for a long while, anyway. Things looked a bit different to me in the morning, after I got my head screwed on right. Didn’t know your father real well at the time, and the idea seemed a bit crazy, so I just put the diamonds away.”

Jona tilted his head expectantly.

“OK. You want the rest of the story? I can do it long or I can do it short. Here goes:

Two years later almost exactly. Same boat, Lady Louise, probably about the same location. Just me, your father, and a guy from my tribe, name of Jacob Johnson. Big guy. Tough. Rumor had it that he was your father’s slave. They were close, it’s true, but I never saw either one of them behave anything along those lines, and back here in Bridgetown he lived in his own place and worked at my mother’s newspaper. Someone told me that Dr Lieb gave him to my mother as a gift, but that story’s a lie. He did buy the newspaper for her, but never one of our own people. I’m pretty sure Jake’s wages were his own. Anyway, he knew how to set type, and helped with layout, and he had a pretty grand opinion of himself. Thought he was a big shot because he could read and write so well. In English, that is. Not so great with our own words; my mother was always having to correct him. Dr. Lieb encouraged him to read white poetry, and learn it by heart so that he could recite at the drop of a hat. I saw him giving Jake lessons on how to read poetry properly. Jake lapped it up. I confess, he was smart at that. He did it for Dr. Lieb, but I think down deep he really enjoyed getting up in his own hair, throwing out words left and right, as smug as a Carolina grandee. Like I said, thought he was a big shot. I didn’t like him much.

We were all banged out that night, me and Jake on bana rum and your father on two or three buttons together with some Bama moonshine he found somewhere. The old man was being funny, making jokes at nothing and laughing like a banshee at everything. It felt good to see him nice and easy, sitting deep in his deck chair and far from the world. The night went on like that for a while, but then he changed. Hard to say exactly why, but he kind of drew into himself. He wasn’t quiet exactly, because I could hear him moaning, but the moans were like names that he was naming. Maybe he was dreaming, I don’t know. I could make out a few very faintly though I wasn’t positive: Maria? Alexandra? Amelia? I think those were some, but I’m sure there were more I couldn’t make out. I kind of thought that Amelia was Miss Amelia, but the other names meant nothing to me.

He kept on this way, slobbering a bit, until he stopped cold. I thought he had fallen asleep until he suddenly sat up and called out from his chair. “Hey Jake,” he yelled as the moon slunk low and the stars stripped their clothes off to show their bodies. “Where you at?”

“Right here, boss!” Jake thought he was quite an actor and made a grand gesture with his arms and grabbed at his chest, as if he were succumbing to some mysterious malady.

“You ever thinkin’ about women at all? I guess I am, they’re rollin’ around inside me right now.”

“I am if you are, boss.” He made a a big show of pointing at the sky above with both hands. “Look, it’s empty up there right now. We can fill it up any way we want. Ladies, song, wine, whatever you want and it shall be. You sing the tune and I will write the lyrics.”

“Yeah. Whisky, weed, and women. That is all you ever need to be really livin’. Or poems. Words. That too. Cumma’, say me a poem, Jake. I need one. Say me a poem that will save my life, godammit.”

Man, Jake didn’t think but a moment, said he had a “new one” from a lady up north, and then he started in like this:

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,

I have forgotten, and what arms have lain

Under my head till morning; but the rain

Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh

Upon the glass and listen for reply,

And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain

For unremembered lads that not again

Will turn to me at midnight with a cry...

Dr. Lieb got up out of his chair as the poem went on, stumbling a bit, and started to dance, a clumsy stomping kind of dance, a jig without any grace of movement, circling and spinning all solitary on the deck. He put his arms up and whistled a few times, and then stuck all his fingers up at the stars above, making himself unsteady and almost keeling over. ‘Listen carefully, take note and remember, cause we won’t give you another performance, this is the only one you’ll have,’ he shouted at them, and then he pointed at me, and Jake, and then I think he pointed at himself. Sirius was blazing that night, stark naked, a temptress riding high in the heavenly arch. Your father pointed right there, and called out to her. Not in an ordinary voice, no. In the kind of voice a wise man might use when calling to the spirits hiding in the winds and trees, or to the wolves that live within him, the kind of voice that becomes a spirit itself, wandering through the world like a beggar pleading to be heard. “Sirius,” he called. “I see you dripping with diamonds tonight, but I’ve seen you as well when you’re crying in the dumps of despair, or hiding behind closed curtains. I know that deep inside you’re hurtin’ and everything to you seems so uncertain right now, but come down and be with me, and I will be with you. Come on, Sirius, you sad lady, come bind your wounds with mine, and I will bind all of mine with thine.” He waited a few moments, staring upwards, and then joined Jake in finishing the poem, speaking in rapid cadence, with voice high, like a woman’s:

Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,

Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,

Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:

I cannot say what loves have come and gone,

I only know that summer sang in me

A little while, that in me sings no more.

The poem didn’t mean that much to me, but the moment did,and I felt it deep inside. Your father seemed happy, which meant a lot, because I thought I had something to do with it. Giving happiness...that’s something special in this world. That’s something your father understood real well. My man Jacob, he was almost spinning up to heaven with joy, he was so excited.

In seconds, it all changed. There was a bang and somewhere something vibrated. There was a voice, or many voices, and men appeared on the afterdeck. They slunk real low as they came over the stern rails, kind of fox-nimble, their faces raccoon-sharp. They were Choctaw raiders, pirate thieves, I’m sure of it. You don’t have to like them to know them. Your father saw them first and gave a shout, but I give credit to old Jake; he carried a .44 and let fly immediately, dropping one right away. My brain was not working so well, but I drew also and began firing. All I could see were dim shapes in the night, but I was determined not to go down easy, so I kept shooting.

Well, this is not a nice story, so don’t be waiting for a happy ending. When the shooting stopped and the shadows had slithered away, there were three bodies lying on the deck. One was Jake. It was very sad to see. Your father dropped to his knees, and after checking him began to whine and cry like a puppy. I kneeled down also, and then I realized the truth. Jake had been shot in the back three times. From where I knelt, it was easy to turn and see the direction of the line of fire, exactly from where I had been standing.

Your father understood in the same instant. He reached over to grasp my hand and just held it for a moment. The captain and crew appeared, guns out, and it was chaos for a while, but I was pretty numb. I know they asked a lot of questions, but to this day I don’t know how I responded. I think Dr. Lieb did most of the talking.

Later, he came to visit me in my cabin. Of course, I don’t remember how I got down there, but I do remember that Jake’s cot was opposite mine, and all I could do was stare at it and hope that he would somehow just appear, cocky and uppity as he usually was. I held a bottle of whiskey in my left hand and my Enfield revolver in my right. The whiskey was to drown myself down. I’m not sure what the gun was for.

Dr. Lieb just stood in the doorway, staring at me, and at first said nothing. I thought he might be trying to find the right words of solace

to relieve the devastation I felt. Instead, he jabbed his finger at me. “There is only one thing you need to figure out, and you need to start right now, or you won’t be able to live your life in peace.”

I think I just shook my head, uncomprehending. “Figure out what?”

“Did you come this way or were you brought this way?”

I was too confused to argue and again I shook my head. “Don’t understand what you’re saying.”

In one stride he was standing over me, and gave me a slap across the face, dead on, the kind of blow no man would take without a fight. Instead, I buried my face in my hands and began to cry. He asked the same question. “Did you come here or were you brought here?”

When I didn’t answer again, he asked it different. “Did you make your fate or did you meet your fate?”

That, I did understand. I started to say that it was an accident, and couldn’t be helped, but I stopped myself. Though I was partly or mostly drunk, I felt the question sink into me, into my spirit, like a rock sinking deep into a pool of quiet water. The ripples are still spreading, you might say, to this day. Not as intense as that night, but still beating, wave after wave, not letting me forget the question.”

Jona waited expectantly, but Tokala lapsed into silence. “Did you ever answer? The question?”

The lamp hanging from the center of the room gave off a low but steady, even light. Even so, Tokala’s face shifted from dark to pale, then to a dusky hue over forehead and cheeks, as if an unseen moon was orbiting rapidly over his head, casting its light carelessly as it circled. After long moments had passed, he picked his hat up off the floor and arose from the chair. Before walking out the door, he captured Jona with an intense stare. “I did three things after that night. First, I told your father that from then on I would handle the transport of his goods. He didn’t need to expose himself like that. Second, I traveled to Chattanooga and had the diamonds fitted in my teeth. The third thing I did was the firstmost of all.” He paused to place a fresh toothpick in his mouth. “The third thing was, I looked up that poem, and memorized it, and keep it in me to this day.”

Later, in the dead of night, Jona felt a presence come into his

bed. He did not wake, not completely, but sensed a warmth spread

over his chest and belly, then migrate slowly down his legs, hands

and arms. The sensation probed him, gliding into a

loose embrace around his waist while a dense vapor of hot breath

descended over his neck and cheeks. Words came to him, embedded

in the dry rustle of his sheets. A woman’s voice spoke, spinning

through a cycle of sounds like a siren wailing a warning.

See, the voice seemed to say.

See. See.

And suddenly, he saw.

He was on a small boat. He was unclothed and exposed, but

his body was hardened to the roughness of his wooden bench seat.

The heat of the day poured over him in dazzling brilliance, almost

blinding him, but he could still make out the obscure, irregular line of

a far shore. He was rowing towards it, his long sinewy arms moving in

steady cadence and perfect coordination while his muscular legs propped him

up, exerting powerful support. There were flashes and slants and reflections of

light all around, but he ignored them, focusing only on the rhythm of

pull and draw, pull and draw. Sweat poured heavily down his

forehead, of that he was sure, but he could feel nothing else in his

bubble of space as he hurtled at high speed, anxious to reach the end.

The woman’s voice licked at him again, the sound now desperately close to his ear.

Do you know where you’re going?

Yes I do.

That won’t be the right place.

I’m going to one just past that, around the bend. It can’t be

seen from here.

You think that will be the right one?

I believe so.

The voice accelerated, becoming a high-pitched hum, the sound

of a hummingbird seeking a bloom to dip its beak and

break its thirst.

What if it’s not. Wouldn’t it be better to believe you’re wrong.

What could be better? No despair. No anger. No loss. No care. Just

drift, drift through the rise and fall of the daily sun, drift with the

drowsy stars above, drift like the slow scent of lilac, drift

until you become like me.

Who are you?

Ah, you still want me to be someone, don’t you. You want a name. Words are important to you. You should stop struggling. The sky has darkened, Jona, and so the light is going low. You realize you’ve lost your way, and now you’ve reached the end of day. So, no more. There are no further words to say. Just drift. Drift, drift, drift, until you drift away.

Jona felt a warm hand rub his brow, and like a numbing salve it

ushered him into the abyss of deep sleep. Just before he fell off, in the

brief instant between wake and silence, he spoke his last thought.

There has to be more.

Subscribe now

We’re almost there.

After a journey through decades, continents, memories and secrets, Searching Jona is approaching its end.

Only a few chapters remain.

The road is narrowing. The pieces are beginning to come together. And Jona is getting closer to the answers he has spent so long searching for.

But there’s still one question left:

Where does the road end?

Subscribe now to access the final chapters of Searching Jona and follow Jona’s journey all the way to the end.

Light. Dark. Light. Dark. Light. Dark.

Promise Stone lay flat on his back on the cool concrete of the loading dock, staring at the sky. Thunderheads had been rushing overhead through the course of the afternoon, turning day into night, driven by winds that sent them scudding northward in a tumult of ponderous motion. Every once in a while the massive cloud layer attenuated just enough to allow an aura of indirect sunlight to diffuse downwards, touching the alley and street beyond with a dull yellow pallor before reverting to an obscured shadowland. Light and dark. Dark and light. Stone watched silently, absorbing the pulse of wind and sky, and allowed himself to drift in his own thoughts.

He didn’t like too much thinking. Not because he couldn’t. He could think as razor fast as any man or woman alive, and his thinking about any matter at all had never led him astray. He could think just fine. It was just that too much contemplation interfered with the urgency of right now, and the need to act, and keep moving, and avoid falling into the many pitfalls that were all around. He had resolved deliberately many times over that he would never be like the timid gophers who surrounded him, content to follow the leader with mindless obedience. But right now, he felt himself sliding along, caught in a net that overwhelmed him, carrying him in a direction he could not control. So he let his mind run unfettered, imagining himself flying freely within the turmoil of the storm clouds up above,

He pondered matters great and small, past and present, and allowed himself just an occasional, cautious peek into the future. It felt strange, letting himself indulge in aimless reckoning like that. On most days, time seemed to run right past itself, hurrying quickly to its very end like a mischievous urchin child, doubling back and forth upon itself until exhaustion set in, resting just long enough to begin again. On this day, though, time seemed stalled, stuck in a turnstile of its own creation. It was an odd feeling, treading as he was on the wasted hours of the afternoon, but Stone understood why he felt the way he did, and for the moment at least he allowed himself to lie as still as a bedbaby.

It was all about Marla. In some mysterious way, she had ensnared him, and he couldn’t shake himself free. He had sensed something when they first met at the plantation, something that tweaked him in a place deep inside, almost as deep as the searing fire-iron of anger that stoked his soul, most every waking moment. Afterwards, he had thought about her from time to time, and allowed himself the kind of dreams that were born of fantasy. It had been easy enough to keep her memory at arm’s length in the beginning, but not after he saw her face for a second time. Nope, not after she had draped herself upon him like soft lace on a hardwood table.

She had come with the same elderly driver who had picked up Stone previously. This time, the old, white haired man kept his goggles parked securely on his forehead, giving him the appearance of a mythical swamp creature materializing out of an infested bog. She breezed along beside him, coolly made up in a long cotton dress and ankle length apron, her body bundled up in the plainest of packages. The old man spoke to the dock foreman briefly, waving in the direction of his automobile.

“Stone!” Orkin pointed peremptorily, but did not budge from his rocker. “Get his package out of the car and inside! Now!” He assumed a look of great satisfaction, and leaned back in his chair, but kept one eye cocked in Stone’s direction, flicking lizard-like with rapid up and down movements.

The old man was quick to join in. “Marla, you get with him and make sure he don’t drop it or nothin’, or break it or somethin’. Git!”

And with that, they were alone together inside the warehouse. He carried her wooden crate with an easy sureness, placing it near the locked door that led to the radio station upstairs. His first words to her were not so sure. “Surprised to see they sent you along.”

She waited a freighted moment before answering. “Good to see you too.”

“Well I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Well I did.”

Just another moment, and she was in his arms, squeezing hard, squeezing as if everything depended on that very second, and that everything about her life would be reborn in that one instant, and begin everything again as if the past had never happened, all beginning with that squeeze. She let out a short sob, a very brief one, much like a fluttering candle gasping for air before flaming out, creating darkness where there had been light.

Promise Stone did not believe in very much. Not in faith. Not in hope. Not in love. Without thinking about it too deeply, he knew that love required tomorrows, and he had no tomorrows to give. And even if he did, who was to say he should give any to this particular woman? But she squeezed and squeezed, and raised herself on tiptoes to lay her head against his shoulder, and he could feel her body pulse and burn, and soon, almost without realizing it, he glimpsed something he knew could never be real. He saw himself holding her by the hip as they walked together from dawn to dusk, and felt her lips against his neck as she lay upon him from dusk to dawn. Just as quickly, he realized that it was foolishness to think that way. There was to be no dawn. Dawn was nothing but a brief break from the night, a temporary intrusion of light into the dark. Even so, as she touched him he felt his own arms embrace her, and hold her, and a mighty shouting came to his ears, a thousand voices saying a million words all at once, all trying to tell him the same thing.

“I ain’t felt nothin’... Nothin’ like this before.” He surprised himself with the gentle murmur of his words. “I want to stand right here forever, right here together, like as if this is a house we just made, for me and you.”

Marla pushed away slightly to look upon his face. Her eyes were hazy, obscured by a cloudy smoke of desire and desperation. “You once said you wanted to take me away.”

“Still do. Do it now, right now. Take my hand and we’ll go.”

“Promise, don’t you fear?”

“Only thing I fear is losing what’s here and now. Fear taking a promise on tomorrow when all I want is this right here, this second.”

“Can’t promise tomorrow anyway.” She pointed at the crate. “Someone needs to do this.”

Promise Stone grasped her by the shoulders roughly, then lifted her like a baby in his arms. “I been all my lone all my life, that’s awright, and I can go out on my own, that’s awright too. But right now I want you.” He nodded his head towards the dark rear of the warehouse.

Marla cringed. “What if they come in after us?”

“Foe’man won’t come in. He knows I’ll kill him if he does.”

There were man-high wooden shipping crates along the back wall. Stone draped a spare tarpaulin over them, securing the corners carefully, and then spread raw cotton on the ground, and when he was done took Marla by the hand and led her step by step under the shrouding. Just for the moment, and just for them, the little space became transformed into a richly tapestried tent, and flowered bridal bower, and carpeted ceremonial chamber, and just for the while, underneath the thick flowing, falling folds of dirty canvas the inner dark turned into light.

Now, days had passed, and his mind was still addled. He wanted to see Marla again, but didn’t think he could. Or would ever. She had explained the secret of the suitcase packed within the crate, something he had already guessed at, and had told him what he needed to do. All in all, he didn’t mind. He was young. He knew that, though he didn’t know his actual age. There was a great much more in the world going on that would still go on, day after day, and mos’times mos’folks would want to be part of that world, and live their days until the coming of afternight, and only then call the deal complete. But he had seen too much of the ugly and the evil, and he wanted this particular world to end, and raise itself up from the mud and rocks and become something different. It was the only dream he held to, something he came to believe in from childhood.

He was big from the day he was born, so they told him. He was built from the bottom up, and big enough, when he was eight or nine, to be made a bird boy. They set him in a bean and cowpea patch and taught him to crack a whip to keep the birds away. He felt sorry for the birds because he could see they were hungry, but he was always hungry himself, and found the work to be the most tiresome he could remember, and so he was usually mighty sorry for himself as well. One day a big striped King snake, the biggest he had ever seen, squirmed out from beneath a raspberry bush, squiggled along, and without much care curled up into a ball and came to rest on the muddy ground not a yard away. Promise liked snakes as a rule, and admired this particular one a great deal. It looked fat and content, its belly full of frog and mouse, happy to soak in the mid morning sun. This made Promise feel happy in turn; without a moment’s thought he dropped his leather flail and began to dance, a crazy juba dance that sent him shaking and shimmying in all directions at once, bobbing his head up and down as he did so. It felt a fine thing to do, much better than wuppin’ the bare air just to frighten away little furry sparrows and blue-black magpies. The sun was low, the field was cool, and the gentle smell of magnolia seasoned a quietly drifting breeze. Soon enough, birds began to flitter close by and alight, chirping and squawking, their heads twisting and turning this way and that in curiosity, standing forward on their legs to see all the better.

One in particular, a long limbed cheweeka, lit on a nearby wild plum tree and pranced up and down, hopping from one leg to the other and fanning its orange rump. It seemed to young Promise that the brown legged bird was just about ready to join his dance of celebration in honor of the great King snake when it suddenly flew off in a flash, screaming its own name over and over with a disappointed shriek. He soon saw why. Mr. Carter was suddenly there, appearing silently out of nowhere on his big black horse, gazing at Promise with a look of sadness and pity. Mr. Carter was generally in charge of Promise, ordering him here and there as needed, giving him new clothing at Christmas and new shoes at Easter, rousting him out of bed at the first pink of day and rustling him from the fields when the last ruby kiss of sun was done. He was not a big man, just a few inches taller than the still-sprouting Promise, but he carried two badges of authority with him that showed him to be in charge. One was a cedar switch he kept thrust in his belt and the other was a book, something he called the Good Book. Nothing good ever came out of the book as far as Promise could tell, and the black stained switch seemed permanently placed at the hip, never to be removed except in dire circumstances.

On that particular occasion, though, the switch was drawn out like a long sword, and Promise was instructed to kneel. Mr. Carter opened the good book in his other hand, turned to a certain page, and said a few words that were apparently appropriate to the moment. Then he gave Promise a dozen blows over the shoulders and back in quick order. The switching raised some welts, but in a curious way did not cause too much pain. Instead, Promise felt a slow burning begin way inside him, a feeling that was new to him, a feeling that sizzled like a lit fuse from that day on.

“Promise, do you know why I whipped you?” Mr. Carter had asked.

“No. I mean, no suh.”

“I seen you there, Promise, seen you dancin’, having your fun and enjoying the bliss of the day. Seen all that. But this here is no place for fun and bliss, Promise. That’s left for heaven, if we get there. You can’t bring heaven here, says so right in the Good Book. Mebbee one day all this will end and you and me we’ll be nothing but old dreams and ashes and everything on this earth will go to heaven, but heaven sure ain’t comin’ down here. Right here is a way place, between God’s paradise and the devil’s hell. Remember that and let the pain of this whippin’ bring it to mind whenever ye seek bliss in your mortal time.”

“Mr. Carter, suh, what about the birds and King snake over there. They havin’ their fun, ain’t they?”

In response, Promise received a slash across cheek and chin, raising a welt that would serve as a mark of remembrance.

Promise had never forgotten and had suffered many reminders since then. Maybe Carter was right. Maybe there would be no happiness in this life. Or almost none, because his short time with Marla now seemed to almost fill a lifetime of contentment. That thought, and a few others, circulated over and over as he lay on his back on the cool slab of concrete at the edge of the loading dock, watching the clouds above scud by. Of one thing he was certain. He would do whatever was needed to be done with the heavy valise packed in the crate, and afterwards did not matter. Like any man, he thought it might be interesting to see what would be tooting round the corner on the day acomin’, and the day after that, and after that as well. But, if someone had to blow the whole thing up so that everything could start all over, he was glad to be the one. Maybe that was the most best happiness he could ever have.

As Promise Stone furrowed his brow in deepest meditation, a shaft of bright sunshine erupted from the skies, dispersing the dark of midday. Miraculously, the dense cloud cover had torn itself apart for a few moments, exposing the brilliant orb of sun. Light spilled from it as from a floating fountain, the radiance splashing down from a great height to engulf the entire world, as if heaven wanted to show itself one last time, out of reach, from high up where it was.

“He can go straight to living hell with my boot up his ass.” Pickett made a rude gesture with his finger. “Send him this here message just as I’m showin’ you. With my compliments, of course.”

Mosby shifted his feet uneasily. “Do you really mean that, sir?”

Pickett did not respond immediately. It was only the forenoon but he was extremely fatigued, and had already felt several waves of crushing pain over his upper chest. Since the Atlanta riots, his heart had been acting up almost daily, at times keeping him up at all hours. The past night had been very difficult, leaving him exhausted from the moment he opened his eyes that morning. He felt no patience for anything, especially anything to do with that maniacal ass Patton. “I’m still president, ain’t I? I still get to talk to the people, don’t I? I am intendin’ to make that speech.”

“Sir, you are playing long chances. He won’t let you, plain as day. The downtown district is still under martial law. He’s got an entire regiment up in there, and that makes him the king of Atlanta.”

“The real problem is he’s mean as a skunk and can’t be trusted. Actually, him and his ma both. She’s the one callin’ the shots, not chrome dome. He won’t take a piss without her holdin’ his wonky first.”

“Please, sir....” Mosby shook his head, refusing to smile. “He says he is doing everything in his power to break the Underground. Saying to everyone that he’s working hard at it, and folks are listening. They believe him. More than that. They’re beginning to believe in him.”

“He ain’t doin’ nothin’ like it. Firstmost, he was born lazy and raised fat. Nextmost, the only thing he’s doing is consolidating power for himself. Taking our rights away and destroying everything we stand for. Freedom, Mosby. Liberty. That’s what this nation and this government were created to protect, the cornerstone of our birth as a country. Ain’t I right?”

“I suppose. That and all the rest...you know...our societal situation. Just so’s you know, he’s claiming that you’re advocating for despotic inroads on the right of owning property.”

Pickett went on as if he were not listening. “I know in my heart that the people will reject all this once they figure out what’s goin’ on. They’ll want their rights back.”

“People want safety right now, Mr. President. They’re afraid that buildings will come crashing down on their heads, and that bombs might explode in a theater or marketplace, or their water or electricity will suddenly cut off. Nowadays, their telephones also. They’re afraid. All of us are, for ourselves and our families and we want safety first. Most are willing to give up a little to get a little. When everything is going up in smoke, rights might appear a bit hazy.” Mosby hesitated a moment, wary of how Pickett might react. “Not everyone has lived their life on the frontier, Mr. President, in the service of their country, and a hero and what all, as you have been. Most live quiet, ordinary lives, and want things around them to be quiet and ordinary. If there’s going to be any change they want it hidden away and out of sight. You know what I mean. Change they can’t see, that doesn’t up and slap them in the face. That’s the prevailing mood among folks out there, it seems to me, from the highest blue bloods to the poorest cohees.”

Pickett searched Mosby’s face carefully. “So, you’ve gone over to them.”

“No sir. I am with you. And I am with my country, to the last breath. You deserve my best opinion and counsel, sir, which I have rendered honestly.”

“No Southern man worth his salt would allow his rights to be taken from him by a Sunday proclamation.”

‘Sir, I think that people adapt to whatever they need to. Most folks are ... malleable. I think that’s the right word. It’s just human nature, is all. Most would agree to any number of things.”

“Really? No heroes out there?”

“There might be one or two. They may rise up but they’ll be cut down. Always are. Anyway, it’s not right to expect anyone to be a hero. Not everyone can be so. That takes a special brand.”

It didn’t take long for Pickett to unwind himself from his chair and begin pacing, one hand on his hip and the other with pen in hand, held forward as if aiming a pistol. “He’s in town now?”

“Patton? Yes sir.”

“How about I go find him and shoot him dead, how would that be?”

Mosby stared back with incredulity, his lips and mouth working up and down as if readying to spit out a chaw of tobacco. His hands jerked out reflexively, palms first as he croaked out a guttural exclamation, the sound a man might make after being hard struck at the back of his knees by a steel rod. “God forbid, Mr. President!”

Pickett crossed his arms over his chest grimly. “Naw. You’re gonna have to come up with something stronger than that to stop me. God’s not enough.”

“You can’t be serious. They’ll shoot you down. What will the country say?”

“That’s just the point. The country will say I’m a savior, don’tcha think? Saved them from a wannabe tyrant.”

Mosby bent his knees, almost sinking to the floor. “Sir, I beseech you, just think for a moment about what you’re saying. I am imploring you to please stop that kind of talk. There is no way you can win this. Live to fight another day. You’ve said that yourself many times.” He seemed ready to fall prostrate at Pickett’s feet.

The long march of a minute went by before Pickett slumped back into his high-backed chair, swiveling to turn his back to Mosby just as if he were a child pretending to disappear. Abruptly, a deep throb of darkness rubbed across his forehead, narrowing his vision to a few specks of light that danced before him. He was dizzied at first, but by leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes all became settled and serene, and the burning in his chest receded as rapidly as it had appeared. The quick paced patter of his heart slowed and became almost imperceptible, allowing thoughts to weave in and out of his mind without interruption.

Live to fight another day. Words he had lived by. But when would it all stop? The fighting. Maybe even the living. Both were tearing him apart. Pickett had lived all his life in two worlds. The one he could taste and hear and touch, the one he shared with others. Then there was the other, a world of his own, much deeper, a matrix of undefinable beliefs, unexplainable understandings, contradictory perceptions. It was a world both beautiful and polluted, filled with honor, pride, devotion, hatred, scorn, betrayal and cruelty, lifting him to the most sublime of heights and casting him into the darkest vale of shadows. It was a world of deep tradition, fixed expectations, starched uniforms, mangled bodies, and manicured parade grounds. He knew the outer world was where he lived with others, and the inner only with himself, but it was the thickly twined thread within him that seemed most real. Outside was adulation, glory, sex, booze, defeat, disloyalty. And death, eventually. Inside there was no death. The string of life had no ending, only a beginning, a legacy seeping into his bloodline drop by drop, a beginning he shared with many others in a timeless chain that connected him with the past. In the outside world time was precious, each second worth a king’s ransom. Inside, though, time did not matter. Only the beginning was important; where he had begun created what he had become.

A sudden wave of crushing pain lashed his chest again, shooting probing fingers to his neck and back, arrogant ambassadors of even greater agony to come. As the pain intensified, he winced, then regurgitated rancid acid into his mouth, causing him to choke and gasp. He slumped further down in his chair and remained turned away from Mosby. If this was to be the end, he wanted to be alone. As the pain increased in tempo he shut his eyes and turned his mind inward, readying himself to accept whatever lay just beyond the next moment. It would not be difficult; he had prepared himself in the same way many times before.

Unbidden, a face flashed into his mind, an unreal face, a distorted, doughy composite of his mother and father. It arose rapidly, high over the firmament of his memory, a full moon suspending itself over the mountainous terrain of his past. The moon face, rough and harsh, spilled memories like moonbeams, illuminating a landscape that lay at once nearby and far away. Shortly, it turned its gaze to shine brightly on his earliest years. Pickett did not care to think very much about his childhood. It was neither sad nor happy, a boyhood both deprived and privileged. He had a great name, he knew that from his earliest times, but he never knew the father who had given him that name. George’s only link to the great war hero was a sterile portrait that seemed tarnished around the edges for as long as he could remember.

His mother had always been the most dominant person in his life, teaching him the importance of duty, decorum and devotion. He often thought about those teachings, and how far he had strayed from those ideals. She had crooned stories about glory and honor as if they were lullabies but never said a word about the living man who had held her hand and fathered her child. Whenever George asked about him, and what he was like, and where he had gone, she wouldn’t answer directly. ‘The time is behind,’ she would say. ‘The time is behind.’ George Pickett the hero was no more than a ghost condemned to work the mines and quarries of the long ago, tap-tap-tapping at a marbled vein of memory. The father had created the beginning, and his had done the same before him, and his before him, and the same was true of his mother, and her mother, and on and on before that. Each generation in turn had crafted the many chains and cordons and dams and spillways that squeezed all those who followed down into the same narrow corridors. The son was taught with a teaching that required no words, told that he could no more ignore those boundaries than he could ignore the beating of his own heart. And so, without realizing it, he himself had become guilty of spinning the same eternal pottery wheel, molding the same earthen clay that had once spawned him, creating the same dead end.

“No!” Pickett, with great exertion, breathed the word again. “No!” He would not travel that road any longer. Hell, he had always been a maverick, an impulsive rebel who went his own way and didn’t much care what others thought. He had not lived a life within the four cubits of the law, and he would not be restricted now. He felt the blood rushing to his cheeks, and the old war-cry gurgling in his throat. There was a new day dawning. He would save his people by freeing them from the tyranny of old ideas. In his mind’s eye he could see himself in the saddle again, in the van of a great army, spurring his horse forward to gain glory and fame by flying first over the parapets. O mortalium validissimus! The words spilled into his brain involuntarily, words of both defiance and acceptance, words that had stirred him since he first memorized them as a boy at school. He had spent his life believing in the power of strength and courage over death. While the bit still chafed in his mouth, he would spend his last mortal days proving that what he believed was not an illusion. He would go it alone, the hero who saved his nation from extinction. In truth, that’s how he wanted it, and had always wanted it.

The tremulous palpitations within his chest began to subside as abruptly as they started, lifting the crushing weight over his heart. Pickett could feel his breath resuming a normal depth. For now, at least, it was not over. Fate had flipped him another hand to play. He did not turn his chair to face Mosby, instead speaking to the wall. “He said all of what he had to say in his letter, right?”

The secretary hesitated, obviously pained. “Yes. A letter. More like an edict. Forbids you from giving a speech at the radio station. Says he’s going to give one himself, instead of you.”

“So he says. Read that last paragraph again. The only part written by a human, I think. The rest was made by a machine. Or his mother, same difference.”

Mosby read:

It gives me no pleasure to view the sad state of our country. We have reached a point where we must rise back up or permanently fall, reclaim our former greatness or see it dissipate forever. There is a strong wind blowing, not just here but around the world, pushing us towards a horizon we do not know, and the only way to keep things right and orderly is through strength. You want to coax when we need to coerce. We need the right man for that job. You might have been the one twenty years ago, but not any longer. In this time of national need I require you to step aside graciously and let me do what needs to be done. Rest assured that any resistance on your part will be rendered nugatory. When the stable is cleared, as they say, you might have your horse back, but this will take some time. By the way, sorry about your nigger, but that was just the beginning. Many more will need to follow him. Looks like we didn’t find very much of him left. His remains were mixed in with the remains of our heroic dead, but we did find this cross of cloth, which is enclosed. I was going to retain it as a memento of our victory, but I suppose you might want it as a keepsake. I know you felt strong about him, a fact I will try to keep out of the public eye, but cannot guarantee depending on circumstances.

Yours most respectfully, etc.

Pickett spun his chair around. A small blue envelope sat in the center of his desk, delicate in appearance, the kind of envelope that might contain an invitation to a wedding, or a springtime cotillion. He grasped it as firmly as he could with fingers that felt numbed and tore it open. A finely stitched cross, white, was inside, looking much larger than he remembered. An indistinct memory pecked at him briefly, then faded quickly. As far as he could recall, Jones had worn it every day but never said a word about it. It was odd to see it this way, lying in sterile silence on his desk, disconnected from the man it belonged to. Seeing it, though, set off an avalanche of thoughts, and sounds, and sights and even smells. So very few of his memories were charged with any happiness, or for that matter any sadness. Some felt as familiar to him as the feel of his own flesh, others more like a distant port of call shrouded in fog. Kentucky...Nicaragua...Mexico... Moments from the past crowded near him, jostling him as if they were comrades sitting around a campfire, indistinct and hazy. Whether as friends or phantoms, memories pressed at him, pushed and prodded him, pummeling him to remember. Dreaming a lyrical kommos, Pickett began his dialogue with the demons of the past, closed his eyes and edged his hand forward, reaching for the cross, imagining it pinned to Jones’ lapel. Touching it made him feel uncomfortable somehow, as if it were an artifact belonging to a long dead civilization. He half expected Jones himself to appear, rising up in spectral silence, but rubbing the knitted cross brought only wispy, unsubstantial visions to mind, darting in and out like nimble finches flitting around the slender branches of a tea paper tree. In the end, he was left with only the briefest of glimpses from his past, all that remained of a life steeped in adventure and danger and loneliness.

Live to fight another day.

Pickett opened his eyes and rubbed at his chest. “I’ve got to fight him. You can see that, can’t you Mosby? He is the past, raising its ugly head one more time. We have to leave all that behind, leave behind how we began and change ourselves into what we have to become if we want to live. We’re going to end servitude. Don’t know if there’s anything wrong with it, I’ll leave that for others, but it’s not working. We’ll go broke abolishing it, it will trash our pockets and trash our minds, but then we dust ourselves off and march forward. We need to do that if we want to survive. No different than finding our way out of the wilderness.”

Mosby shook his head, feeling helpless. “Just like that? Do you expect people to ignore our own past?”

Pickett did not hesitate. He gave a grin. His grin, the kind that flashed his teeth pearly white. “Naw, not ignore....just forget. Forget none of it ever happened. Don’t write about it, don’t talk about it, remove it from the godamm history books or burn them all. Hell, we’ll have a national bonfire holiday. Think that way, and in fifty, a hundred years no one will give a damn. In fact, they will want to forget. Oh, there might be a so-called scholar here or there, might write a historical expose, but the feeling will be gone, disappeared. I know what I’m gonna do.” He leaned back in his chair, still grinning. “Yessir...smoke a cigar, have a drink, and forget the whole ball of wax. Out of sight out of mind, just like it never was.”

“Hey, Andrews, what’re you thinkin’?”

When there was no answer, Murphy crumpled up another piece of paper, compressed it into a tight ball, and tossed it at Andrews. He aimed at the head, only partly covered by unruly blankets heaped in large mounds on the bed. “Come on, what’s goin’ on in that Princeton head of yours? Review of the Roman Empire? Writing the great American novel? Mathematical ratios? Riddles? OK, OK...Riddle me this, smart boy...” He threw another paper ball as hard as he could, striking Andrews squarely on the ear. “Listen...what is it that no one can see, never was, but always is? Come on, I know you’re awake.”

Andrews did not respond. He had never felt so weak. Partly, it was due to the pernicious vomiting that had consumed him overnight. That stemmed from Murphy, who had persuaded him, much against his sense of discipline, to down a few whiskeys. Maybe more than a few. But it was more than that. He felt worn down, exhausted by the daily friction that had begun the moment he stepped off the boat in New Orleans. He had sensed something different immediately, something in the atmospherics, as if he had suddenly stepped out onto a high Andean plateau, remote from the earth below, a place where the air was thin and the wind blew with a cutting edge. There was a feeling all around him he could not escape. There were the stares of course; he had become accustomed to that since his boyhood and had long been immune to them. In the past, though, he had endured probing looks that ended in a question mark. Now, intense scrutiny twisted quickly into visible frowns and accusatory scowls. They know. The idea had begun to spin around and around in his brain from the beginning, and by now had reached cyclonic power, destroying any other thought with an aimless fury. They know. White cashiers and black laborers, the waiters who served him, maids, porters, high officials and low, they all knew. He was naked and exposed, and for the first time in a very long time, he was beggared by a sensation that seemed foreign to him.

He felt afraid.

He had long ago perfected the art of hiding who he was, obscuring himself for the sake of the carefully crafted persona he wanted the world to see. Now, everything he had worked to create seemed to be crashed and broken, like a mirror exploded into a million shards. The only John Andrews that existed was reflected in the distorted, fragmented images that remained, half lie and half truth, half symbol and half real. The proud tower had crumbled, and there were no supports to lean on.

Worse still, his sister’s memory had descended upon him, glimmering weakly, a wan star that seemed very far away, refusing to set beyond the horizon line of his memory. He had once banned her from his thoughts, but she had appeared to him frequently in recent days, each time triggering a deep anger. At her. At her death. At her life. At his own life. The feeling, so long suppressed, overwhelmed him, and like a sheet cowled around his head it threatened to asphyxiate him.

“C’mon, Johnny boy, get up. Looks like special agent man can’t handle his liquor.”

After a few moments a croaking sound emerged from under the covers. “Tomorrow.”

“What’r you saying....ain’t getting up until tomorrow?” Murphy prepared another paper projectile.

“No.” Andrews struggled onto his elbows and then swung his legs around to sit, slumped so low his head was at his knees. “No. Tomorrow. The answer to your riddle. Tomorrow.”

Murphy nodded, satisfied. “That’s right. Tomorrow. That’s what it’s all about, right? That’s what we learned yesterday. We live for tomorrow.”

Andrews plunged his face into the palms of his hands, rubbing furiously. He remembered most of the day before, until maybe the very end. It was the worst day, and in a way the best possible day, a day he knew he could never have again. It began the way this day had, except that it was Andrews who began throwing paper balls at Murphy’s sodden, unmoving form. It was the same kind of morning, the same beginning, happening over and over since they had arrived.

“Murphy! Get up! No time to sleep it off. Don’t know what Lieb will be up to today.” After a barrage of several minutes’ duration, he gave up trying to wake the sleeping agent. “Alright. You can be remiss in your duties, but I intend to be conscientious. I’m leaving.”

“Wait!” Murphy’s voice trilled with operatic clarity as he rose from the bed, clutching a white sheet around his head and torso as if he were a nomad wandering the desert. “I beg of you! Hold, good sir!” He raised his voice into an even higher falsetto, speaking in sing song. “Did you say remiss? Remiss? O great Jehovah, anything but that! Give me boils, or shingles, or pustulent drainage from my nether parts, or cover my ass in creepy crawlies, but I pray you....save....me....from....REMISS!”

In a flash, Andrews felt himself blinded by rage, completely overcome by his hatred for the older agent. With any sense of restraint drained dry, he lashed out with a stupendous blow to Murphy’s jaw. He had never hit another human being that hard, ever, even back in his hardscrabble Baltimore youth. Murphy fell backward on the bed, spread eagled, and for a pause of several seconds it appeared that he was unconscious.

Then, without moving, he spoke, his voice reduced to its normal scratchy hoarseness. “I guess that was the dictionary definition of a sucker punch. And you are the dictionary definition of a first class jerk.”

Andrews rubbed the knuckles of his right hand, in disbelief at what he had just done. He had violated his own stringent code of self control, and in one thoughtless moment his lifelong, careful accretion of armor plating, everything that defined him, was reduced to a thin veneer of pretension. He held both arms out, helpless and disarmed. “Agent Murphy, I didn’t mean to do that. I’m not sure why....”

“I’ll tell you why, you phony piece of shit, it’s because you’re as tight as a coil, and you’ve made yourself that way so you can pretend you’re not human like the rest of us. Perfect little Johnnie, as self-contained as a stick of TNT, just waiting to explode.” Murphy rubbed his jaw as he sat up and sidled to the edge of the bed. “I’ll say this. You’ve got a punch like a mule kick.”

“It doesn’t look like you’re feeling anything.”

“You’re wrong.” Murphy gave a long sigh, a thin rustle of breath that seemed to empty him completely. “I feel it. I feel pain. I got lots of feelings. The weird thing is, I screwed them up just as much as you have, just different.”

Andrews did not trust himself to answer directly. “Make up for it, though.”

“Yeah? When?”

“Tomorrow.”

Sometimes, what people do makes no sense, at least outwardly. There was no reason, particularly, for Murphy to begin a slow titter that grew gradually into a galloping laugh, and no explanation for Andrews, who responded with a staccato chortle that quickly escalated into gales of riotous snorting. Somehow, the laughter set both men free, putting them in a place just beyond where they were moments before, a liberation both were desperately seeking.

“Hey, this reminds me of that night in Berlin, at the bar, remember? With the old perfessor and that blond? We laughed our asses off.”

“Yes we did. Different time, though. Ages ago. Hated you so much that night.”

Both men quieted abruptly. Murphy stood to light a cigarette, taking a few moments before speaking again. “So how far up the ladder do you want to go?”

“As far as anyone can. To the top. Don’t care what I have to do to get there.” The words were crisp, defiant, but Andrews kept his head down as he spoke.”

Murphy took a short drag, then another quickly. “Listen, pal....John. Never gonna happen. You need to snap out of this little dream you got goin’ in that brain of yours, cause it ain’t real. You can pretend all you want, but someone upstairs has the goods on you. If these guys down here can figure it out, then it can’t be that hard. They know all about you. Bet that Nanny knows, for sure, and all the top brass. They’ll let you get so far, and no further, just enough to squeeze every last drop of use outta you. I’ve watched you, John, seen the way you’ve been since we landed, and I get it. Must be hell for you, and if you didn’t act like you always had a pin stuck up your ass I woulda said something sooner. Anyway, I feel like this is the first human thing I’ve said in a long time...thanks for letting me talk.”

Andrews sunk his head further, covering his face with one hand. His brow felt feverish, sweat surfaced along the back of his neck, and his heart beat to the very brim of explosion.” You think I should give up? What I’ve worked for? Everything?”

“No, not everything. But you’re waiting for tomorrow to happen. What about today? Lighten up a little, smell the roses, have a steak and smoke a cigar. C’mon, today’s Sunday. Nobody works on Sunday, right? Not even the so-called servants, some of them anyway. People will be out, livin’ their lives and doin’ what they’re doin’. I want to see what’s it really like down here, not what they’re spoon feeding us. These guys here might be worse than the Reds, I don’t know. For sure as bad as the Nazis, maybe worse. I say we go out and hit the streets, see what we can find.”

“What about Jona?”

“He’s spending the day with Koehler. That Kraut’s like an octopus the way he latches on, ain’t he? They can both go to hell. C’mon, we’ve got a life to live.”

The streets were teeming with cars and horse drawn carts, smartly dressed strollers, and not a few ragged-looking wayfarers. The two men wandered in no particular direction, soon finding themselves on a broad boulevard running roughly northwards. The street seemed quiet at first, but as they walked onwards other pedestrians began to appear, flowing in the same direction. The measured rivulet soon became a stream, a thin but steady crowd that thickened as they moved along.

“Hey Andrews, see all this?”

“Sure. People going somewhere. Not in a hurry, though. Like a brisk stroll.”

“Right. Kind of strange though, ain’t it?” Murphy swept his arm around.

“What?”

“Black and white, younger and older, men and women, kind of walking more or less together in the same direction. Almost no one the other way. Haven’t seen that before. Definitely going somewhere.”

“I believe you are correct.” Andrews abruptly veered to his left, accosting a black man who made a striking appearance in a crisp gray suit and black and white Oxford wingtips. “Excuse me, sir, is there something up the road, something where all these people are headed?”

“Yeassah...” The man halted, removed the floppy felt hat collapsed on his head and clutched it to his chest as he turned towards Andrews. “Sho’ is....” He stopped in mid-sentence abruptly, squinted carefully at Andrews, and quickly put his hat back on with a firm tug. “Man, you goin’ good. Keep goin’ that way and you’ll get there. If you’re fixin’ to see the ABC’s, that is.”

“What’s the ABC’s?” Murphy attempted his best smile as he spoke, but merely succeeded in baring his teeth as if preparing a predatory strike.

The man they stopped appeared to be older, his hair a thickly matted salt and pepper, with a spider web of finely carved furrows creasing his forehead and drooping cheeks. His face seemed plastic, morphing rapidly as he worked his chin and lips in and out and up and down in response to Murphy’s question. He ripped his hat off quickly once again, placing it over his chest, and gave a quick nod of the head. He did it rapidly, in one smoothly practiced motion. “Yeassah. The ABC’s. Atlanta Black Crackers. Baseball team, playin’ the Black Barons from Burminham today. Right up the road, there.” He gestured with his hat. “That’s where folks is goin’, up to Poncy Park to see the game.”

Murphy clapped his hands. “Fantastic! A day at the ballpark! Just what the doctor ordered! Thank you, friend, then that’s exactly where we’re going too. Can we walk with you?”

“Yeassah.” The man did not move. He began squeezing his hat repetitively as he pursed his lips into a tight grimace. “Please, suh, I don’t want no trouble. I be happy to go my own way.”

“Why should there be any trouble? From who?” Murphy’s jaw thrust out, instantaneously giving his face the semblance of a thuggish cartoon caricature.

The man glanced around nervously. “Yeassah. Y’all not from around here, mebbe. Don’t want things to look like we’re chums or nothin’ like that. Folks might not understand.”

“OK, OK, we’re not chums. We’ll walk nearby, that’s all.” Murphy extended his hand, and almost immediately withdrew it, nodding. “Lead the way. Don’t want to miss the first pitch.”

The man’s name was Adeleus, and he proudly announced himself to be in the best of health even though he had just turned fifty four. “I work every day, don’t take no treatments, and eat light. Those are the secrets.”

The three men were sitting on a grassy slope across the street from Ponce de Leon field, waiting for the box office to open. A dense throng crowded the small plaza in front of the main gates, in turbulent motion as they passed the time restlessly. Vendors trolled the area, hawking popcorn, cotton candy, and warm beer in strident foghorn voices. It had turned into a calm, gently sunlit summer day, and Andrews found himself lounging on the grass more comfortably than he could have imagined. He knows, he thought. He can tell. So what. Makes no difference to me. Look who I am, a U.S. Agent, and look at him. He paused an instant, then completed his thought. A nobody.

“Hey Adeleus, I’m ordering a beer. Want one, on me?” Murphy lay flat on the grass, arms propped beneath his head.”

“Don’t drink. That’s a rule too. Anyway, getting ready to go to work when the gate opens and need to stay sharp.”

Murphy raised his head. “You work in there? Doin’ what?”

“I take bets.” Adeleus nodded his head enthusiastically. “Make good money.”

“That so?” Murphy sat up, suddenly curious. “What kinda bets?”

“Any kind, suh, any kind. Fans will bet on anything during a game. Spot bets. Hits. Runs. Home runs. Anything. But I specializes in strikeouts. Almost never lose that, ‘cause I know all the boys, ya see, know how they are at the plate. Cool Papa Bell. Big Mule Suttles. Turkey Stearns. I know them all, and I know how they like to hit. Can tell when they’re in the groove and when they’re gonna go down. When y’all study things real good, ya’ll’ll know what’s gonna happen befohand, sure as shootin’. Told that to the mayor once, and he was mighty impressed.”

Murphy sat bolt upright. “You talk to the mayor? You?”

Adeleus gave a wistful smile, stretched his arms casually, and sprang to his feet. “Yeassah. Talk all the time. Hizzoner has my contract. I work for him.”

“It looks like you’re prospering.” Andrews regretted his words as soon as they left his lips, another sign of his loss of self control. He wanted nothing to do with Adeleus, who was part of the flotsam and jetsam that he needed to avoid as he maneuvered his way through the misery of this mission, a mission he was still determined to complete.

For his part, Adeleus gave Andrews a smirk, and snugged his hat down tightly on his head. “Man, ain’t you got bread in your belly, and a roof over your head? So do I, and one day even more.”

When Andrews did not respond, Murphy spoke up. “Go ahead, Adeleus. What are you saying?”

Adeleus puffed up his chest and set his chin firmly against his neck. “I’m sayin’ that my contract is done on my fifty fifth birthday, then I’ll be my own man, workin’ for nobody but me, and this....” he gestured expansively towards the stadium, “This action will all be mine.”

Murphy and Andrews entered the stadium through the main gate, passing beneath a fading sign announcing ‘White Only’. Adeleus had left them hurriedly, seeming anxious to part from them quickly in order to enter the stadium through a separate gate for ‘Colored’.

“Y’all go on your way. Y’all be sittin’ in the grandstands, your money bought you real good seats. I do my work in the left field bleachers, that’s where we all is allowed to be. No mixin’, so you can’t come with me and I sure as tootin’ can’t go with you. Not unless we want another riot like we just had not very much long ago.”

“Alright, but how about we meet after the game? I want to talk to you about how things really are down here.”

Murphy’s offer sounded more like a demand, but Adeleus shook his head vigorously. “Yeassah. The answer would be no, with respect. Can’t see nothin’ good comin’ from that. Nice to make yo’ gentleman’s acquaintance.” He doffed his hat and was gone, vaporized within the crowd heading towards the left field entrance.

Murphy was left standing, arms akimbo, his face flushed. “Look at all this, Andrews. Just look at this pile of crap going on. Blacks there. Whites here. This is considered normal for these people.”

“Congratulations, you’re right. What you call crap is going on, what a surprise. Where was your granddaddy seventy years ago? Where was everyone? There is nothing we can do about it now. Besides, it’s none of our business, nor does it relate to our mission. We should evacuate this area and go take our seats.”

They made it well in time to watch batting practice. Their seats were a few rows squarely behind home plate, affording an excellent view of the playing field. The infield was a luxuriant dark green, the grass mowed crisply to a fine nubbin. Deep center field sloped gently upwards towards an enormous, gracefully shaped magnolia tree that stood squarely in fair territory, a peculiarity of the park that had no explanation. A few balls caromed nearby, but none hit the tree, enthroned in haughty and isolated splendor, queenly sovereign over the emerald empire of grass that lay at her feet. Two bright white foul lines marked the earth with startling clarity, dividing fair from foul, in from out, cleaving the realm of the spectator from the circumscribed magical domain of the players.

One by one the Crackers came to the plate for their practice swings, some taking short, sharp strokes while others swung freely, launching blasts that arced like cannonballs towards the outfield. The fans, both men and women, young and old, ogled, goggled and boggled, hooted and hollered, raised their arms and shook their bottoms, yipped, yelled, shimmied and jiggled, stomped, hopped, shouted and shrieked, clapped, cried, twisted, turned, gaped and gawked, clutched their bellies and craned their necks, pointed, pounded, gasped, groaned, wiggled, waggled, wilted, huffed, squealed, preened, puffed and swore and reared and roared as each deep drive described a high, plunging parabola, punctuated by the sharp crack of bat meeting ball. Then the infielders made their appearance, playing shadowball, scooting left and right, pounding their weathered leather gloves, lunging for imaginary balls scudding on the turf and performing impossible pirouettes as they turned make-believe double plays and triple plays effortlessly. With each motion they played as if in a dream, casting a spell upon anyone who watched, the tall and lean or short and stocky, those in high waisted britches or baggy pantaloons, whether wearing department store cravats or dark blue work shirts, enchanting them all in that moment of magic, allowing them to believe for just one minute that they too could race so fast, and jump so high, and twist and turn as if spared of the laws of nature, and made free from all the limitless boundaries that chained them to the grinding passage of their days. It was mesmerizing. It was timeless. It was grand.

Murphy was entranced as he watched. “John, you ever play?”

“No.”

“You look pretty loose in the joints and light on your feet. Coulda been good.”

“Too busy studying. You?”

“Raised in an orphanage. That’s all we did, play baseball. Loved it. Thing about it, you could fail most of the time and still hit .300, and that would be great. And when you did fail, you could always come up with a reason, like you swung late, or your feet weren’t planted right, or the pitcher was throwin’ a spitter. It helped your mind sit right. You know, in baseball you don’t always have to hit a home run.”

“Thanks, but you can keep your transparent and simple minded analogies to yourself, if you please.”

“God, you are an asshole. Just tryin’ to help you, man.”

Andrews chose not to answer. He buried himself back into his chair and watched the game with scarcely a word. As a boy he had considered baseball nothing but a mindless diversion, a child’s pastime that robbed resources from more meaningful pursuits. He still felt the same way, as he did about so many other things. Baseball.... Theater.... Music... All were unnecessary diversions. Life was a journey. He was determined to stay on the main road and avoid aimless wandering along dead end side streets.

As the game went on he began to feel fretful, annoyed that Murphy now chose to play the role of philosopher-king when he had done so much to unravel their assignment with Lieb. By the sixth inning he felt he was ready to burst with boredom, anxiety, and frustration. He thought about Jona, ensnared by Koehler, and possibly planning another outlandish escapade on the very cusp of completing their mission. He worried that the Director must be waiting for a report from him, but he also worried that his report would be ignored and considered unreliable. Then there were the Russians, who planned to meet him in New York when he got back. In some unknown way, they had pledged to help advance his career if he supplied them with information. Any involvement with them, though, would be nothing short of an act of espionage. He could betray them of course, but at his own risk. His neat, organized life seemed to be spinning into a vortex of uncertainty, and there was little he could do about it. Still, as he pondered the matter, it all came back to Lieb. If this mission could be accomplished successfully, he was still confident his star would rise. If the mission failed, he was sure to crash and burn. There would be no parachute.

“Murphy, I’m done. Leaving.”

“Hold on. The best is yet to come.”

“My regrets. See you back at the hotel.”

“Naw, wait.” Unexpectedly, Murphy arose to follow as Andrews moved towards the aisle. “I’m not leavin’ you alone. Not today.”

The two men squirmed their way out of their row, and quickly out of the stadium. As they exited the main gate Murphy stopped abruptly and touched Andrews on the sleeve. He pointed. “Hey, isn’t that him? The gambling guy?”

Adeleus was standing across the avenue, in animated conversation with a young black woman in a blue dress and bright yellow hat. The two seemed to be in disagreement, as she could be seen waving her finger repeatedly back and forth right under his nose.

“Murphy, that is indeed our friendly bet collector, but whatever he’s involved with is of no concern of ours. We should be on our way.”

“Exactly.” Murphy grasped Andrews tightly by the arm, steering him in the direction of Adeleus. “On our way across the street to find out what’s going on. I’ll bet you he’s pickin’ up a hooker, and they’re having a little parley about the price. Let’s see!”

The woman saw them first as they approached. She took a step backwards, clutching her purse closely. “I was jes leaving, sirs!”

Adeleus spun around, gaped in shock at the appearance of the two agents, and spread his arms wide as if to protect the woman. “Yeassah, yeassah. Surprised to see you gentlemen, real surprised.” He kept his tone at a carefully neutral pitch and stood stock still.

Murphy waved jauntily and spread his mouth into a cadaverous grin. “Don’t mean no harm, pal. We were just leavin’ and saw you here. Just wanted to say hello.” He turned towards the woman and offered a surprisingly graceful bow. “You must be a friend. My name is Murphy. You can call me Murph.”

The woman gave a restrained nod in return, still pressing her purse against her chest. “Miss Irene, sirs. I have my papers right here, if you want ta see.”

“Well, Miss Irene, don’t mean to interrupt you and Mr. Adeleus here. I’m sure you two are busy.”

“Yeassah. Nossah. Not busy, just talking.”

“Oh yeah?” Murphy said nothing more, but the small creases around his eyes seemed to tighten, causing his eyes to swell with a probing stare.

Adeleus resisted, but Irene melted under Murphy’s glare. “Doin’ nothing wrong, sirs. Just talking. We meet here at about this time, whenever ABC be playin’.”

“Oh really?” Murphy leaned forward slightly and folded his arms, managing to tower over Irene.

She gave a quick, anxious glance at Adeleus and then backwards, as if gauging an escape route. “Yes sirs, that’s what I do. My job.”

Murphy took a half step closer. “That so?”

A nervous silence followed for several moments. Adeleus removed his hat once more, placing it at his side, and faced Murphy squarely. “Please ‘scuse me gentlemen, but I need to ask... Y’all police or de-tectives or somethin’? From Richmond or somewhere?”

Andrews answered irritably. “No, we are not police, and we are not from Richmond. Come on, Murphy, this is none of our affair.”

“No, no. I want to hear.” He pointed a finger at Irene. “What exactly do you do?”

She waited for Adeleus to nod before answering. “I give him my predictions. For the ball players.”

“What are you talking about?” Murphy shook his head in confusion.

“What I said. I can read signs about what’s gonna happen and I tell Adeleus. About the game, about whatever. He makes good money and so do I. Nothin’ illegal in that, I don’t think.” Irene lifted her chin defiantly. “I can tell what the coming hour will bring. Or day, or month. And I’m good at it.”

Murphy rocked back and forth on his heels, astounded. “You mean.... You mean you’re like a fortune teller?” His face convulsed through multiple shades of query and disbelief before blossoming into an enormous grin stretching from ear to ear. “Marvelous! Always curious about that abracadabra stuff. Where do we go? I want my fortune told.”

They took the Nine Mile line to the very end, a rickety ride that shook and wailed and rocked its way along. The tram itself seemed exhausted as it coasted to its last station, huffing with a cranky gnashing of its gears as it came to a stop. There were only two other passengers, both worn looking black men in greasy coveralls, both looking as tired as the trolley. Murphy tried not to stare at them. Adeleus had cautioned that they were entering a strictly segregated neighborhood, mostly factory people, a place that was not particularly friendly to whites. During the recent race riots this section had been hard hit by mass shootings and the wounds from that upheaval were still raw.

Andrews sat glumly during the ride, more and more convinced that the afternoon’s outing was turning into a huge mistake. The two agents sat in front row seats while Adeleus and Irene found empty seats in the rear, beyond a broad white boundary line painted on the floor. Andrews could not stop himself from twisting around to stare at them, evaluating both carefully. Adeleus seemed changed as the time wore on. Sitting in the dimly lit back of the tram, he appeared somehow younger, leaner, more thick necked and broad shouldered. He had transformed from the amiable, ambling stroller they had encountered on the street into a stone faced, sinister denizen of the darkest portion of the city. And then there was Miss Irene, who also seemed altered. She sat tall in her seat, head erect, one eyebrow permanently perched high on her forehead, gazing with regal confidence at the street scene outside the window. Her lips compressed and softened repeatedly, kissing an unseen lover, and her shoulder lowered to one side as if she were leaning into a casual moment of intimacy with someone sitting right beside her. In that pose an air of mystery and seduction wafted from her, an invisible vapor that enveloped Andrews with hypnotic effect. He shook his head, attempting to clear his mind as he turned forward again. Stay calm, he thought. Don’t let them affect you. They are who they are, and you are who you are, each of us in our places. Their place is behind the line.

Miss Irene’s place was a wooden, tin roofed shack set well back from a narrow dirt packed street and standing barely taller than the dense growth of sunflower plants that surrounded it. A prehistoric appearing plow was partially buried nearby, a broken yoke serving as witness to its long-ago demise. Dirty white sheets hung down from the roof and over the porch like conquerors’ flags, obscuring the entry way and casting the front of the house into shadow. Pig snorts and squeals competed with chicken squawks and the screams of crows circling overhead, and from somewhere nearby the resonant murmur of soft voices and quiet laughter perked through the deep purple-blue of the afternoon. Andrews soaked it all in, and imagined he had stepped back in time, passing through a curtain that revealed a hard faced, foreign, unforgiving past.

As they stepped inside the house both agents stopped in amazement. “Holy shit!” Murphy pointed to draw attention to the walls. “Look what she used for wallpaper!”

Every inch of every wall was covered by overlapping layers of yellowed newspaper. There were pages with advertisements, giant-fonted front pages with blaring headlines, sports sections with grainy, fading pictures, and anonymous, monotonous rows of plain newsprint. Murphy walked slowly, running his fingers along one wall, stooping to read the lowest pages and stretching on tip-toe to examine the highest, squinting in the light shed by a single ceiling bulb. “Amazing,” he muttered to himself. “It’s all here. All the whole world’s stuff. Everything that’s happened. Obituaries, birth announcements, arrests, four alarm fires, murders, kidnappings, bank heists.... Here’s one from 1930. Headline says Pickett elected. Looka this... A little article in the corner about Roosevelt becoming president, like it’s not important or nothin’.”

He strode across the room and began reading the opposite wall by running his finger along lines of type, mumbling to himself as he read. “The flood of ‘27. Flood in ‘22. Another one mentioned here, looks like May in ‘31. Thousands dead. Market crash of ‘29. Lindbergh. Fighting in China. Fighting in Ireland. Fighting in Mexico. They got something here about Hitler dated from 1924 goin’ to jail. Didn’t know that. How the hell did he get out? Look here, this is about some guy arrested for helping an underground railroad, whatever the hell that is. It’s like all of history is plastered here, surrounding this little room. You got to admit this is strange. I don’t know how this lady can live inside all this. And would you believe this one!” He rapped his knuckles on a crinkled section up near the ceiling. ‘The War in Europe is Over!’ it says. Big headline. Morning edition dated goddamn November 12, 1918. Still here. Still here.” He glared angrily at Adeleus. “You bastards down here did nothing to help.”

“Yeassah. Nossah, no. Did not. Don’ be lookin’ at me, though. Not in charge.”

“That’s right, sirs. We not in charge out there, just remember that. Y’all are. The famines, the wars, the traffic, the phony elections, train crashes, lynchins…It’s all y’all.” Irene gave a brief smile. “But not within these walls. I know it’s not much to look at, just this room and the room in the back, but it’s mine. And the newspapers, that was my doing. Reminds me of things. Brings it home to me. In here, Miss Irene rules this perch. As long as you be here, we play my way .”

Andrews snorted, readying a retort, but Murphy spoke first. “Yes ma’am. Your way it will be.”

“Then gather round. All of you sit on the flo’.”

With brisk, practiced movements, Irene turned off the light, dimming the room, and quickly shook out a coarse-woven russet towel between the sitting men, creating a deeply shaded, empty space on the floor. Quickly, she retrieved a rough-hewn wooden bowl and a fan made of jet-black crow feathers. Her yellow hat was off, revealing a black bandana that covered her hair entirely. As she sat herself down, she was careful to cover the bowl with the fan. The room became very still. Although it was full afternoon, light from the only two windows was shaded by the sheets hanging down over the porch. It was not dark, but it was not light. The edges and margins of face and form were diffused just slightly, as if measured through a thick glass. And then Irene began to sing.

At first it was a coarse, almost guttural hum, modulating up and down as if she were trying to find her true voice. Then words began to spill out of her throat, slowly, slowly, slowly, then more rapidly, and her voice became more urgent. “Come around, come around, I need y’all to come round right now. I ain’t got no crown, no jewel, but neither I ain’t nobody’s fool. So hear me out, all you mighty, kind and cruel, all y’all y’all, blackberry baby, bluehen brawler, big Mama, scatcat, bubbys big or small, old or new, you hold a shovel, spool, or drive a country mule, y’all come on, cut on, y’all be fish blooded or fire eater too.” Then she began to sing out names, great names and small, haughty and low. “Abraham, David, Old Herb”, she cried, “Peter, Flapjack Jim, Mother Myra, Holy Moses, LeRoi, Charly Charles, Elizabeth...” As she sang the names she spread her arms wide, beckoning, entreating, calling. Her face became flushed and a thin sheen of sweat appeared on her brow. “Rufus, Blue Neck Bill, Samuel, Blind Reverend Ralph, Remus, June, Pig iron Potty and Dandy Don...” She stopped abruptly, inhaled deeply, and with eyes shut tightly she pointed first at Murphy then at Andrews. “Here be James! Here be John!”

Without pause she swept up the bowl, removed the peacock fan, and tossed the contents onto the towel. Wondrous objects spilled out. There were bones and shells and shards, tiny and bigger, rough and smooth, painted and dry, piled one upon another in random disarray. A chestnut cut in half came to rest next to an eagle feather, and a clam shell lay with inner surface upright, shamefully exposed for the world to see. Almost in the middle of the heap a round green marble sat, glimmering with a hidden light. Miss Irene ran her hands over the artifacts without touching any, frowning intently. The minutes deepened as she began to mumble to herself once more. Slowly, she raised a shaking hand in Andrews’ direction.

“The bones is talkin’ about you.”

“What do they say?” It was Murphy who answered, leaning forward, eyes unblinking.

“Nothin’ that can be talked about with anyone but him.” Irene sprang to her feet and gestured imperiously at Adeleus and Murphy. “You two go out back and leave us alone. I’ll call you when we’re done.”

Andrews watched, entranced despite himself, but nagged by a sudden, urgent question. How did she know their names? He thought back as carefully as possible but could not remember that he or Murphy had ever revealed their identities. His mind whirled with possibilities. Someone told her, he concluded. Made no sense any other way.

Irene was on her feet, and commenced to walking in a circle around Andrews, who sat expectantly still. After a few circuits she began to moan, and with the moaning began to gyrate her shoulders and hips as if dancing to a silent rhythm. A faint aroma seeped from her, of rose, or honeysuckle, jasmine, gardenia, or all, or some, or the gathered fragrance of a thousand flowers spread within the cleft of her bosom. She waved her hand back and forth in front of his face as if he were blind. “You afraid now, ain’t you. I can feel it. Comin’ from all over your body, Babyboy John.”

He swiped her hand away but would not look up at her. “How do you know my name is John?”

“Because that is your name, and so I know it.”

“Are you a clairvoyant? A mind reader of some kind?”

“No, baby, I run much deeper than that. That’s how I see you afraid, the kinda fear a little boy has sitting in the dark and hearin’ the wolves bayin’ high up on the mountain. Or mebbe, just mebbe afraid about tomorra and what it bring.”

Andrews felt his heart skip a beat and then speed up frenetically. “That’s what your tokens tell you? If you really do know anything, then you must know I don’t believe in black magic.”

Irene clucked a soft laugh and squatted down very closely next to Andrews. “It is what it is, magic or black or whatever you like.” She pointed to a small pale seashell on the edge of the towel. “A cowry shell settin’ all alone. Cowrys tell what you buy and sell in life, an what you trade. Maybe for money, maybe for somethin’ inside you. Clam shells, they all about the journey. Then look here... More cowry shells, piled over a twig of catbrier. Catbrier be pain. And see...” She gestured at a thin curved bone but did not touch it. “See this one. Racoon penis bone, this one is, right next to a fox’s forebone. All around this corner are other bones I don’t care to talk about, except this coyote toe bone you can see here, with the cross on it. All about hope. And the marble is in the center, watching everything. It’s green, and you might know what that means, the color that can look through anything. The blue of a fine summer morning or the blackest winter night, green cuts through all of that and let’s you see alright. My ma’s grandma taught me that.”

Andrews smiled ruefully. “Sorry, I’m not afraid. Far from it. And they don’t teach any of this at Princeton.” He edged away from Irene. Her scent had become very strong, enveloping his ears, his nose, his mouth.

Unexpectedly, she stretched out two fingers and stroked his hair. “You really are almost perfect,” she sighed. “Almost perfect. But you are deep, much deeper than you want to show. I can tell.”

“You think I’m one of you? Tainted?” Andrews felt himself swaying very slightly, dizzied by the thick, perfumed smell drifting from Irene.

“I know your momma was one of us. An’ she was beautiful. You can’t escape that.” Irene continued to massage Andrew’s hair with one hand. “But you’re not tainted ‘causa that. Ain’t what I mean. Somethin’ is wrong inside you, like you been scarred by some fire that burnt you all up, charred you up, left ashes behind.”

The light inside the room became blurred, and a deep roar came from somewhere above Andrews’ head, a roar that pulsed within him with the impact of a great waterfall or the surge of a relentless tide. The aroma of lilac and hyacinth came to his nostrils with overpowering strength, and he felt himself falling backwards slowly, as if inch by inch, until gently nestled in Irene’s lap. He watched speechlessly as she retrieved a small glass vial from inside her corset, filled with a powder as blue-black as the Nile. With cadence slow and solemn she shook the powder over the magical objects strewn over the towel. It was as if each talisman was waiting, patient, thirsting to be touched by even a single grain of the powder in order to become alive. And soon, a sea of efflorescence shone brightly on the floor, specks of brilliance creating a whirling galaxy of wonder within the dark vastness of the surrounding room. Random lines of luminescence appeared, connecting bone to feather and tooth to shell, creating a mystical vocabulary unknown to the obedient stars above. The most inner of secrets were all spelled out there, ready to be read by one who knew the words.

Andrews felt his eyes closing drowsily as Irene sprinkled some of the powder on his forehead and chest. “It’s just some goof powder, baby, nothin’ more. It will help you come alive again.” She purred the words as she rubbed some onto both sides of his neck.

For the briefest moment, Andrews imagined that he could hear voices from the past calling him from a great distance, shouting through a gale of memories, demanding to be heard. With great effort he shut the open doors down, leaving him in silence once again. He stared at a newspaper pasted to the wall next to his face. The words spoke of famine, flood, fugitives, fires, and the myriad other afflictions that lay frozen in time within each line. Somehow, the words became larger and larger, throbbing mightily, crowning him with a living, dazzling corona of discovery, hatred, love, and exaltation. He imagined he could see his own name woven into the looming sentences and paragraphs, written in between the lines of type, glowing in sickly green through the mist of words like a lighthouse beacon glaring through the fog of written memory.

Irene stroked his forehead, then held his head tightly in both hands. “I feel you fighting, baby. I feel you...you lookin’ for somethin’ you don’t even know and can’t even imagine, like you’re wandering in the deepest darkest waters all by y’self, with no idea if anyone else is out there. You don’t got no strength enough to find your way. You getting feeble but you still are fighting to know. What you are. Who you are.”

Andrews nodded weakly, feeling that he was controlling his movements from far away. Fatigue cascaded down upon him as his limbs seemed to become loosened from his body. “I’m just so lost...” The words emerged with profound pain. His eyes were closed, and he was almost numb to the world, but he could sense Irene’s skillful hands massaging his neck and shoulders and rubbing his chest. She seemed gigantic somehow, overlapping his body like an enormous wave that rocked him back and forth before setting him to rest again.

“I feel you, baby.” She rubbed his chest gently, as if feeling for his heart. “I feel you. You struggling so hard, feelin’ so alone. I could tighten you up if you want, tighten you up good. I would do that for you, Johnny, make you feel alive again. Do you want?”

Andrews felt himself bobbing up and down, a dried up leaf coursing on a great river heading towards its end. His head, his torso, arms and legs surrounded him but were unconnected, each riding its own ripple in the same direction but each apart from the other, struggling to be whole again. “Yes,” he groaned. He felt detached and free, unmoored as he drifted rapidly along great waters. “Yes,” he croaked, finding it difficult to breathe. “Yes I want.”

“What do you think is taking them so long?” Murphy asked the question to no one in particular, and everyone laughed in response.

“Probably takin’ care of some serious business in there,” Adeleus hooted, passing a wooden cup over to Murphy. “And we should be takin’ care of some serious business out here!” He stood up and raised his own cup high. “I wanna thank the USA gov’ment for sendin’ Gen’lman Jim here down to old Atlanta, where he has proven to be a....ah....one....” Adeleus paused a moment to take a slurp from his cup before continuing. “One hell of a white man! Hoorah to Gen’lman Jim!”

Everyone roared their approval as Murphy stood, bowed formally, and took a long smooth draw of whiskey. He pointed towards Madge, who nodded, picked up his beaten up banjo, and began strumming nothing in particular. The afternoon had settled down to some serious drinking, and even Bishop Tillman was slumping perceptibly, leaning in a sideways direction in his chair, an imminent threat to crush anyone who might be sitting on the ground nearby.

It was Murphy’s offer to buy a keg of whiskey for the enjoyment of the group that had turned the day around. When Adeleus had led him out to Irene’s back porch as instructed, Murphy expected they would be alone. Instead, there were a half dozen or so others already there, loitering on chewed up chairs, sitting on the wooden planked floor or fanning themselves on the roughly fashioned steps leading down to a wildly flowering garden. One was a child, four or five, unclear whether boy or girl, moping next to a tall thin woman who leaned expectantly against the railing. Silence fell like a stone as the agent appeared among them.

Adeleus appeared flustered as well. “Yeassah, yeassah, didn’t anticipate these folks to be here at this hour. Ya see, Miss Irene has whole bunches of clients, and they come calling on her to get readings, don’t you know. I guess some is here now. Today is Sunday and they not at labor, but she took your friend first. That’s mighty special for her to do that.”

“You one of her clients too?”

“Yeassah, you might say that.”

“What about all that jive you were givin’ me, about how you knew the players, and could tell everything about to happen by just watching them?”

“Well I can and I do. I guess that is what I told you, and it’s true. But I’ve learned to have a little in-surance too. Can’t be careful enough.”

“So it was hogwash.”

Adeleus carefully removed his hat and hung it on a cornerpost nail. “Mister, I don’t even know who you are. And if you look around, you’ll notice you’re not like the rest of us. Yeassah, yeassah, so don’t go blaming me for anything I said. And by the way, who are you, anyway? What’s your name? Where you from? And what about him inside?”

Murphy did not hesitate, feeling good to open up for a few moments, He told Adeleus that he and Andrews were U.S. Federal agents escorting a famous doctor’s son on a tour of the South, upon the invitation of the university. As he spoke, he realized that everyone on the porch was leaning in and listening intently to his every word. He turned to face the others. “Up until now we’ve been shepherded around by the authorities on official business, so it feels really great to be able to get out finally and meet some ordinary people, real people, good people like Adeleus and all of you.”

To his surprise, his words were met with polite clapping, and a few shouted greetings. “Yo’ mos’ welcome!” “Y’all come back anytime!” “Now you be aknown, yo’ can come back as yo’ please!” were some that he heard, and there were others, spoken too thickly or quickly to be understood entirely. Murphy beamed. “Adeleus, this is great, just what I wanted. I’d like to meet these folks, talk to them.”

Adeleus shrugged. “Yeassah. Up to you.” He paused momentarily and gave Murphy a polite smile. “Look, you seems like a nice enough feller, and you from far away. Could be y’all are different than the ones we-all have down here, I wouldn’t know.... But don’t fool yourself. These folks are mostly polite, quiet folks, law abiding and God-fearing folks, but don’t think for a minute you gonna be their friend. There’s a whole wide river than runs between you and us, always will be. You are gonna be gone in a trace, and we all still gonna be here, still chained.”

“That’s why I want to understand what it’s like down here. This can change...”

“Change? Yeassah....change!” Adeleus spoke slowly but let his voice rise. He gave Murphy a sideways glare. “We tried change, ain’t you heard? Change be bought by blood, that’s the only way, or dj’all know that already. Now who’s blood is it gonna be? Your’uns? Uh uh. It’ll be mine, and the blood of these un’s standing here. You see them? Do you?” He gestured angrily at the little group watching silently. “You see people here, or just sticks? Walkin’, talkin’ sticks, no blood, no breath, just fillin’ in the landscape, carrying wood, thinnin’ cotton, diggin’ up goobers, or maybe they be just some souvenirs you can keep in your recollections. Nossah, nossah. So, kindly remember, Mr. Jim, we are people with blood, just as much as you. Truth is, maybe we got more, ‘cause we been through more than you. You think we low? Nossah, nossah. Maybe we higher.” He clasped his hands momentarily with a thin smile, as if waiting for a patron to read a menu.

“OK, lesson taken.”

“Now, that person there is Bishop Tillman, a special man, he’s a teacher and a preacher, and we just like to call him a bishop. He was used up mining cinnabar up near Murfreesboro, not feeling too well in his lungs these days.” Adeleus pointed to a giant of a man at the far end of the porch, who completely overwhelmed the spindle legged chair he was sitting on. “And this fella here with the banjo is Madge. He’s a man but we call him Madge on account of how he sings. His voice. You’ll see. And this one is my cousin Cornell. He’s a worthless, clay eatin’ boozer if you ask me, good for nothin’ and nothin’ is as much as he will be. Except for wrought iron, I guess. He can turn iron with the touch of an angel. They say he’s got a gift, he’s got gates and trellis and fences up all over town. They come from a hundred miles around to buy what his hands have made. ‘Course, the money don’t go to him.”

“I ain’t no boozer like you say, cuz.” Cornell strode up boldly and offered his hand to Murphy. “But I wouldn’t mind twice for a glass of aggie right now.”

Murphy didn’t understand what was said but understood perfectly what was meant. “Hey, Adeleus, isn’t there a joint nearby we can go to for a little refreshment? In fact, let’s all go.” He waved his arms to get everyone’s attention. “Who’s in the mood? Drinks on me!”

“No place like that nearby, but I can get us a bit of red eye from down the street here, from old Artemis Blow. He makes it real fine.”

“Good deal. Will this do?” Murphy offered a U.S. ten dollar bill.

Adeleus shook his hands violently. “I’ll get five years hard time at Milledgeville if I try to peddle that. Need gold if you got it.”

Murphy scowled, stroked his cheek, grunted, then reluctantly removed a twenty-dollar gold coin from a small pocket in his jacket. “How about this? All I got.”

“Yeassah, yeassah, yeassah, this will do just fine.” Adeleus beamed an artful smile, snatched the coin with the suddenness of a viper’s strike, then vaulted over the porch railing and disappeared from view.

“Jesus, I hope Deuce comes back and doesn’t take the money and run.” It was Cornell, shaking his head with a simultaneous smile and grimace.

Murphy nodded his own head in response with a confident air. “Deuce? Nickname? He looks like a good guy, I’m not worried. Surprised he knows this liquor place, since he doesn’t drink himself.”

Cornell gave a querulous look and took a deep breath. “First all, he ain’t in particular what you think. He’s been a stray cat in his past, a nasty one. Next all, he takes to whiskey like a Jesus lizard takes to water. Do you know anything ‘bout him?”

“What he told me on the street. Why don’t you set me straight?” Murphy crossed his arms, annoyed that he had been a willing and gullible fool, an easy pigeon for the dope Adeleus had pitched him.

“Well...” Cornell began to fidget. “Don’t know how much he likes to let out.”

“C’mon. I told you about me. Tell me.”

“Alright, but I only know what they says, wasn’t there m’self. As a young buck he was a gandy dancer. You know what that is, right? Worked on the railroad setting track straight, kinda like that, usually a gang of eight, nine or so men workin’ the rails. He was a free man at the time, all us freed in my grandma’s time, his father and mine. Anyway, he worked the tracks, ya see, got right on in there, made OK money, but he liked the cards. Poker, Peedro, anything would do, for money ‘a course. Well, he got his five dollars one Friday night, and commenced to gamblin’ with the boys in the usual way, may’ passed a few drinks around. I guess you might know how this story is going to go. He got into a fight with one of the boys, some accusations of cheatin’ goin’ on, who can know what really happened. Now, in those days, old Adeleus, he carried a big knife. Real big, what they called a Arkansaw toothpick back when. You may have seen pictures of what it looked like. I know I have. Carried it for snakes and whatnot. Well, he drove his knife into some poor boy’s heart just like he was spearing a wild hog, without a moment’s pity. Black boy named Pius, tall and good lookin’, had three childun’s they say. But Adeleus, bad man as he was, he don’t care, he killed that boy right there, took the money and lit off in a buzz. Well, all the folk around here say that he became a desperator after that, movin’ from town to town just one step ahead the law, tryin’ to make his way to Mexico. And he commenced to stealing here and there, seems like he whipped a few men and took a few womans, maybe killed a man or so, here and there, but that part is somewhat disputaceous. See here, once you be fugitative, like he was, people make up all kinda stories, make you look badder than you really might be.

Anyway, they caught him in a boarding house, caught him just as he was takin’ a crap or they never woulda got him alive. At his trial he pretended to be crazy, but they saw right through that. Been tried before, you see. Stealin’. Now here’s the peculiar thing. It turned out that everyone he trifled with was free, a free nigra, a very strange and unusual circumstance in these parts. No owners around at the trial to speak up for their property, see? So, they decided there was no call for him to die, but he was a bad man, and so he was sentenced to life. Guess they figured they would put him to hard labor and get some good use outta him. Would you believe it, a week later he was on a chain gang, doin’ exactly the same work as what he was doin’ before as a gandy dancer on the railroad. Life is grand, ain’t it, how it works out? That’s where the mayor found him, some years later. Old mayor Key, he found him in ‘23, and reopened the trial. He had a habit of doin’ that with others, you see. Kinda felt that it’s a waste to have a man like Adeleus servin’ the state of Georgia when he could be servin’ the old mayor himself. You understand? So old Key got some lawyers, and Adeleus got free with a contract on him from the mayor. And here we are, a year or so to go in that legality.”

“So he’s turned himself around?”

“Sho’ has, ‘cept the lyin’ and cheatin’.”

Murphy rubbed his chin, thinking. “OK. Understood. The betting. All a sham?”

“Well, mister, I don’t know exactly what that means, but it shor’ is easy to know what’s gonna happen when it’s already been arranged, you dig? Listen here, those ABC boys, they play for peanuts. Nothin’ wrong with makin’ a few extra dollars from time to time. The boss is makin’ money, ain’t he? So they share the pie.”

“And the dame?”

“All part of the show. He sees to it that everyone knows he gets his predictions from Miss Irene. Keeps it kinda real, ya know? It’s good for her, too, good for everybody.”

“Except for the people you’re cheating. And they’re your people!”

It was Cornell’s turn to pause in thought. A touch of sadness crossed his eyes. “That may be true. But they’s the only people we know. The only ones.”

They both lapsed into silence. Murphy leaned against the door leading back into the house, taking the measure of Bishop Tillman, Madge, and the others on the porch. Some sat quietly, others murmured quiet words to their immediate neighbor, and every few moments a snicker, laugh or jeer broke out. They all seemed very patient, waiting for a turn that had not come their way as yet. The child crouching in the corner with its mother caught his eye. It was a girl, he decided, with hair carefully braided and with clean scrubbed sable skin, wearing a white shirt and patched up corduroys. She sat on the floor next to her mother, very quiet, clutching her mother’s calf and leg with one arm and leaning her head against the mother’s knee as if listening to a secret catechism of instruction that was meant only for her. She glanced at Murphy with a tentative smile, her eyes luminous and large. Her neck seemed very thin.

“So you’re some kind of artistic type?” He spoke to Cornell but continued to stare at the little girl.

“That sounds too grand. I work with iron is all. Forge, bend, hammer, filigree, that sorta thing. I like making shapes, designs, unusual pieces that you not likely to see just anywhere. I loves curves. I loves gates. If something has to be, then it should have beautiful form. I just try to keep that in my heart.”

“Where do you get your ideas?”

“Great God Almighty, the picture of what I want to make just pops into my eyes, just like it was planted there, then it goes right to my hands. Just mebbe it comes from something I seen before but can’t remember, or mebbe my brain been workin’ on it a while and didn’t tell me right away. I dunno. Sometimes my ideas look impossible, but my fingers figure it out. Sometimes I surprise myself, but truthfully, the iron is more surprised than me.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes it’s the other way. Things are impossible, and it turns out we can’t always make it work the way we want. Gotta settle. That’s the difference between you and me, I think.” Murphy peered at the little girl through half closed lids, watching carefully. Her cheekbones and forehead seemed unnaturally prominent, giving her the appearance of someone who had long since seen a full meal. “Do you ever have regrets about anything you made? Like it didn’t turn out right?”

“Any much. Nothin’ I made was ever perfect. I ain’t no machine.”

Murphy found himself sliding down to sit on the raw wood floor, feeling the heat and laze of the day come over him. A dim memory came to mind, just the dimmest, a fleeting face that disappeared in a flash. He pointed at the girl. “She’s a cute tyke, but she looks frail to me.”

Cornell sat down next to him, leaned close and whispered. “She do, don’t she. That woman there, Bea, she had a child die before, about the same age. It was a girl and she was very fine also, thin around the waist and arms.”

“Thin, huh? Bastards didn’t let them have enough food?”

“True. Never enough food it seems, not always, not a lot. Clothes. Doctor care. Too many marks of shame to name. All that. Some do alright, some don’t.”

The child rubbed her eyes and crawled into her mother’s lap, curling up quiet and still as if nesting in for a long winter. Bea hugged her tightly with a sad smile, giving a gentle kiss on the forehead.

“Look...See...” Murphy tilted his head towards the two. He felt a salty burn come to his eyes. “Mater dolorosa.” He spoke to himself, not thinking he could be heard.

“What’s that?”

“Nothin’. Just some words from school I was taught from a long time ago.”

“I hear you. Just some words. But I hear what you’re feelin’ as well.” Cornell lowered his own voice, speaking barely above a whisper.

Murphy squirmed, feeling the prickly heat of late afternoon crawling down his neck and spine. “So what happened exactly? To the other one?”

“Who can know? One day she came down with the peek-a-boo, ailed by a little cough and so on, and in two days she had passed on. She was the prettiest little thing. We call that kind a come-see child. They come into this world, look around a bit. Maybe they don’t like what they see, and they go back. Those gates, man, those golden gates, they’re settin’ there right close, and they’re powerful in their beauty, crafted by divine hands. And shor’nuf, you can hear the music coming from over there, the other side, you just have to sit yourself still and listen. It’s a wonder more don’t turn around and go back.”

“And that’s why Bea is hugging her so hard? She thinks holding her tight in this world will keep her here so she won’t leave for the other?”

“Yeah, mebbe that. And mebbe...” Cornell twisted himself to speak into Murphy’s ear. “I know you not from down here, and it could be that the world is better where you from. If that’s true then praise Jesus. But down here, life be hard, sometimes hard with no let up, no chance to straighten your back and spread your arms, and shout the Lord’s name in joy. Hard. So we kiss our children, and hold them tight, and love them dear ‘cause we don’t know what might be coming at the next morning light. Mebbe to them, mebbe to you. Everyone should feel that feelin’ of love, even if the one they love is only one, and long gone, don’t you think?”

Murphy slumped further back and didn’t mean to answer, but his mouth, unbidden and unwilling, spoke anyway. “Yes.”

It was just then that Adeleus arrived, hoisting a keg of whiskey on his shoulder. For Murphy it was the chance for a temporary diversion, a brief, convenient voyage to a comfortable landscape of oblivion and discarded memories. He had a drink, then another very quickly, and a third, waiting impatiently for his turn at the barrel. At one point he saw that Bea refused the cup when it was passed to her. He had an impulse to offer her a drink himself, and make her at ease, and perhaps have a chance to hold the child for even a moment. Instead, he slumped down in the corner of the porch once again, eying the cup as it was passed from hand to hand. When he looked over again, Bea was gone, and the girl with her. He closed his eyes, wishing the dimness to come.

He poked at Cornell. “Go inside and find out when they’re coming out.”

“I don’t think they will. It’s gettin’ near dusk. I reckon you can say goodnight to them right about now.”

“Thassright, goodnight!” It was Madge, speaking in a saccharine smooth, brightly pitched voice that hovered in the air before dissipating. He had been plucking random notes and chords on his banjo without rhyme or reason, but suddenly began playing with purpose and began to sing. His words sought out the late afternoon sky with a timbre trilled both high and pure, a sad violin playing to the waning of the day:

Irene, goodnight

Irene, goodnight

Goodnight, Irene

Goodnight, Irene

I’ll see you in my dreams

Last Saturday night I got married

Me and my wife settle down

Now me and my wife are parted

I’m gonna take another stroll in town

Irene, goodnight

Irene, goodnight

Goodnight, Irene

Goodnight, Irene

I’ll see you in my dreams

Sometimes I live in the country

Sometimes I live in town

Sometimes I have a great notion

To jump in the river and drown

Murphy staggered to his feet, feeling a swelling boil of anger and hatred that came from nowhere and led to nothing but no good. He balled his fists into living cudgels. “Hey, cut that shit! No more of that, ya understand? No more, godammit!”

Everyone froze, turned to rock by the outburst. Madge slowly placed his banjo on the ground at his feet and bowed his head, as if offering sacrifice at a shrine. Time seemed suspended, and only the glare of Murphy’s eyes remained alive, darting like a venomous snake from one person to another.

“That’s alright, Madge. Keep on singin’ and don’t worry about him. He’ll be alright.” Irene appeared at the doorway, smiling brightly, appearing like a magical spirit summoned by incantations from the faithful. Andrews stood behind her, in the dark of the doorway. “I heard my name being called so I thought I would come out!”

At that, a great roar of shouts and laughter rang out, wicked jibes, coarse jokes and clever puns. ‘Sure, now you had yo ashes hauled!’ ‘Did you find the right bone?’ ‘You sho’ had yo supper before sayin’ grace!’ ‘Can I get the same bodacious fortune telling?’

Much later, depending on who told the story, it was said that a spell was either broken or woven at that moment. Anger fled, mistrust fell as completely as a flag hauled down on its halyard, and sheer joy erupted. Additional cups were found, and Adeleus disappeared briefly only to return with another cask of corn mash spirits. More neighbors arrived, sailing in like ephemeral spirits and swirling around on the narrow porch in a dense soup of excitement stirred by an unseen spoon. Bishop Tillman awakened briefly, took another sup of liquor, and wandered out to the grass to curl up comfortably for a long night’s sleep. A layer of soft, hazy twilight spread complacently across the nethermost sky, preparing to crown the glory of day with the majesty of starlit darkness.

Murphy felt the release immediately and joined in the hilarity, laughing just a bit too loudly and back slapping strangers just a bit too freely. After draining a ladle-full of liquor in one quick gulp, he refilled it and turned to Andrews, still hovering just inside the doorway. “Join the party! This stuff is good for what ails you!”

Andrews shook his head.

“You afraid? Poor little Johnny. Bet you can’t handle more than one drink.”

Irene rubbed Andrews on his shoulder. “Don’t ever say that about John. Not afraid at all. He can do whatever he want to. He free now.”

Murphy strode the few steps to Andrews and proffered the ladle in his direction. “Well then? John?”

The heavens decree times when the place and the moment, the sounds and whispers, stares, smiles, thoughts and desires, and the urgent prod of pride and self, all align just right, like tumblers in a locked safe falling into place, and so it was with Andrews. He drank the drink, and a short while later, another. And then, as the hours dissolved into a quickly forgotten whirl of blurred speech and sluggish motion, he opened up for himself a space and time he had not allowed in the past, and smiled and laughed and merely breathed from one moment to the next, as if before and after did not exist. He grasped warmly at people who were unfamiliar, locked eyes in deep understanding with unknowns, and confessed the darkest admissions to utter strangers. Later, sleep was to follow, and with sleep a dark exhaustion lit only by corrupt and murky memory.

Murphy watched as Andrews drifted into torpor, sluggish himself but still awake. It was night. The moon had emerged, barely born, but still with enough power to spread its radiance like a magic potion wherever its beams might touch. The revelers were fewer now, and Irene had started shooing them off the porch, discharging them back to wherever their place and purpose determined them to belong. She placed her hands on her hips at the sight of Andrews’ sleeping form.

“No worries. I’ll get him.” Murphy lurched in their direction, trying to steady himself.

Irene smiled at Murphy. “You take good care of him, don’t you.”

“No m’am, not really.” Murphy smiled back.

“But you do. There were many times you could abandon him. You kept him by your side. I’ve already seen that. And I can see you always will.”

“Oh, yeah?” Murphy stumbled and fell to the floor at Irene’s feet. He managed to sit up, leaning backwards on his elbows. “Was that your prediction? Is that why you got him alone, to tell him that?”

Irene sat down across from Murphy, crossed her legs and leaned towards him. Her face shone radiantly under the spell of the moon, and her breath seemed to sing as she spoke. “I think so, that was part of it. But there was more.”

Murphy was drunk enough to want to bend forward to kiss Irene, but too drunk to make the effort. “So what is it? We winning the second race at Belmont this week?”

Without a word, she reached out and placed the palm of her hand on his forehead, pressing hard, so hard it seemed that her fingers entered into his brain, ruffling through it as if searching for a certain folder, the hidden file that was needed to explain everything and to reveal all. “Quiet,” she sang.

Murphy pressed his forehead forward onto her hand even more strongly, feeling both completely aware and falling almost unconscious at the same time. He could feel and taste the sweetness of her mouth and smell the deep aroma flowing from her body, a sweet perfume that flowed from the distant past into the present, and might carry anyone who wished into the future.

Without warning she began to speak loudly, so loudly that everything else around Murphy was drowned out; the porch surrounding him, the wooden boards he sat on, the dark canvas of stars within his eyesight. Everything. Only the words remained, flowing through her fingers directly into his brain.

“If you’re dead to know, then know this.” She pointed straight up towards the sky, and as she did a spray of pungent, almost magical aroma spread from her bosom. “That old man in the moon will guide your way until a roundabout coming break of day. Then listen hard and you will hear a sound, the sound of mighty waters crashing down. Yes, y’all will fear, but none will heed. You’ll be just another body left behind. To bleed.”

Murphy absorbed her words numbly, barely comprehending through the buzzing in his brain. He felt a slowly moving itch crawling down his spine. “When does this happen?”

Irene cocked her head to one side, listening carefully to the cicadas that had just begun to sing, and the breeze drifting aimlessly through the leaves and vines of bonnet squash that nested in her garden nearby. “Not tomorrow, but by the morrow that follows tomorrow followed by the one that follows. Then the time will be fulfilled, the beginning will end and the ending will begin.”

Chapter 32

“So, you’re a spy.”

Koehler took a leisurely, reflectful puff of his pipe before answering. Great clouds of aromatic smoke floated over his forehead like exhaust fumes escaping from the workings of a vast and complex machinery. “No, no, my dear Lieb. An observer. A reporter. Nothing more.”

“A lie, my dear, dear, very dear Koehler.” Jona stabbed his cigarette forcefully into an ashtray already almost filled with stubs, making no attempt to hide his irritation. “You followed me here deliberately, who knows why, to find out what I was doing and to report back, I presume to the Nazi shills running your country. That’s called being a spy.”

Koehler chuckled, pointing the stem of his pipe at Jona. “You have become quite absolutist in your thinking, young friend. We all gather information on everything we can every day, don’t we? And discuss anything we learn with others, don’t we? If your mother sent you to market to find the price of eggs, would that make you a spy? Why, you once told me that Herr Churchill asked you to send him reports about what you observed in your travels. You, a spy, and at such a young age!” He leaned back in his chair and gave a grand laugh, the kind that meant that all was understood, and endured, and forgiven, and too small a matter to require further discussion. “Anyway, your father did much the same thing. Even when younger than you, I believe.”

Jona recognized the familiar siren song slithering through the air towards him and understood its effect as the words wrapped their arms around him, enveloping him in the promise of mystery, adventure, and history. The mere mention of his father was meant to smother him, blind him, disorient him as completely as the most potent narcotic. “Uh-uh, no you don’t, not this time. No more old stories. I won’t be a lapdog begging for treats. Now, tell me why you’re spying on me.”

“My deepest apologies, Herr Doktor. I meant no offense. As I’ve gotten on in years I’ve become more attached to old vignettes, especially when they are unique.”

They both accepted a brief interval of silence, neither looking at the other, both intent on measuring the other. They were seated in Jona’s room, alone, with only the whirring noise of a fan blowing uselessly in the corner. It was hot, much hotter than any morning should be, and Jona could sense drops of sweat gathering along the dimples and lines of his forehead and neck. He felt a deep emptiness in the pit of his stomach and his mind whirled furiously, darting rapidly from one incomplete thought to another. His hands were not shaking, but he knew that it would not be long before the tremors would start. When that happened, he would have to be alone, and promptly. He glanced at Koehler, and then at a small canvas bag lying in the corner of the room. He knew his package was there, but had a sudden urge to search it again, just to be sure. He quickly lit another cigarette.

Koehler coughed abruptly, setting his pipe aside and smoothing the lapels of his jacket. “Look, my boy, there is no need to belabor this whole matter. You’re correct that my friends back home are curious about your presence here. It’s really no secret that you’re carrying some kind of message from your president to the president here. So... Tell me about it.”

“Gladly. Honestly, I would blab the whole thing if I could, it would serve everyone right. But, my dear Naaarzi friend, there is no letter. I’m carrying shit. Tell that to your buddies.”

An awkward pause followed. Koehler searched his pockets vigorously and retrieved a thick, sealed envelope, pressing it to his forehead as if trying to transfer its contents telepathically. He lowered his voice to a loud whisper. “Do you know anything about your grandparents? Your father’s parents for example.”

A blunted siren blared in Jona’s skull, causing his head to drop almost to his knees. He felt as if he were spinning. “OK, I’ll bite. Grandfather was from a long line of bankers and merchants. Wealthy. Grandmother, don’t know much. She was beautiful they say, from Asheville. They were both killed in a train wreck when my dad was seven. When my father came of age he sold everything: land, houses, slaves, everything. Turned everything into cold cash. So go ahead and tell me.”

“Tell you what, Jona?” Koehler resumed a placid, amiable demeanor.

“Don’t insult me. You’ve got something in that envelope about them. What? They were slave traffickers? Moonshine runners? Abortion specialists? Tell me.”

Koehler floated a tentative smile as he cast his eyes downwards. “I don’t know how to tell you this, it’s an embarrassment. There are some in Germany who claim that your grandmother was Jewish. There are certain parties in my government that want to disclose all this, as a stroke of vengeance against you for your behavior while you were our guest, and that’s why I’m here. As a friend. To help you sweep this away, and no one need learn of it. Of course I don’t know if any of this is true. I don’t know what evidence is in these documents, but evidence is not needed to stoke public outrage. Or public action, no matter how regrettable. Help me and I’ll help you, Jona. Please, give me something, some information, and I’ll give you this envelope. You can do what you wish with it.”

Lieb snickered, then chuckled, then broke out in unrestrained laughter. He struggled to get up from his chair, but could not. “That’s it? That’s all you got? Come over here, professor, and let me hug you. You deserve my pity for that half assed attempt at extortion. Honestly, who gives a fuck? I don’t, and I don’t think you do. Your handlers forced you to do that? You’re toeing the party line, I get it.”

“I should think that you should care.”

“It only matters to people like your friends.”

“Yes, I suppose matters have gotten quite complex, at least for us. I hope the situation does not become too awkward. Perhaps all those affected can be encouraged to just leave the country…I often wish we could get back to simpler times.” Koehler gave every appearance of trying very hard to shrink into his chair, and rapidly stuffed the envelope into an inner pocket of his jacket. “Maybe all this material is just invention. I apologize, but I don’t retract my request. Can you offer me anything I can take back?”

Jona reached for his cigarettes with difficulty, even though one still burned in his clasp. He felt both dulled and simultaneously hyper-vigilant, excited and apathetic. “Do you ever wish you could go back, professor? To the simpler times, back to one of your vignettes as you call them?”

“What do you mean by that? Go back as I am now or as I was then?”

“Either way, I guess. No, wait. I wouldn’t want to know the future, but I would want to change what happens.”

Koehler peered at Lieb curiously. “Are you alright? That makes no sense. You mean you wouldn’t want to know the past. It’s already happened. Surely you understand that.”

“I mean the future that follows the past…No, wait. The past that follows the future…I guess I’m not sure. Maybe something different might follow in the future of the past. I might not get polio. My experiments might succeed. Something...Anything. Maybe with Marielle.” Jona rubbed his scalp furiously, feeling the forewarning of what was to come. A craving was searching for him, loping towards him cunningly, tracking him unerringly. He tossed the cigarette pack down.

“Ah, yes. The lady love. That’s always part of the story. For some, at least.”

“And there are others, too. Elfieda. Alex. My father, I guess. I don’t remember my mother well.” Jona mumbled the last part to himself, inaudibly.

“Understood. Tristan and Isolde. Dante and Beatrice. But I gather your situation was a bit more complicated. No need for a chastity belt in your little passion play, eh Jona?”

“Fuck yourself. Ancient sounding bullshit is still only bullshit.”

“Ah, I see you have mastered the apothegm, at least in its most vulgar form. Tell me, have you ever felt ecstatic?”

“No. Maybe yes. Do you mean with something or with someone? I can’t be sure, but maybe, but only for a minute. I could endure eternity with Marielle.”

“I don’t mean that.” Koehler leaned forward with great intensity. “I mean something very different. Have you ever felt ecstasy?”

“Not sure what you mean. I have felt love, I think. What’s the difference?”

“The ancient Greeks had it right; a feeling that a higher being invades you, let’s say a spirit, displaces you, transforms you by becoming you.”

“Like being possessed? Like by the devil?”

“Perhaps. Or by gods. And then you…you…”

Jona waved his hand irritably. “And me, what?”

“Then you are separated from time altogether. In a state of ecstasy, there is no yesterday or tomorrow. There is no such thing as time, in the way you live it now, Jona. Under such circumstances the universe that you know would be both here and not here. That would fulfill your desire, wouldn’t it? Your lady would be here, but blended into everything that has always been, and you in turn would absorb and also be absorbed by all of nature. Everything would become part of you; love, art, passion. Everything but memory, which would blow away like sand in a storm. Go to Rome. See Bernini’s Ecstasy of Saint Teresa. Then you’ll understand.”

“Drop the highbrow attitude, OK? Didn’t you ever love someone? Once? That’s what I’m trying to ask. Didn’t you ever wish you could bring it all back?”

Koehler lapsed into silence for a moment, then offered a quiet smile. “Perhaps. It is said that the deed that was a source of ecstasy can become an affliction.”

“Which is it? Ecstasy or affliction?”

Koehler remained still, drawing slowly on his pipe, sending up clouds of smoke that wreathed around his head, almost cloaking his face completely. Ice cold mornings and star-studded velvet skies swirled quickly through his mind. “I’m only human, after all, Jona. But I take solace in my work, and in art. I believe that time, and the past, and perhaps even the future are somewhat like art. It is all out there, you see, mysterious, or hidden somewhere in here, even more mysterious.” He pointed first upwards and then towards his heart, a ritual genuflection to the power of the unknown. “It is all there, everything, everything that can possibly be, a palette we can sample, hues of our own selection that we can use or not use. Like an artist choosing the right pigments we too can choose. We can create the angle of light, shading, perspective. We can even choose secret symbols to insert wherever we like. Faith. Ardor. Envy. Love, too, I suppose. Anything that stamps us and makes us who we are. Not all of us can touch the inscrutable, but some can, and those are the ones we call great. Artists. Philosophers. Prophets. Even though few can find that path, all of us feel the calling. All feel the tug of ecstasy. So, if you ask if I have ever lusted after the past, or desired to drink again from a cup that passed too quickly from my lips, then yes. And yes, I have also dreamed of painting over parts that I once desired but no longer do. In fact, I have. We all have. It is the hand of the artist within us that compels the change, an unseen hand that scribes the story we want to hear and changes the colors we wish to see. For me, it has happened many times, often because the previous color has faded, sometimes because I just want a different color. Flamméo has replaced incarnadino here and there. Rósa secca has become a sweeter hue than thalassio. How much more suited is bigiuccia than pavonacchio for one as aged as I am. Everything changes.” Koehler stopped abruptly, sighed, and placed down his pipe. “I apologize again, Jona. Forgive me, I am an old man.”

Lieb tapped at his cigarettes morosely. “That was uplifting. What color is polio?”

“That is humanity’s curse, Jona, something we can never escape. We must have flesh and all its miseries here on earth in order to experience the wonders of the unearthly. Mind, spirit, body. Inseparable.” He pursed his thumb, forefinger and middle finger tightly together, raising them towards Lieb as if ready to cast a spell.

“You believe all that?”

“I do. I think your father did, too. He had a saying, did you ever hear it? ‘Were we wood we would desire fire.’ “

Jona slumped back in his chair, allowing his cigarette to burn towards its inevitable end. The fan in the background, meant to give relief from the heat, gave off an agonizing metallic creaking and grinding noise with every turn. Koehler resumed the slow, methodical pulse of drawing on his pipe. When he spoke, it was with a sense of great contentment. “You are agitated.”

“Tired.”

“I have been told about your private soirées, and your current dalliance with Opferwille. Does opium give you visions or give you sleep? They say hallucinogens can open the doors to another universe. Is that what you have experienced?”

“You know about that? Put in your reports to the Aryan Clearing House? Like my genealogy I suppose. Should I be cowering in a safe house, hiding from the Gestapo?”

“Please, Jona. I am your friend. I mean no harm to anyone. I consider myself above all that, I assure you.” Koehler appeared genuinely upset, squeezing his lips firmly together. Both lapsed into an uncomfortable silence.

Jona broke first. “Alright. Tell me your little story.”

“About what?”

“The vignette. About my father being a spy.”

“Of course, if you would like.” Koehler nodded his head with benign satisfaction. “Have you ever been to France?”

“Only once.”

“Mont St. Michel?”

“No. What is it?”

“Oh, my lad!” Koehler shook his head in animated dismay. “It is one of the seven heavens where everyone should go, at least once. Now close your eyes, and imagine very hard, and see yourself high on the battlements of a fairy queen’s castle, on top of a mountain rising right out of the sea. There you are, at Mont St. Michel, and wonderment is your reward. I met your father there, perhaps a year after our first encounter. Let me tell you about it…

I was in Paris, where he cabled me. He was arriving the next day and wanted to meet for lunch at Le Procope. At the time, I couldn’t possibly afford a place like that, but your father always seemed to have money. In any case, I was leaving for Caen the next day to study the architecture of St. Etienne Abbey, and my schedule was unsettled. I suggested we meet a few days later. He answered, saying he would meet me at a strange and wonderful place he had heard of and wanted desperately to visit, a place near Bayeaux called Mont St. Michel. I had already visited there a time or two and was willing to return. I agreed immediately.

As a German, I can tell you that the Hohenzollern, and also the edifice at Heidelberg, and Salzberg too, are second to none as examples of palatial castle architecture. But none compare to St. Michel as a place of spiritual beauty. Ocean waves slap at the rocky shore below, creating a rhythm that echoes eternity. As the sun sets over the western edge of the world, tongues of gold stream down from the skies and over the eyes like droplets of fiery rain, penetrating deep into the soul. At the very top of the mountain lies the main chapel, stone and mortar that is already a millennium old, filled with the ghosts of the past, of the briefest of moments and of the greatest of hours, forgotten vapors vying with one another to come to life once more.

Near the scriptorium was a chevet leading to a few small and now unused chapels. We met in the musty dark of one, its shadows supported by great pillars of granite. He was stark raving mad that day, unable to pause even a second, talking and moving with the energy of an exploding star. It was a mistake to tell him I had been there before. He questioned me about everything; when it was built, who built it, how it was built, how long to build it, who were the architects, who were the monks and abbots...mein Gott, on and on. Of course, I could not possibly answer all that he wanted to know. I led him to the calm enclosure of the cloisters, but as we sat between the slender curving columns, among the reddest of roses, the most stately of columbine, and the most fragrant of rosemary, I could do nothing to inhibit him. Eventually, I led him down to the lower level, to the much older chapel buried in the heart of the mountain. Notre Dame sous-Terre is it named, almost older than memory can record, ancient ancestor to the church that lay above. It was newly re-discovered at the time, lit only by a few alcohol lamps, and quite empty.

I can remember that it was cool down there, a dry cool, not dank. There were no open apertures or lancets, no oculi, no natural light of any kind. The dark corners and blank shadows that were hidden out of sight may as well have been nonexistent, or folded into a separate, extended cosmos of time or space. And so there we stood, within a circumvallation of light and dark, suspended as if within a quiet womb. We were gestating but did not know it, and soon to be born, but did not know that either. He was flowering and I was just budding, but we both bloomed gloriously in the light of the world shortly thereafter.

Lieb leaned against a time-cracked column that might have been placed there by king Rollo himself, rubbed the surface as if communing with dead stone, and recited a poem, an old villanelle that I recognized from my student days. I should not have been surprised that he knew it, but of course I was. The last quatrain was so maudlin, and so very French:

Mort que tant de fois j’appelle,

Prends ce qui se donne à toi !

J’a perdu ma tourterelle,

Je veux aller après elle.

After a few moments of silence, he gave me a wry smile and a soft laugh. ‘That’s the only one I know, to be honest,’ he said. ‘But I can almost feel myself being there. Back then the times were more gentle, life more powerful. And love was more precious. As the poem says, like a turtle dove.’

Well, it was plain that he was both a raving savant and a romantic fool. He knew better, better than what his imagination wanted him to believe. The world he conjured was not a simple heroic saga, a time when gallant Taillefer sang verses of Roland, or when courtly Charlemagne studied at the knee of learned Alcuin. No. Everything he saw and felt in that chapel was produced through suffering and bloodshed, a reprise of the many great wonders that mankind has created over the ages.”

Jona felt a throbbing over his temples as the buzzing from the fan grew louder. He licked his lips but tasted nothing. His nausea increased, burrowing like a deep excavation penetrating into the heart of his bowels. “That’s pretty dramatic, professor. My father howled about changing the world as it is and making a new world. Turning swords into plowshares, turning the other cheek, things like that.”

Koehler leaned forward with a smile. “And that is why I loved him so. He was no innocent, but he genuinely believed all that, a starry-eyed optimist. He had great hope. Abraham’s hope. That’s why he spied. For the Germans. For the Brits a little bit. For the Russians quite a bit, at least for a while. He believed that sharing information actually promoted peace. If there were no secrets, there would be no war and humanity would be all the better for it. But he was wrong, dear Jona. Every great thing has been created through pain. Great accomplishments were achieved by strapping on cuirass and pinning gonfalon to lance in the name of whatever cause was suitable for the moment, or blowing the shofar, or waving the zulfiqar, or raising the oriflamme… on and on, over and over. It is the way of the world.” He leaned back with a grunt, satisfied.

Jona picked up another cigarette but stopped when he realized his fingers were tremoring. He did not want Koehler to see him struggling to light it. “What about great art, though? Michelangelo? Mozart? They were just artists. No artillery, no muskets, no battles.”

“You are a babe in the woods if you believe that. The powerful nobles who sponsored the great masters raped Italy to fund them. And who do you believe attended Mozart’s operas? The same blue frocked aristocrats who controlled their fiefdoms by sword and lash. It is sad but true. The great body of humanity has suffered so that we can be given the fruits of genius. There should be no guilt in that.”

A vision flashed through Jona’s mind, and then others, quickly. He saw paintings and frescoes and renderings and sketches flit by, like a deck of cards that were flung in the air and fluttered down, some quickly and some slowly, swaying back and forth to the driving rhythm of the drums that pounded from somewhere in his brain. His mind began to shudder uncontrollably, along with his hands. When he spoke, he could feel his tongue vibrating rapidly between his lips. “Yes, the great body of humanity. Body, body, body. It has to be a body, right? But bodies become corrupted, right? Believe me, I know.” He hoped he had not slurred the words. He still had some control over himself but knew he was nearing the end of any restraint. His eyes began to dart back and forth with maniacal rapidity. Koehler was gone, imploded into nothingness. Another image came to him, as real as if it were laid out on a table before him. There was a nude body, stretched to incredible length, so that all he could see, and all that was within his sight to see, was the chest and protruding belly with umbilicus at its apex. The head and legs were lost in deep shadows left and right, sucked into the forbidden corners of Notre Dame sous-Terre, where nameless voices laughed and lamented, some piteous and some exultant. From the chest of the body spread a sweeping cornucopia saturated with sweet melodies and vibrant colors and wonderful fragrances. As Jona extended his hand to touch, he could see small creatures crawling within, scuttling from flavor to flavor, ready to sting and bite. He withdrew his hand, afraid. He watched further. From the umbilicus a mound formed, and grew, and began to slowly rise, higher and higher until it seemed to touch heaven itself. As it rose, its shape became sharper and clearer. It was an onion, it’s roots hanging low and its scales spreading upwards. It was a familiar story he was seeing, Jona knew that, but he could not remember how the story went. He had an impulse to grab the roots and be lifted up as the onion arose, but he was too slow, and missed his chance. The onion arose to heaven and he could only watch helplessly. He shook his head violently and focused back on Koehler, who had reappeared. “What did you say?”

Koehler had been talking, his words swarming over Jona’s head like a cloud of wasps readying their venom. “Well, I was just explaining....” The elderly professor appeared flummoxed. “I was just explaining about your father, and how he was willing to be a spy, and that he had already been a spy, and how he knew so many of the powerful after all, and if it helped to change the world for the better....”

“Yes, perfect. Tell me more. About him. About you. What are you? If you were naked what would you be and what would I see?” Jona leaned well back in his armchair, crooked his neck, and feigned a studied stare, looking squarely at a spot just below Koehler’s chin. Words floated by, little motes tossed randomly up and down, to and fro, with no more meaning in their motion than the blind creep of a caterpillar along a long, long stem. Part of him wanted to hear everything that was being said, ingest it properly and understand, but he was distracted by the curious sensation of acid regurgitation rising into his throat. He imagined what it might feel like to vomit, or maybe he actually did, he couldn’t be sure. Jona’s head pulsed with awful pain, and he found himself panting as if breathing was a labor, but he forced himself to examine what had come hurling out of his mouth and became entranced by what he saw. Small figures, little animalcules, were moving slowly back and forth within the pool of emesis on the floor, not easy to spot but there nonetheless, hovering just within the focus of his vision, sitting and waving and shouting, doing something both familiar and somehow odd, all at the same time. With a start he realized what he was looking at. It was an auction, taking place within the puddle of phlegm and saliva and gastric juices, accompanied by a great deal of noise and a ruckus of selling and bidding. It seemed illogical at first, almost crazy, but after a moment or two it all appeared very normal. It was an auction indeed, and the auction was of wonderful things. Jona clenched his fists to stop the shaking of his fingers and hands.

He listened carefully. The next item up to be sold was ‘La Boheme’, one of his very favorite operas. The auctioneer began the bidding with a voice of brass: ‘We begin at one thousand. One thousand for ‘La Boheme’. Who will open?’

‘Excuse me,’ Jona asked diffidently. ‘How do we pay?’

The auctioneer ignored him and went on with his call. ‘One thousand. One thousand lives for ‘La Boheme’. Who will open?’

Jona considered the price, trying to stay cold and calculating about the whole matter, although he could feel a chill sweat coming over him. One thousand lives for something as precious as ‘La Boheme’ did not seem like very much. One thousand anonymous lives? Maybe duplicate lives, or maybe even triplicate? Anyway, would they be lives living now or lives from some remote past, long forgotten, while the music lived on? Maybe not even human lives at all. Ten hecatombs of burly oxen would do just as well perhaps, a sacrifice sufficient to redeem a masterpiece. Maybe, maybe, just maybe it could be imaginary lives. There were thousands of lives in the Iliad and War and Peace, and Les Miserables after all. Surely the genius of this music had to be saved for the benefit of all humanity? ‘Yes, one thousand,’ he said as calmly as he could.

‘Alright then, do I hear two thousand? Two thousand lives?’ The bidding price was repeated several times, with no response. Jona sat frozen, unsure what to do. Somehow, he had not anticipated that the price might go up. Should he bid again? Against himself? Two thousand could not possibly be too much to pay for such a priceless gift, could it?

A quick kerfuffle erupted within the lake of slimy emesis, a rapid flitting and fluttering of shadowy forms and suddenly a new voice was heard. ‘That item is withdrawn,’ the voice said. ‘Instead, the ‘Queen of the Night’ from ‘The Magic Flute’ is being offered. Do I hear one hundred? One hundred lives for the ‘Queen of the Night?’

To Jona, this was a serious blow. He longed for an entire opera, like all of ‘La Boheme’, not just one character. What use was only one? On the other hand, what would happen to the queen’s aria, the famous one, the one where the vengeance of hell blazed in her heart, the one that stabbed straight to the soul with glorious, frightening, staccato notes in high F. What did she say as she sang? The words came floating to him as clearly as if he were lying in bed right next to her with his ear held close to the grammaphone:

Outcast be forever,

Forsaken be forever,

Shattered be forever

All our natural bonds

How strange the words sounded to Jona. What does that mean, he thought. What are natural bonds?

He wanted to bid, and after all, one hundred lives did not sound very dear, but his mind was spinning too fast to speak up. As he watched, the Queen was whisked away, and the great mosque of Cordoba was wheeled up to the auction stand, and behind that he could see Bathers at a Lake, and yet afterwards in line a bejeweled byzantine icon shimmering in the sun, and in the distance Jona could see Ecstasy of Saint Teresa, though he wasn’t sure whether it was a painting or a sculpture. He wanted to see them all, and bid for each, and gift them all to humankind to make up for the lives paid, but his brain began to vibrate violently, and his body began to shake so hard that he could not stay seated. He slid to the floor clutching his sides, curling up in submission to the pain lancing through his belly. He felt himself fading away despite the excruciating spasms. He didn’t want to. He wanted to stay a bit longer, and enjoy the beauty that was unveiled before him, and taste its sweetness. But before the ghastly loneliness of darkness subdued him completely, he could just make out a familiar form in the muck and mucous on the floor, for just the briefest moment. It was he himself, Jona, covered in slime, standing on the auction block, bound, bruised and beaten, back bent and bowed, bleeding as the bidding began.

The smell of roses saturated the air, making each breath a warm, exotic embrace. Small fingers ruffled his hair, and stroked his hand. A vision of his mother came to him. Not her face, because he had no memory of her face, but a vision of what it felt like to be sitting by her side, his arm around her waist and hers around his neck. She murmured something, then coughed a few times, then all was peaceful again.

Time passed.

Time passed.

Time passed.

His eyes opened.

A man sat opposite him. He seemed like a very large man, with a very small head sheathed in a tiny hat, and a stern, impassive face. After a few moments, Jona saw that there were some other men, very tall and ugly men, standing behind him. They appeared stern also.

The large man spoke, saying each word very precisely and somewhat slowly, as if he were practicing enunciation. “Hello Dr. Lieb. I have wanted to meet you.”

Jona nodded but could not speak. His legs and hands were shaking, making a strange jangling sound.

The man waited quite a bit, but continued when he saw there would be no response. “Just curious. Do you know who that was, the old man you were speaking with yesterday?”

“Y-y-yes. A spy.”

The merest flicker of a smile creased the man’s lips, so fleeting it left no trace. “And you, Dr. Lieb. What are you?”

“Please, please…I need a… a treatment. Find my pipe, please.” Jona’s stomach heaved, and a trickle of bile bubbled up out of his mouth. He felt as if he were being eviscerated. “Now. Please.”

“Do not worry. You will get the treatment you need. I ask again. What are you?”

Jona realized he was in a bed with crisp white starched sheets bathed with the smell of antiseptics. He flailed in attempting to sit up and saw the flash of stainless steel on his wrists, and felt an unyielding bite against his flesh. He was chained to the sides of the bed, cuffed at his wrists and ankles to left and right, spread eagled. Unthinkingly, reflexively, he continued to thrash, moving his head mightily back and forth, struggling with his shoulders and hips. Groaning turned to sobbing, then screaming. There were no words, only the frantic wails of injury, and fear, and helplessness. A white clad woman rushed forward from the back of the room, holding a large glass syringe in her hand, but the large man stopped her with a peremptory wave.

“Dr. Lieb, you will hurt yourself. Try not to be too stupid. You are bound and cannot escape.” He paused with an air of supreme command. “I want to do the right thing. With you. With the whole affair that is afoot here. I know you are not feeling well right now. I am sure you are feeling frustrated, both with what’s happening now, but also generally. It must be hard knowing how deeply you disappointed your father in the past. That is quite a burden to bear, I am sure. But, this is where we are. You are due to meet the president the day after next, and so we must decide whether that should happen. So I ask once more. What are you?”

Jona continued to squirm, but less violently, as he vomited again. He tried to blink away the salty burn of sweat and tears filling his eyes.

“What are you?” The question was insistent, unrelenting. “What are you?”

What are you?

Abruptly, Jona went limp. The stink of his own vomit filled his nostrils. His brain whirled with a chaotic string of thoughts, each one flashing like a shooting star, and just like the big man’s brief smile, leaving no trace behind. Something finally congealed in his mind, something that formed tangibly, something coherent he could say. “A message,” he mumbled. “I am a message.”

The man gestured the nurse to come forward, and soon there was merciful oblivion.

Something was moving over his scalp, perhaps a small creature, a gentle one. It awakened Jona just enough to let him dream. He imagined Marielle lying next to him. No words were necessary between them. They spoke to one another through glances and touches, and the almost imperceptible movements of lips and cheeks. She ran her fingers through his hair, massaging gently. The smell of orange blossom enveloped them both, drugging them with the power of its scent. It was a dream he wished never to end, but it did, and he continued to sleep. At one moment he opened one eye barely wide enough to see the splash of a starched white sleeve and a flash of transparent glass next to his skin before he lapsed back into a state of nothingness.

Time passed.

Time passed.

Time passed.

His eyes opened.

An angel appeared before him, smiling, her hand on his forehead, rubbing slowly as if to bring him back to life. Jona closed his eyes again, and slept again. When he awakened she was there still, now sitting at the foot of his bed, gazing at him. He had her in better focus now, and began to make out her face. At first she appeared ghostly, ethereal, somehow other worldly. She was truly angelic. She smiled and slid closer to him on the bed. Her left arm was heavily bandaged, he saw. Her hair was lustrous white, her lips pale, and the pupils of her eyes an almost invisible lucent gray. Her body seemed to shimmer, much brighter than the sterile spill of light from the lamp next to his bed. He stared for a long moment, unable to speak, overcome by her beauty.

She touched him on his arm and smiled. When she spoke, her voice fluttered rapidly, vibrating like the wings of a butterfly. “I am so happy to see you awake, and I do hope you are feeling better.”

Jona tried to smile back. The familiar feeling of nausea arose within him, but milder than previously. “Where am I?”

“You are fortunate that I am here to tell you, let me tell you, because when they brought me in here no one had the balls to tell me where I was.”

Her words entered Jona’s brain piecemeal, making no sense to him. “Where?”

She answered promptly. “The Jefferson Davis Hospital for The Troubled, Deluded, Sick of Mind, and Perfectly Sane. That’s where.”

Jona tried desperately to process what she said. His mind churned sluggishly, lost in a deep fog. “Hospital?”

“Well that’s what they call it. It’s really a prison, though. See?” She flicked one of his handcuffs with her finger. “No escape. They think that, anyway.”

“And you?”

“Oh, you can call me Guinevere. She was a queen, you know. Gwen will do.”

Jona nodded. He wanted to know more but he must have fallen asleep again, and when he opened his eyes once more, she was gone. The large man came in to see him after that, but only briefly. He was accompanied by another, a thin, gawky man with owl’s eyes and a pronounced turkey chin. They didn’t seem to care whether Jona was awake or asleep, and talked freely at his bedside. The words were unclear, but the large man with the shrunken head spoke with choppy, intense importance. Finally, he waved his arms over his head, as if conducting an orchestra, and made a loud proclamation, and by his tone it was clear that everyone had to obey. It was an order strange and inscrutable, as if it portended great things. Announce it on the radio, he said, and that was all, and then he vanished like a hobgoblin whose trick was played and done. The part of Jona’s mind that was conscious drifted in wonderment and confusion. Announce it on the radio, the man had said. Announce what? The Grand Prize Winner? Tomorrow’s weather? Baseball scores? Somehow, it sounded more important than that, but since it had nothing to do with Jona he allowed it all to fade away.

Later, Jona felt the stroking of his hair again, prompting him to open his eyes as quickly as he could. It was Gwen, sitting next to him with radiant amusement in her smile. “I was wondering when you would wake up. I know just about every hair on your head by now.”

“Something told me it was you.” He smiled back. “Gwen, why are you here?” The question was suddenly urgent, her answer an immediate need that had to be fulfilled. “Here. With me. Why?”

Her cheeks flushed the palest possible ochre, her eyes darkened with a halo of blue, and she quickly drew both hands into her lap. “This will sound silly. Crazy, actually.”

“Please.” Jona wanted to grasp her hand, and squeeze it, and try to understand why a woman so beautiful would sit by his side.

“I have always felt that we would meet. I don’t even know your name, but that doesn’t matter. It was you that I would meet, almost as if it were destiny. My destiny, anyway. You were written into my journal from the beginning, the lover that would mark all the days of my life. I don’t know, maybe you are just in my imagination, or a magical creation that’s not real.” She gave a nervous laugh, fidgeting with some loose threads hanging from her bandages. ‘“So, what is your name? Even if you’re a work of magic, you still must have a name.”

Jona stayed stock still, his eyes locked on hers. The buzzing in his brain was better, and he was able to think more clearly. He gave the best smile that he could, trying hard not to show any pain. “My name is Lancelot. He was a knight once, you know.”

“Then I will call you Lance.”

“Speak to me, Guinevere. Tell me about how we came to meet, and how destiny brought us together.”

And so she talked, hurriedly at times and at other times more slowly, but without ever stopping. Gwen explained that Lance had been brought to the hospital in a terrible state. He was unconscious when admitted, moaning incoherently, and trembling like a leaf. Shivering, actually, as if he had been plucked from an arctic sea. He was now O so much better, she could see that, but she was sure they planned to keep him captive indefinitely. As for herself, she was a political prisoner, incarcerated without trial for speaking out against the evils of the regime. They had tortured her as he could see by the bandaging on her forearm, but she had held firm. Shyly, she admitted that she had joined a certain resistance group, one which could not be named, to carry on the work of a past lover named Shylock. Wait, she said, his name was actually Sherlock. Shylock was his secret name. Sadly he had died a cruel death in a shootout with Seminole Rangers while attempting to flee to Peru, and was now considered a national hero by almost everyone. Anyway, she had always known that someone else would come into her life, another hero, a greater hero even than either poor Sherlock or Shylock, a person who would sweep into her life like the north wind. Just to be clear, a person actually from the north sweeping in like the north wind, or perhaps a hurricane, which was so much stronger. Either one would be correct. And so here they both were, Gwen and Lance, together at last, just as the stars had predicted.

Lance noticed that as she spoke her eyes flicked back and forth, as if they were either seeking the light or avoiding the light. He interrupted her. “Can you see?”

Gwen recoiled as if slapped. “Well, Lance, that was uncalled for. It’s somewhat shitty to ask a high born lady like myself a question like that, don’t you think? If you must know, I can see just fine right around where I am. I can see even better over there, and over there, and there.” She pointed in random, far away directions, then laughed. “I can see your confusion. That makes my vision just fine.”

Lance felt disoriented and wanted to close his eyes to rest. Before he did, though, he asked one more question. “How do you know what’s going on?”

“Oh, I’ve been watching.” Gwen began laughing again, almost hysterically, laughing with a soft twang in her voice. “That’s what I do. I’ve been watching. Here. There. Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow.”

Lance was awake when the nurse came in with his next injection. He was more lucid now, and as his mind cleared his anger exploded. “Get me outta these!” He bellowed the words as loud as he could, yanking mightily on the chains that bound him. His wrists were already macerated from previous attempts to free himself, but he did not stop despite the pain.

“These are for your own protection, sweetie. They’ll be off soon enough, promise. Here now, Doctor wants you to get this.” She plunged the needle into his thigh, rubbed the site with alcohol, and stepped back with a pious appearance of accomplishment. “I guess I shouldn’t tell you this, but you might want to know they’ll be transferring you tomorrow morning. Goin’ somewhere special they say, don’t know where. It will be for your own good, for sure. Well, hon, see you later.”

As he slipped into insensibility Jona’s mind rocked back and forth between two thoughts that shouted at him simultaneously, like barkers at a fair. I’ve got to get out of here, one said, and I want to die, said the other.

“At the very least, he’s an annoyance.” Patton puffed out the words, and immediately began reaching for the gold trimmed lighter in his pocket, as if he were disinterested in any discussion of the matter.

MENTOR made a show of stroking his chin thoughtfully before responding. Inwardly, he smirked at the comment. Very typical of low IQ types, it was meant to be a probe, a non-question form of question that would smoke out the respondent. In reality, it gave Mentor the flexibility to command the conversation and lead it in any direction he wished. He gazed into Patton’s eyes carefully. By no means did he want to underestimate the cocky bastard who sat behind his enormous desk with legs crossed, cigar firmly planted in his mouth, and service beret planted even more firmly over his head. He acted very much like he was king of the world, but to MENTOR he seemed more like a performer on a vaudeville stage, made up as a parody of a military man. Patton wore jeweled pinky rings on both hands, and two rings on his right forefinger, one large enough to accommodate a state seal. His cheeks smelled of lavender, every crease in his suit was razor sharp, and his fingernails were manicured. He was a fraud, but a dangerous fraud.

“Hard to say. Maybe you could use him to your advantage, though, somehow.”

“Yeah? How?”

MENTOR counted to three before answering. “This is awkward. I don’t want to give advice that might prove to be…difficult. Let’s be candid. Some measures, though necessary, might be a bit rough in execution, and might not be considered appropriate in polite circles.”

Patton reared his head back and gave a loud guffaw, then leaned forward aggressively, consuming the distance between the two men. “Did you say rough? You don’t know me very well, Mr. MENTOR. I am sandpaper rough. I’ve got grit. If something needs to be done, I’m not backing down from anything or anybody.”

“Frankly, general, that’s why I’ve admired you from a distance. Your strength. People see that in you. They feel it, too. As far as this fellow is concerned, a demonstration of strength is exactly what’s needed. Remember, there is no possible way the North can do anything about it.” MENTOR pointed at the thick pile of manila folders on Patton’s desk.

He had brought top secret files with him. Many files. He had decided that these would be his entrance fee into Patton’s presence, proving his bona fides as a loyal and capable agent of the southern cause. There were military preparedness reports, infantry fitness reports, naval and marine unit supply reports. Most importantly, an assessment of morale in the northern armed forces. They all spoke to an undeniable conclusion: The northern colossus was an empty shell, completely unprepared for war both now and for the foreseeable future. Patton ruffled through the various dossiers without actually reading any. He threw a glance at Lehr, the Intelligence chief, standing quietly at the edge of the desk. “You agree with all this, right?”

“Yes sir. Actually, they look like punching bags to me. Not one unit is at full strength. As for fighting spirit, they are in the dumps, while we are unrivaled.”

“Alright, then. Good work, both of you.” Patton gleamed. “So, Lieb is a spy, right? An agent of a foreign power, right? And the two goons with him, also agents, right?”

MENTOR nodded his head with each accusation. “Sure seems that way. All three. Agents.”

Patton stood up briskly, allowing a ragged smile to cleave his face. “Need to round up the two bodyguards. Lehr, where are they?”

Lehr’s jaw seemed to vibrate momentarily, causing the rolls of fat beneath his chin to jiggle perversely against his straw thin neck. “We have them under watch. They haven’t left the hospital waiting room since Lieb was brought in, sleeping a lot, drinking coffee a lot, pissing a lot. Haven’t allowed them to see him, though.”

“How devoted. Put them under arrest.”

“Respectfully, sir, we are moving Lieb tomorrow. The doctors say his withdrawal symptoms are better, but his brain may be fried at this point. Why don’t we make all three arrests formally and at the same time in the morning?”

Before Patton could answer MENTOR cut in. “What about the president? What will he say?” He placed a tone of anxiety in his voice, just subtle enough to register but without expressing alarm.

“I don’t give a good goddamn what he thinks. We are going to play it my way, and that’s final. I’ve got a couple thousand troops in town. Three brigades. Who’s gonna say ‘no’?”

MENTOR was satisfied that his immediate task was accomplished. “He’s going to get hot.”

Patton struck a fabulous pose, one he surely must have seen in a movie, jutting his jaw out to an upward angle and to the right, and sweeping his hands to his hips. “Well, stay tuned on your radio dial. It’s going to get a whole helluva lot hotter.”

Jona was awake the next time Gwen came into his room, though he pretended to be asleep. It was deathly black, but a dull white crack of light appeared at the doorway, resembling the first glimpse of a happily waxing crescent moon. She padded toward him quietly, but he could hear each footstep despite the lightness of its touch, sounding like the barest rustle of young spring leaves at the very tip of a treetop. The bed sighed gently as she sat, and then he felt her hand seeking him, touching him finally. He had a quick vision of her, imagining how white and long her legs must be, and how thick her hair, and the thought of her sitting next to him in the dark just before dawn shot an electric thrill through him. Then the shaking began, and all his thoughts turned inward.

“Lance.” She held him by the shoulder. “Lance, are you alright? I have to talk to you.” She squeezed with barely enough pressure to make herself felt.

He grasped her hand, reaching to the limit of his chains, holding it as if letting go would cast him adrift in a roaring tempest. “I am better. It’s not as bad this time. Please help me.” He thrashed weakly now because the abrasions around wrists and ankles caused pain with every movement.

“Listen.” She leaned close, breathing into his ear, rushing on as if she had not heard a word he said. “Stay quiet, we don’t want them to hear us. Lance, we’ve got to get out of here.”

The tremors continued a few further moments before beginning to abate. Jona breathed deeply, seeking Gwen’s face in the darkness. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean is that something terrible is going to happen in the morning. I think they’re going to hang you, or shoot you, or maybe poison you. You, and your police friends too.”

A shock of memory rushed into Jona’s awareness. “Andrews? Murphy? Where are they?”

“They’ve been down in the lobby all this time. People are saying they smell awful, and the burly one wants to rape me, I am sure. Don’t worry about them, they’ll be fine.”

“But you just said…”

“Never mind what I said, Lance!” Her voice rose to a quiet shrill. Lance could feel the heat from her mouth as her lips hovered against his cheek. “Listen! This is the queen talking, and you must obey. We’re all up shit’s creek if we don’t move quickly. Lance! Talk to me!”

Jona tried to shake the fog from his mind. “OK. No. Wait. How? Where? How? Why?”

Gwen pinched him on the cheek. “Can you hear me? We’ve got to move quick, before the nurse comes back for your next injection. We’ve got an hour at most, that’s it.”

“What injection?”

“I don’t know. They’re giving you some kind of something they call fiend of barber medication.”

“Barber?” Jona closed his eyes, squeezing hard. There was something, something very important, floating just beyond the haze that shrouded him. He tried to tick off every item that he could pluck from his memory. Gwen. Hospital. Andrews. Murphy. Jona. Lance. Tiny headed man. Nurse…More began to pour out of the mist, drop by drop, then more rapidly, like off-notes from a trumpet. Atlanta. Mission. Mariella. Elfieda, Alexor, Koehlerman, Yevugeny, Oshter. Bargabazian. Father. Mother…each new name, and face, and word added flesh and bone and sinew, and soon he felt himself begin to emerge from the shadows. He tried to arise, forgetting that he was bound to the bed.

“Sons of bitches!” He roared as loudly as he could, roaring until his head pounded. “Sons of bitches get me outta this!”

“Shush!” Gwen attempted to cover Lance’s mouth with her hand. “Shush, they’ll hear you and come in here and find me and it’s all over. I’m telling you for the last time we’ve got to escape before it’s too late.”

Lance quieted down but shook his manacles in frustration. “What about these?”

“I can get you out of those with no problem. The keys are at the desk and the night bitch sleeps for hours at a time, the fat slut. The orderly is playing poker in the basement. He wants to rape me too, just so you know. He’s already tried. Anyway, I know every hallway and back stairway in this place, and they’re too stupid to care. They can’t even imagine there might be any trouble. You see…” She patted him on the forehead soothingly. “You see, we are the only customers on this floor, my brave knight, and it’s not the bargain basement. We are very special indeed. Haut couture.”

“OK, OK. I want out of these cuffs no matter what.” Lance stared hard at where he thought her face might be, and for an instant thought he could see two pale orbs staring back at him with cat-like intensity. “OK. You free me from these first. Then you get me back to my men. Then we’ll talk about escape. Hurry.”

Murphy found himself daydreaming. Not his usual dream, though. This one was different. Half remembrance, half reflection, half regret and half repine mixed and blended, swirling and skimming in and out of his mind’s eye. He saw his dreary flat on M Street, empty and dark, and watched as the sun’s rays started to pour through the curtains in the early morning. His bed and couch became background silhouettes as the light sharpened in intensity, and gradually the beams of sunlight came to a focus, illuminating a chair, and there he was, just as Murphy anticipated. It was Father Gus, sitting patiently as he always seemed to do. He waved pleasantly at Joseph, then assumed that peculiar look in his eye and stiff curve to his lip, the way he always did when he was sad.

Were you good today, Joseph?

I did my prayers this morning, like you told me.

Did you?

Naw, not really. Can’t say that I will, either.

Then how in God’s name will you be saved?

That’s just it, Father. The world will save me, just as soon as I’m old enough to get out of this joint.

No, Joseph. The world will corrupt you, not save you.

So what? What do you care, anyway?

Father Gus sighed, a very loud sigh, the way he did when disappointment was too great to hide. Imagine, Joseph, imagine that God created a beautiful tapestry, endless in its length, and on it he tells the story of each of us, and imagine it is carefully folded up and stored away forever, and imagine again that you are one of the folds, lying between one above and one below. If I can save your fold from the mildew and rot consuming it, then I can save the one above and the one below, and the next ones to either side, and on and on to eternity.

And save yourself?

Yes.

You’re a nice guy, Father Augustus, but I just don’t believe in that stuff. I want to go out and get a job, and make money, and buy a suit and nice shoes, and meet some broads, and smoke cigars. Until then I want to play baseball is all. You know what I’m talking about, right?

What grade are you in now, Joseph? You’ve grown into a full lad, I can see. Are you a sophomore?

Yes. I’ll be sixteen soon. Then I’m outta here, believe me.

Aye, sixteen. That was a hard age for me. I wanted nothing from anyone but everything from everyone. I can tell you plainly that I lusted, and not just in my heart. I was back in the old country then. Times were rough and people were tough and so I hardened my heart to suit the part. I was your age when my teacher had me read Pascal’s wager. Do you know it?

No. Father, please let me go now. Excuse my French but this is so much bullshit.

Sit there a touch until I’m done, now won’t you. There was a man, his name matters not. He thought and thought about it and didn’t know whether to believe in God. He was smart, though something of a shyster, I think. He couldn’t do it on the basis of faith, you see, couldn’t just believe, so he decided he would make the decision in the same way he would make a bet. Look here.

Father Gus began to draw on an imaginary blackboard suspended in the air, the squealing of the chalk sounding like so many lambs being led to slaughter. He was standing suddenly at a lectern, tapping at the blackboard forcefully.

You see, it’s like this: Place your bet on God. If you’re right you win eternal bliss. Not bad, eh? If you’re wrong, there’s nothing lost. Now, if you don’t bet on God and you’re right, then sure, there’s nothing lost. But if you’re wrong, then beware, you get eternal damnation. And the most important thing to remember: God really does exist. Must exist, actually. Id quo maius cogitari nequit, after all. Surely you agree with that, it’s so obvious. So, Joseph, which would you choose?

I choose No.

You are being illogical, dear boy. You should play the odds and believe. What do you have to lose?

Maybe my mind. You make it sound like playing craps. Does God roll dice?

Father Gus towered over him now, standing at the high altar, extending his hand with the Eucharist wafer held delicately between thumb and forefinger.

Believe.

No.

Believe.

No.

You think that yourself is all you have, but you are wrong. If you don’t believe in this you will never believe in anything, not even yourself.

Murphy’s eyes snapped open. There was a sound, coming from somewhere behind his chair. He sat very still, absorbing everything around him. Andrews was sleeping on an adjacent sofa, head thrown back but completely silent. The lights in the lobby were on but dimmed. The receptionist sitting near the lobby entrance sat with his head down, immersed in a comic book. Murphy heard the sound again, a rubbing or chaffing sound. He decided to turn his head, slowly and carefully.

A poorly lit form stood in the shadow of a foyer leading to the public water fountain, and beyond that the men’s toilet closet. Someone was there, bundled up in overcoat, scarf, and widely brimmed hat, a small man whose face was obscured. He was leaning against the doorway, rubbing his hand repeatedly back and forth against a cast iron radiator, making an almost imperceptible ruffling sound. The man stopped when Murphy turned his head, and then began waving frantically, gesturing the agent to come over. After some hesitation Murphy arose from his armchair, but before he could take a step the man in the alcove pointed repeatedly at Andrews, held up two fingers, then pointed towards the bathroom. Murphy stopped dead in his tracks, now hyper-vigilant. There was something odd about the man, even beyond his bizarre gesticulations. He was dressed absurdly, especially given the time of year, and seemed to be maneuvering himself in order to stay at least partly out of sight. His frame was frail, discerned easily despite the bulk of his overcoat, and his hands appeared unnaturally pale and boney. Three thoughts came to Murphy simultaneously. Shit, it’s a woman. She must be a kook. Either way she’s high as a kite.

He toyed with the thought of sitting back down when another form appeared behind the first, just for an instant, then flitted back into the darkness like a dim wraith. It was a wraith with a limp. Murphy felt a quick thrill as he made a show of stretching and yawning, then sat down heavily next to Andrews. “Wake up.”

His partner barely moved but opened one eye. “Go away.”

“I think I just saw Lieb.”

Andrews sat bolt upright. He followed Murphy’s lead, speaking in a whisper. “Where?”

Murphy nodded in the direction of the vestibule, where the heavily clothed woman continued her mime with short, rapid gestures. Andrews watched silently for a few moments. “It’s a woman.”

“Yeah. This dame is calling us over, and I saw Lieb right behind her a minute ago. They’re together, I’m sure of it.”

Andrews remained impassive, processing the situation. Despite the protests of the two agents, and an ugly confrontation between Murphy and a State Trooper guarding the elevator, they had not been allowed to see their charge since he was rushed to the sanatorium the day before. The elevator was now locked down and the stairwells were barricaded. There was no way up and, in any case, the two agents had no idea where Lieb was being held. A very young looking doctor had come down to tell them that Lieb was in a state of collapse because of chemical withdrawal, and could have no visitors. He also mentioned somewhat officiously that opioid use was illegal in Georgia. They had received no further information since then. They were in a kind of political purgatory, with their fate very uncertain. Murphy had told Andrews that he was sure all this would end in a gunfight.

Andrews glanced quickly at the lobby’s large glass exit doors leading to the street outside. They were firmly shut and undoubtedly locked. A trooper armed with a heavy gauge shotgun stood in the street directly outside the doors and behind him two police cruisers were parked on the sidewalk, blocking egress. There could be no doubt they were crammed with heavily armed troopers.

He poked Murphy with his elbow. “Do you think it’s a setup?”

“I’m thinking it could be. Or it could be Lieb is trying to escape.”

“This is much too fanciful to be a trap. A mystery lady? Too elaborate. I think it’s real.”

“OK. In that case, let’s go to the little boy’s room. I need to pee.”

“I’ll go first. Wait one minute and follow. Unless you hear gunshots.”

Murphy idled as Andrews dissolved into the shadows of the foyer and disappeared around the corner, followed by the woman. He searched the half-illuminated waiting room. The front desk receptionist had placed his head down on his sprawled arms, appearing asleep. There was no one else around. After thirty seconds had gone by, he arose and sauntered casually after Andrews.

The narrow vestibule was poorly lit, but a ribbon of bright light fluoresced below the bathroom door. Murphy opened the door carefully and swung his head forward to look inside. There was Jona Lieb, grinning wickedly, and standing behind him a satanic apparition. It was the woman in the greatcoat. Her hat was off, revealing pure white hair streaming over her shoulders and face, partially obscuring eyes that were so pellucid they seemed to be lenses to a microscope. She looked like a witch from a frightening fairy tale, one where the beautiful princess didn’t make it out alive.

“Hello, Murph.” Lieb spoke with a detectable thickness to his words, as if he were half asleep.

“Dr. Lieb, what’s going on? Are you alright?”

Lieb shot his hand up forcefully. “Stop. My name is Lance.”

Andrews locked eyes with Murphy, lifting one eyebrow briefly. “Alright, Lance. Please, tell us what you are up to. Why are you down here? Why aren’t you in your room? Who is the lady?”

Lance threw his hand up even higher. “No questions right now. We’re going on an adventure. Like a quest.” He turned towards Gwen, placing his arm around her shoulder before turning back towards the two agents. His grin was cavernous, his face was pale, and his eyes darted quickly, unnaturally, from Murphy to Andrews. “First, we get out of here.”

“Settle down for a minute, Mr. Lance. Just how do we do that?” Murphy did not hide his sarcasm.

“That’s easy, you stupid jerk.” It was Gwen, speaking in a high trilling voice while offering her sweetest smile. She placed her arm around Lance’s waist, tugging gently. “We fly.”

Chapter 33

Pickett struggled to find the right words. He was not a natural writer, and he knew he was not a great thinker. Nonetheless, it was imperative to strike just the right chord in his speech to the country. Broadcasting a message to an entire nation was very different from whipping troops into a frenzy before a big fight. He would be speaking into a microphone in a studio far removed from the ordinary folk who would be listening. He wasn’t even sure what they wanted to hear. Wisdom? Not his forte. Reassurance? That would be dishonest. Inspiration? He felt little himself. On top of all that, he steeled himself for the possibility of an awkward confrontation with Patton. He still didn’t know with certainty whether he would be allowed to leave the hotel, now surrounded by a security cordon that extended blocks in every direction. Very possibly, he was a political prisoner victimized by a military coup.

He had a prepared speech, of course. He actually had two. One was very short, just a few words of mindless drivel and meaningless patter, a plea to keep up spirits. The other was a lengthy exegesis, a soulless, matter-of-fact recitation of the national problem list and the measures needed to resolve each one. He could feel that both were wrong. Something more was needed, something that would feed into a new identity and that would help the country through the trauma of a new birth. He pondered some words that had come to him in the early morning, darting into his mind through an unseen back door as he suffered a recurring bout of pain in his chest. The searing spasms were more frequent now, attacking violently even in the dead of night. Once again that morning, the tightness over his heart had caused him to gasp breathlessly, and it was just then that a thought spewed out of the web of agony that gripped him. He wondered aloud what his story was to be after he was gone. What would people say about him? The same thought threaded in and out of his mind the remainder of the morning, pursuing him relentlessly. As he sat down at his desk to write, the words bled out spontaneously from his pen onto the paper.

What is our story?

He stared at the page for a moment, then continued. What is our people’s story?

He paused again. The past has its own memory, and it becomes history. What will history remember?

As if he were a boy again, Pickett licked the tip of his pen, poised for the exquisite instant between that which was present and that which was to come. And then the words came flooding, and he began to write:

They will remember we were brave. For it takes great courage to shake off the shackles of the commonplace and of the comfortable and risk all to seek a new life of freedom. Freedom not just for the one, but communally, together, in a way that lifts every soul and unburdens every heart, and creates new vistas of thought, and hope, and experiment where there had been none before. This is what humankind has dreamed of throughout all history, and what we poor tongued people of today are privileged to pray for and believe in.

Not every heart, and not every soul, however. Brave we were, but not heroic. I can attest that very few, so few of us, can be heroes. Buried within the seeds that blossomed with such fearful exfoliation lay a cancer. We know what it is without having to say it, a curse that shall not be named. Let me swear by all that is holy that I cannot believe we bear any guilt for this sin. That would be too much to bear for any of us. It was thrust upon us by the stormy hatreds and prejudices of the past, bequeathed as a spiteful gift that bore within itself the bitter fruits that we contend with today. We convinced ourselves it was for the good, and it was God’s way, and that it was in accordance with all of mankind‘s natural laws. So we kept on, oblivious to the world around us. Were we wrong or right? Can each of us answer that question, one by one, or must we answer to history with only one choice and one voice, as one nation? In any case, humanity has moved on to new laws of nature, and higher expressions of righteousness, and we are left behind to struggle with how to view the right, and do the right.

In the books of the Holy Writ, we are told of the stiff necked, the proud, the unyielding peoples who persisted in their iniquities even when told to repent. In return they suffered fire and lash, again and again. And so here we are, glorying in who we were, uncertain about who we are, not knowing who we should become. And, just like those of antiquity, not willing to atone.

We are a peculiar people. We were baptized in fire, and those who are baptized in fire must thenceforth be clothed in fire, either enflamed by ecstasy or consumed in agony. Which shall it be? Words and deeds of today cannot change the yesterday, but can chart our future. We are not here to simply relive the past. We are not here to pay homage to old truths that can no longer be sustained. We are here to seize the day, this very day, and fashion it to our will. The road we choose now will become our story, the story of us, the story that history will tell down to the latter ages…

Pickett suddenly threw his pen down, clutching at his vest, digging with his fingertips as if to grasp the very tissue of his very heart, trying to hold back the hoarse moan exploding from his throat. He pushed the buzzer for his secretary, Mosby, who burst into the room within seconds.

“Mr. President!” Mosby checked Pickett’s pulse, which seemed barely discernible. “I’m calling the doctor!” He picked up the desk phone and barked some words into it.

“It’s the last muster, pard, don’t bother.”

“Hang in there, sir, please.”

“Tell me. Do you think we are guilty? I don’t want to have guilt, don’t want to leave it behind.” The words were clear, though spoken through clenched teeth and with the deepest sigh.

Mosby grasped Pickett’s hand. He searched Pickett’s eyes, feeling not sadness but profound regret for the older man. “Only your Maker can decide that. It’s not too late, even now, to implore His forgiveness.”

Forgiveness. Pickett did not understand the word. He had never understood it. What was forgiveness? A word? An act? With a word, conceive an act…and then what? Forgive. The word is the act. And what does it do? Send a ripple through all Creation, changing everything before and everything to come? He found his breath more labored, his exhalations more prolonged, and a low whoop escaped from his throat. “My will…it will take care of Maddy…”

With a firm squeeze, Mosby raised Pickett’s hand to his own chest. “Fear not for Maddy. I will see to it. May I pray? I beg you to allow me…” He began the Lord’s prayer in a barely audible whisper.

Pickett could hear nothing. He felt himself lost in a dull shimmer coalescing around him, one that stretched a long way away, the last awareness he would have before the end would come. He sought the face of his mother by the hearth, or his sweet Martha smiling at him through beams of moonlight, but neither appeared. Instead, he found himself in a warm bath, feeling the delicious tingle of the flesh as drops of water and sweat coursed down his spine and across his muscled arms. He felt himself immersed in waters of remembrance and anticipation, and could feel the supple power of life rustle through him like a blanket shaken gently in the wind, and then, with the barest breath of avowal, he expired.

“Did you read this?” Patton held the paper in one hand, tapping it with the forefinger of the other.

“No sir, I did not. We were preoccupied with the last…moments.”

“It’s good. One part of it, anyway. This stuff about being forged in flames, I feel like I’m in ecstasy right now, get it? I’m gonna read it to mother.” He looked up quickly, scowling at Mosby. “I already know I like it, and I’ll be using that line myself in just a few hours when I give my speech. Just want her to know, is all.”

“Yes sir.”

“Well, this sad affair takes care of the little tussle about who was going to speak to the country this afternoon. Off the record, I was gonna let him say a few words and then introduce me. That woulda been delicious, don’t you think? What did he say at the end?” Patton sat down in Pickett’s chair with a leisurely sprawl.

“Could not hear, I’m afraid.” Mosby bowed his head as he lied, afraid to show any emotion. He had been able to have only a few moments alone with the dying Pickett before his personal bodyguards stormed in with a typhoon of motion and noise, and then the doctor had come with his useless bag of toothpicks, sterile cotton earplugs, scrub pads, probing rods and ammonia salts, clearing out enough space around the body to allow his corpulent frame to settle comfortably. It took him less than a minute to pronounce the man dead, then he trotted off with a smirk on his face and a lock of curly hair he had surreptitiously snipped from the corpse. Mosby had wanted to strangle him on the spot and shoot the clerks and guards and typists and other hangers on who had rushed in to gawk and point and cry, much as they would if a heart tugging movie had just ended. No one seemed to understand or care that a great man had just died.

And then Patton had arrived. He was full of piss and vinegar, or at least acted that way. He ordered the removal of the body, the ejection of anyone not essential, and promptly placed a phone call during which he barked and growled and bayed like a rabid cur. At one point he snarled “Well, find his goddam ass!” To emphasize the point he slammed down the phone with enough force to break the handle. It did not take long to turn his ire on Mosby. “You shoudda made that call right away, not me.”

“What call, sir?!”

“Dammit, to Garner’s office! You remember him? The Vice President? Or were you too busy slobbering over your boss…Sorry, your late boss. Need to find Jack and get him sworn in. Turns out he’s down on the Nueces fishing bass. Guada-lupe bass, pardon his royal ass. Now we’ve got to send a party out after him, track him down, may take two, three days. In the meanwhile, the country’s got no godamm president! That’s a problem, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, sir. A problem.”

Patton squared his lips into a wicked grin and clapped his hands gleefully. “No, actually I guess it’s not. Not while I’m here it’s not. See, this is a perfect chance to declare that the state of martial law will be extended. Also, that we need to get more aggressive. Get the army out. Everywhere. The thing is, we don’t really know how or why our dear departed president actually died. You weren’t here. No one was. Was he shot? Poisoned? Strangled? Die of a broken heart? We don’t truly know, do we? To me, this has the stamp of a terrorist cabal written all over it. Maybe the North had something to do with it. You never know.”

Mosby felt unsteady for a moment, quailing at Patton’s rant. “You can’t be serious. Everyone knows the president suffered from a heart condition.”

“Oh, I be serious alright. In point of fact, almost no one knew about his state of health. One or two in the Cabinet, and they don’t care. Alden, his only true friend, I suppose. I’ll have to deal with him, but it won’t take much more than a bottle of bourbon and a bucket of ice cream to settle him down. The doctor, but he’s a moron….and…and…” Patton turned his back on Mosby, made a conspicuous show of looking out the window, removed his hat, and rubbed the skin over his bald head with slow, steady strokes. “And you, Captain. And you. You’re still an officer in the reserves, right? Still subject to call-up, I imagine.” He whirled quickly around, still grinning ferociously. “Only a captain, huh? Never made it close to your grandfather’s rank. Didn’t have that military instinct? A wee bit too Christian maybe. Still, everybody’s service is important. That’s right, ain’t it?”

Mosby had felt overcome, barely able to nod his head, and barely able to withstand Patton’s demonic glare. “The autopsy will show…”

“Those results will take weeks, maybe longer. I will insist that the doctors be very thorough. We’ll have to be very patient.” He paused to massage the smooth black mahogany of Pickett’s desk. “You liked him, didn’t you? I mean, you truly liked him.”

“Yessuh, I truly did.”

“Well, you’re a fool through and through. Look, he had one foot planted in the past and one foot planted in the future, but nothing fixed on today. Time don’t run that way, don’t you see? You have to get from yesterday through today before you get to….to whatever. It’s all about today, and his brain was always drifting somewhere else, like he was a goddamn Roman Ceasar. Not me. I’m right here, cuz, and right now.”

Patton chortled gleefully, jumped into the air, spryly clicked his heels, and had then begun to roam the office like a feral cat searching for living prey. Now he sat at the presidential desk, reading the speech Pickett had written just a few hours before, running a finger over the lines and jabbing at them, as if the words were dying but still warm. As he read, his face darkened. His finger wavered back and forth, giving the impression he was reading and re-reading the same line. “Hey, what is this shit about a cancer? A curse? What’s he saying?” He slid the paper across the desk for Mosby to read.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? Our system. How we run our social affairs. It was our original sin, and we don’t know how to expiate that sin. By God, I don’t think we can. I think, I really believe, that it will eat away at us until we turn into dry straw, a husk that drifts away with the tides of time.”

Patton sighed deeply, retrieved the paper, then ripped it repeatedly into small shreds and tossed them into the air. The pieces fluttered down, some slow and some fast, some catching the glint of light and some mere shadows, until they covered the desk like small paper seeds sown by a swift breeze. “Sick of hearing this stuff. Sin is everywhere, mankind was born in sin. You don’t think there is sinnin’ goin’ on among our cousins up north of here?” He jerked his thumb upwards. “Shit, the only place with any honesty right now is goddam Germany, where they callin’ a spade a spade. Anyway, ain’t nothin’ wrong with our system. Ain’t no sin. But there is a storm blowing, and it’s coming from overseas. Like I said, maybe Germany. Maybe Russia, maybe someplace we don’t even know yet, we’ll have to see. In a year or two, though, we’ll all be doing the same thing. You understand, right? With the undesirables.”

Mosby stood his ground, lifting his chin defiantly. As if performing a card trick, he deftly retrieved a pocket bible from his vest, holding it high over his head. “I was always taught that it was a great, redeeming benefit for savages to be baptized into the faith. It has occurred to me that with a small twist of fate I might have been the savage, and I have never understood why it was necessary to be a slave in order to receive the word of God. Now it seems to me our slaves and servants have more faith than we do. They should be teaching us, not the other way around. Every thinking person understands how the Mississippi millionaires got their money, and how the Texas tycoons operate their ranches, or the Birmingham mill owners make their steel. Everything around us is built on the blackbacks of laboring millions, that is the bare truth and the only excuse we can hold up to the mirror. I for one can’t stand it any longer, and others can’t, and the president understood that. Change is coming, General.”

“Bullshit. You’re wrapped up in your fancy ideas. Meet some ordinary people, folks running small farms, stores, gas stations, and ask them what they think, and they’ll tell you. Why…”

“Stop! Don’t say another word. You’ll just make a fool of yourself.”

“How dare you interrupt me!” Patton sprang to his feet, livid. “I will put you under court martial, sir!”

“Just trying to protect you, General. You’re too intelligent a man to believe what you were about to say. Robert Jones ran his operation right under our noses for years. If he was capable of that, he was capable of anything any one of us could do. And he’s not the only one. If you can’t understand that, then maybe you are one of the stiff necked.” He opened the Bible in his hand and thumbed the pages carefully. Straightening his back, he spoke with a stentorious ring to his voice. “So it is said in Micah: Listen, you rulers of Israel. Should you not embrace justice, you who hate good and love evil; who tear the skin from my people and the flesh from their bones; who eat my people’s flesh, strip off their skin and break their bones in pieces; who chop them up like meat for the pan, like flesh for the pot? Then they will cry out to the Lord, but he will not answer them.” He paused and took a deep breath. “So you see, general, the cry for justice still sounds loudly after two thousand years, and it will not be silenced.”

“You stupid, fucking windbag.” Patton took two steps around the desk, squared up in front of Mosby, and slapped him sharply across the cheek. “What are you gonna do about that? Think about it. You can’t do anything more about that than you can about the way things are. And the way things are is just fine with me. I know your kind, always preaching about the golden rule. You know what the golden rule is, you stupid ass? Those with the gold make the rules, that’s what. My momma taught me that and yours should have taught you the same. It’s about power, and I have the government and the army with me. And by the way, I have more than the army with me. I have the people. The whole people, the real army, marching with me. That’s right, the people. Crazed and fearful, self-righteous, shameful, ignorant, calculating, narrow minded, tired, angry, and most of them being more mindful of the shit they took in the morning than of anyone else’s suffering. That’s the people in all their majesty, the biggest fucking joke of all. Now get out, but don’t go too far. You’ll be getting a notice in the morning. Assignment orders for your new deployment, Captain.”

As Mosby performed a sharp about-face, his vision blurred briefly with anger, shame, and fear burning like hot pitch in the pit of his stomach. He marched out of the room stiffly, and as he did a ghostly image came to him. He imagined himself marching in the ranks of a long-lost battalion, part of a great gray army aligned in sad and shiftless rows, blank automatons walking with shoulders slumped and eyes vacant, a great army of the dead retreating from twilight into darkness.

Promise Stone maneuvered the suitcase easily despite its weight. It was bulky, but not too heavy to carry up the short flight of stairs to the radio station. When he got to the top there was another door, much like the one he had broken through at the foot of the stairs. With a heavy crowbar firmly in hand, he had the door unhinged and propped open within a few minutes.

It was dark inside, but not black. Dull yellow and green lights shone feebly from the equipment laid out along a long console in the control room. He could see the vague contours of the large round microphones standing like mannequins in the center of the broadcasting room, and the reflected sheen of the glass panes separating the transmitting area from the rest of the studio. As he surveyed his surroundings and allowed time for his vision to accommodate to the dim light, Promise realized there was a problem. There was nowhere to hide the suitcase where the broadcast hosts and guests were going to stand, and certainly nowhere to hide himself. The wires connecting to the detonator were no more than twenty feet long. He had been instructed to conceal the suitcase, or place it where it would not be noticed, and find whatever shelter he could within the length of the wires. Of course, the wires had to be laid carefully so as not to be seen, but that would not be too difficult to do. He had been told there would be a great deal of electrical wiring criss-crossing the floors of the studio, and it was so. Sheaves and bundles of cables were everywhere, on the floor and along the walls. But he had not been advised exactly where to put the suitcase, simply to place it somewhere near the microphones, and that seemed impossible.

Promise had not expected to think very hard about what he had to do, and the truth was that he didn’t want to think much about it at all. He preferred to carry out his task mechanically, like a machine with brainless valves and heartless pumps that burned kerosene for fuel and smoked when it was about to fail. Right now he felt as if his head actually was smoking from the friction of concentrated thought running through his brain. He vowed not to fail, even if he had to stand like a statue in the middle of the room to trigger the ignition. One way or the other, a detonation there would be. The only question was how many would perish by the force of the blast.

“Hey there, you’re early, arn’tcha!”

Stone froze. He could hear the shuffle of feet behind him, and then silence. Very slowly he turned, squinting into the shadows. A frail looking wraith floated into view, moving quickly towards the opposite wall. Promise tensed himself, readying to leap. Suddenly, the overhead lights blazed on with blinding brightness, and a young man with rumpled, corrugated face and wispy beard stood before him, smiling a vacuous smile. He had the chalky face of someone who rarely ventured outdoors.

“Well I’ll be,” he squealed. “You’re a nigra! I didn’t know they had nigras workin’ down at the company. You workin’ alone?”

A dozen doors snapped open in Stone’s mind simultaneously, each one opening onto a different scene. The most likely one, by far, concluded with the white boy’s dead body stuffed carefully into a closet. He turned fully towards the intruder, hands at his side, shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet. Holding back was difficult, but he wanted to hear more. “Yeah. Alone right now. You expectin’ me?”

“Sure, that’s my job to let you in. I didn’t know when you was comin’, then I heard you callyhootin’ in here like a bee in a banjo, makin’ a brawl with that door. It does stick sometimes, they says, but I’ve never used it. Don’t have the key myself. OK, come on over here, I’ll show you where to go. By the way, you can call me Eddie. You?”

The moment of decision came and went, stepping away like a hungry beast, still gurgling with a rumbling growl close by. “Ain’t got no name, so they calls me Noname.”

Eddie issued a thick chuckle, almost as if clearing his throat. “Sorra to hear that, Noname. But, hey, I like it.” He stepped in front of Promise and ambled towards the control room. “You probably wondering why I’m up so early. I’m doin’ my homework, that’s why. Learnin’ stuff, real serious stuff you wouldn’t understand. Yassir, I’m headin’ up the ladder, that’s what my boss says. I got a real future that’s comin’ to me in two, three, four years.” He gave a toothy grin. “My friend Punky says I shouldn’t take a shit for a coupl’a years, until I can afford to buy myself some toilet paper! Ain’t that funny! Next thing after that, I get myself a little lady for all my own. Well, here we are.”

“What do you mean?” Promise stared at the high metal cabinet that Eddie pointed to.

“I dunno. Boss told me to tell you this is where you connect your equipment, so’s you can record the speech. For savin’? Ain’t that right?”

Promise studied the cabinet carefully. It was hidden in a narrow alcove, pushed against a wall that abutted the broadcast room, four or five feet from where the microphones were positioned. Eddie unlatched and opened the door, revealing a long panel covered with meters, dials, toggles and switches, all connected to a maze of wiring that flowed in a dozen directions. There was ample room on the bottom shelf to accommodate the oversized valise. All in all, it would do.

Eddie touched one of the round gauges reverently, lowering his voice to a husky pitch. “In all sinceritiness, it’s like a beauticious woman, don’tcha think? Real pretty, but real complicated. Anyway, leave you to your work. I got mine.” He hitched up his pants and turned to leave.

“Wait.” Stone pounded the opposite wall with his open hand, listening carefully to the sound. “What’s on the other side?”

“That there is my room. My quarters is back here.” Eddie let out a screeching guffaw. “Punky calls it my hindquarters. He says I should get a girl up here sometime. Into my hindquarters. Get it? Don’t he have a way with words!”

Promise astonished himself by smiling, and then almost laughing. It had been very long since he experienced any sense of mirth, and the feeling was strange to him. “Hey, little fella, what do you do around here?”

“Real important job. I clean the place, don’t ya see. Without me nothing works. You know what they says: Cleaningless is next to Gawdiness.”

“Sure. So they says.” Stone settled back on his heels, appraising the situation, calculating his chances, and sizing up the simple-minded Eddie. It was hard to blame the skinny youngster standing before him for any of the world’s many woes, but life could be very cruel, as Promise knew, and usually unfair. Eddie was the whitest white boy he had ever met, but there was something about him, maybe that he spoke and acted like a true halfwit, that was somehow engaging. “Let me aks you somethin’, little man. You got any part of a black man in you? Any part at all?”

Eddie screwed his eye sockets into an impossible contortion, wrinkled his brow and pursed his lips at least an inch out of his face. “Why, never been asked that before. What the thing is, is that the thing is that my pa used to say I was nothin’ but a toothy coal skink, that’s where I got my nickname of Skink, but I don’t prefer to be called that nowadays. It’s sorta like a little lizard, if you ever seen one, and I’m aimin’ for bigger game, if you know what I mean. Like badger, maybe. No, don’t believe so. Far as I know, I am one hundred percent Georgia. Sorry about that.”

Promise Stone took a deep breath and without any pity at all patted Eddie on the shoulder. “So am I, boy. So am I.”

Dawn streamed its first tentative tendrils of muted color directly over their car, spraying the horizon with mottled hues of canary yellow, clay red, and unsettled blues. Soon they were immersed within a welkin transformed from silent dark to breathless light by a rim of gold peering over the surrounding muddy green hills. Andrews glanced at his watch. They had been driving for two hours without letup. He checked the gas gauge, which now measured below one quarter tank. It was hard to know, but that might be only enough for another forty miles at most, and the grimy map on his lap indicated at least twenty five more miles to go. At best, it would be a close run. He just hoped the map was accurate, because the engine vibrations from the beat up Renault they had stolen seemed to be increasing with the passage of every mile.

He was glad sunrise was coming, and he hoped for clarity with the arrival of daylight, because so far their only plan was to drive to the hamlet circled in red on the map. Echota, the map said, the name written in letters so small that the eye had to strain to find that it existed at all. Echota was where Lieb insisted they go, seconded by Gwen, the albino woman who was glued to his side. What they were going to do when they got there, or afterwards, was as unknown as Gwen’s true identity. She had rescued Jona, it was true, and guided their exit from the hospital, but it was quite obvious that she was unbalanced. She had described their escape as a flight aided by sorcery and incantations when in reality it required nothing more than a wriggle out the bathroom window and soft drop down into a pitch-black alley.

Andrews cast a quick look into the rear-view mirror. Gwen and Lieb were huddled together in the back seat, leaning against one another. He could not be certain because of the engine noise, but he thought he could hear her singing softly in a high pitched, mewling voice, a lullaby in an unknown language. No, both in looks and in actions she was not normal. Lieb seemed scarcely better. He slumped without a word, still shaking in withdrawal from whatever they had been giving him in the asylum, and whatever he had been smoking before that. It might be days before he would be dry enough to be rational.

Murphy was wedged tightly in the front passenger seat, sleeping. He was different somehow since their stay in Atlanta. His demeanor had changed since the night at Irene’s, but as far as he knew Murphy had done nothing but get drunk while they were there. Even so, he had become quiet and withdrawn ever since, and there had been no further drinking.

As for himself, Andrews knew he was out of sorts as well. It was because of her…Irene. In the nights since their meeting, he had recurring dreams of her form and face, tight as a mask, floating in and out of his awareness. During his waking hours he attempted to suppress her memory, or relegate it to some corner of his mind where it could be sequestered with all the rest of the crumpled refuse of his past. That had worked for him with all the other things he had chosen to forget. This time, though, he could not shake her, and could not reverse the feeling that she had tossed him inside out and shaken him until he could barely recognize himself. It was not passion that he felt, or desire, or even a wish to see her again. All that had gone away with the passing of a single day. Still, her memory clung to him, insinuating itself into his thoughts without mercy, as if she had reached inside and somehow spliced herself into his marrow, becoming a permanent whisper in his mind. And with her, inevitably, came the memory of all the others gathered on her porch. He couldn’t remember them exactly, couldn’t even recall their faces, but they were there.

Very quickly, he stole another glimpse of the two in the backseat. He knew what everyone thought had happened while he and Irene were alone, yet it had not been quite that way. Not exactly. Yes, the moment came when they both exhaled with the sweet ardor of desire, and yes, they had both knelt by the roiling pool of passion, and savored it, and let it drench them in intoxicating waters. But there was more…A silent mystery unwound itself as they lay together. She had spoken to him. Not with words somehow, but with the curve of her lip, and the touch of her hand, and the deep thousand-year stare of her eyes into his own. The walls surrounding them, thick with ghosts of the long dead past, imploded upon them as she stroked the warm tan tips of her fingers against his, and rubbed the obsidian skin of her forearm against his, and pressed the gentle red of her breast against his. Somehow, she had caused images and thoughts and memories to tumble through his mind like the fluff of clouds fleeing a mighty wind. Some were of his mother and sister, and the little baby who died so young, and the two sad gravesite plots in Baltimore that were dug deliberately where they would be overgrown and forgotten. Other images also came to him, piling one upon the other like inmates pushing through a breach in a prison wall. Strangely, he remembered his own thoughts from when he was a boy, and the dreams he had then dreamed, and the plans that had long ago poured themselves into the long narrow spout that led to today. Even more intensely, coming on the heels of forgotten memories came questions that repeated themselves over and over, leaving no space for escape. He felt changed, body and soul, and uncertain about whether he wanted to return to the comforting and familiar space of how his life had been, or step out of his protective cage into the uncertainty of the unknown.

As if on cue, Irene’s face coalesced in front of the windshield, wearing a high turbaned purple crown and a necklace of pearl white shells. Andrews waved at the image as if swatting at a bee.

“Hey.” It was Murphy, awake now, though his voice sounded muffled and distant.

Andrews startled, momentarily taking his foot off the accelerator. “Hey back.”

Murphy contorted himself to draw a pack of cigarettes out of his coat pocket. He lit up quickly, instantly filling the closed car interior with noxious, penetrating fumes. After a few deep drags he turned to stare at Andrews, his eyes fixed. “So.”

“You want to know where we are? An hour past nowhere coming up to someplace else.”

“Naw. Don’t care, I really don’t. We’re all gonna wind up in a puddle of piss anyway. Naw, not that. You know our assignment is concluded, right? Over. Finished. I don’t know what will happen, but for me at least this will be the end. I know that in my head, and I feel it inside as well. Everything looks cock-eyed to me. Different. If we get back, I’ll be done with the Service, and they’ll be done with me.

“You should wait.”

“Don’t say anything and just listen to me for a second. I was dreaming. I mean I had a dream. I was dreaming that I was you and you were me. Never had a dream like that, about anybody. In my dreams I’m always me, but here I was, I was you.”

Andrews steeled his focus on the road ahead. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I didn’t like it, not in the beginning. It was like…I dunno. Cold. Like living on ice, walking in a valley of ice, flat white and frozen as far as the eye could see. I knew I had to keep going, keep walking, get to the next valley over. It was gonna be warm there, somehow. I was gonna make it, I just knew it, but in the meanwhile I was freezing my ass off.”

An alarm went off in Andrews’ mind, a warning bell that told him not to respond, not at all, or else turn the talk to the fuel gauge, or the need to eat, or the miserable quality of the road, or the fact that they were fugitives in a hostile country with no means of escape. “You said in the beginning?”

Murphy took a quick drag, then twisted around to look at Lieb and Gwen. They appeared to be sleeping, nestled together like two pigeons on a ledge. “This is crazy right now, what we’re doing. You know that. We hitched our wagon to this guy, but he’s gone off the deep end. And so has the dame. This little whoop-de-doop we’re in may get us killed, and soon. Jail time at least.”

“I know. What about your dream?” Andrews could not hide a sense of irritation mixed with curiosity.

“I was plastered in my dream. You know, like after a few drinks or whatnot. A little loose. Maybe a little unsteady. I wasn’t afraid, just feeling lonely. So I climbed a little hill, expecting to see everything from the crest, from there to beyond, and get my bearings. No such thing. I staggered up to the top, but it was hazy all around. And you were there. You, meaning you being me. You were standing there, shit grinning like I do, your hands on your hips like I do. When I saw you, I recognized you right away, but you were aloof, like you weren’t interested in talking. ‘Who you?’ I asked. You didn’t give me a straight answer, you said something like ‘Who do you think I am?’ So I said back ‘You look like me. I believe you is me.’ And that’s when I kinda lost it. I kinda lost my mind because then you said ‘Then who are you?’ I couldn’t figure out what you meant. I didn’t know whether you meant ‘Who am I’ me being you, or ‘Who am I’ you being me, or who are…’ ” Murphy stopped abruptly, rolled down his window furiously, and plunged his head out into the windblast of cool morning air. Instantly, the car was filled with the roar of wind gushing in through the window followed closely by the smell of dank soil. The road, the trees, the dark brown dirt, the swirled and streaked maroon and yellow and purple of the sky above, the high pitched throb of the engine, all blended together with a sudden whoosh, engulfing them like a newborn sprite.

“You OK?” Andrews’ voice was neutral.

“Shit no. Feeling kinda lost. Kinda mad. Kinda crazy maybe. Feel like I want a drink, but I want to lay off for now.” He took another long suck of smoke, then flipped the cigarette out into the cool of the dawn. Sparks from the stub flew away, resembling a shower of falling stars rushing to their death. “How old do you think I am? Any idea?”

“You’re thirty eight. Says so in your file.”

“Yeah. Seems longer. A lot under the bridge. Truth is, Andrews, I’m not scared of dying anytime soon. That fear left me a long time ago. But I don’t want to end my days in prison. No.” He shook his head decisively. “No. I won’t go to prison. I want you to know that, get it? Even if I get my can in a crack, I won’t go to prison. Too much time alone doesn’t work for me.”

They were quiet for a while, each of them watching the golden arc of sun arise, each of them estimating how long it would take the blazing orb to clear the last hindrances of earth and rock and tree before it sprouted to its full glory. Andrews dared not look directly at Murphy but did steal a sidelong glance in his direction. His partner seemed transfixed by the birthing of the sun, and had inched his head out over the edge of the window with his mouth open, savoring the taste of a morning tainted and flavored by the dark Georgia hillsides. “So what happened? In your dream? Did you figure out who was me and who was you, and who you were talking to?” The words, to his surprise, slid from his lips effortlessly, as if gliding down a polished chute.

Murphy shook his head, saying nothing.

“What did you do, then?” Andrews tapped the wheel impatiently.

“I shot you, Johnny. I shot you ‘cause I couldn’t take it anymore. I shot you ‘cause I needed to know which one of us would die. I shot you cause I thought it would be me. I didn’t think it through real well.” Murphy covered his mouth and nose as he let out a loud, hoarse, coughing moan. “I don’t mind dying, Johnnie, I really don’t. Thing is, I didn’t realize I was killing us both.”

Echota was not a town, not even a village. It was no more than a spread of squalid appearing shacks shooken out like animal droppings over a few acres of brown dirt, scrub grass, and lonely sycamores. There were no streets, no roads or fences, no gardens, no stands of corn or wheat. The houses faced in random directions, as if each had been built in a different era quite apart from the others, each an archeological relic from successive eons of time. One ramshackle shanty was surrounded by rusted car parts, fragments of carpet, oddly tilted tables, and stacks of chairs. A wooden sign propped over a canted porch read ‘Cash or Nothin’.

The road into Echota turned first to gravel, then dirt, then into a rocky, bumpy, weed strewn cow path sloping down towards a thick copse of trees. As they descended, a river could be seen beyond the trees, appearing dirty brown and sluggish in the early morning light.

There were people in the river, standing in the water.

At first they were seen as blurred wraiths, wisps of mist forming and dissolving and reforming into shoulders and heads, upright arms and flashing swatches of white shirt and blue dress. Andrews stopped the car under the broad, twisting arch of a live oak and cut the engine. Immediately, the air was filled with the sound of singing. The voices seemed to spring from the trees surrounding them, and the ground beneath them, and the sky above them, merging into a chorus of imperceptible words and indistinct rhythms.

Murphy craned his neck and sniffed the already warm air of morning, turning his head left and right as if trying to pick up a quick decaying scent. “Smells like fire. Not from the woods. A bonfire maybe. I’m going down to check out whatever the hell is going on.”

“Wait!” Andrews opened his door and spun out of his seat in one motion. “I’ll come with you.” He pounded on the rear seat window. “Dr. Lieb, we’ll be right back. Do not move from the car under any circumstances.”

As the two men disappeared into a dense growth of scrub pine, tall fern, and curling laurel, Gwen arched her back to watch. Jona remained slumped against her shoulder, clenching the tumble of her hair. Time passed. The sounds of singing could no longer be heard. Long black shadows stretched along the ground like greedy fingers grasping at the coming of the light. The descending trill of warblers and the woodpecker’s staccato strikes blended with the soft sways of boughs and branches, and for a few moments the world seemed still.

“Lance, wake up.”

Lieb raised his head but did not respond.

“Why did that man call you Dr. Lieb? Was that your name once?”

“Yeah. Once.”

“But not anymore.”

“I don’t know. Yes. Maybe.” He sat up, propping himself with both hands to remain steady. “I’m so woozy right now, I don’t know what to think. You can call me Lance, I guess.”

Gwen clasped his cheek, turning his face toward her. “That’s all right. People do change, after all. I was once Beatrice, back when I sold cigarettes and cigars in nightclubs. What were you? Before you were Lance?”

He gave a sarcastic laugh. “I took care of dead people.”

She let out a shrill cackle, clapping her hands. “How wonderful that must have been. Some dead people need a lot of care, I’m sure. What was the most interesting part?”

Lance remained silent for a moment, concentrating fiercely. An image, a faded memory, curled around and around before landing gently on the verge of remembrance. “Blowflies.”

Gwen tossed her long, closely combed hair in astonishment. “You are shitting me!”

“Diptera Calliphoridae.” Lance spoke quietly, appearing mesmerized. “That was my student research, about blowflies. Do you know how long it takes a blowfly to lay eggs on a dead body? Could be within ten minutes of death. Somehow, they know. Amazing, right? Death leads to their life. They lay their eggs on eyes, in mouths, on open wounds. My study showed that the eggs go through different stages about every twenty-four hours, becoming maggots with different shapes in each stage. So depending on what kind of maggots are present, the time of death can be estimated pretty closely. Find a dead body in a forest and presto you can tell when it happened.” He hesitated momentarily, struggling to remember more. “But that’s only true at seventy degrees. Things have to be perfect for the life cycle to go well. Perfect. Otherwise, it all gets screwed up, the whole cycle. That can happen easily.” He chortled as sleep-laden saliva dripped from his mouth. “Could say that about humans, too.”

“Lance, you know so much about dead shit, don’t you. I’m very impressed.”

“Yeah. I’m remembering more now.” He tapped his temple with one finger. “Now I’m remembering why I wanted to come here.”

Gwen slapped him playfully on the cheek. “It’s a woman, isn’t it?”

“Yes. A woman. But not like you think.”

“Oh, I see. Something more grand, more noble. Tell me, then, Sir Lance. Oh, take up your lyre and sing, and do tell me. Tell me of beauty. Tell me of courage. Tell me of love. Tell me of all the screwball lies that people believe.”

“No, not lies.” Lance grasped at his stomach, feeling deep nausea. “It’s true. There was a woman once, and now she lives here. Long ago, she was with my father.”

Gwen smirked. “Your daddy’s woman? You are a weird one, I knew it right away. So what exactly did you have in mind?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t know, actually, but I’m hoping. Maybe she can tell me the real story. About him.”

“And you’re going to believe anything she tells you?”

“Why not? Why would she lie?”

“People may not lie, but they may not tell the truth either. Not the truth you want, anyway.”

“You’re wrong about that. Somewhere there is the truth, and I’m going to find it.”

“Not the way you think, your lordship. The truth is like the fly’s eggs you talked about. It goes through stages, and you only see the latest one.” With the tip of one finger Gwen stroked a line over Lance’s face, from the point of his chin, up over his lips, nose and onto his forehead. She stopped there and pressed hard, as if pushing a button that would open a hidden doorway. “And always, always, always, the truth you see is born from something dead. Is your daddy dead, Lance?”

“Yes.”

“See what I mean? You say you want the real story from this woman. But watch out, my lord, she may be dead too. Long dead, and whatever flies from her mouth will tell you just how long.”

Gwen paused abruptly, hoisting her flouncy, flowery dress up high above her waist. With a wriggle and twist she retrieved a small brass flask hidden within her underwear. “Now here’s some honesty right here, but I’m not sharing. You’re drying out and there’s some shit in this that will set you way back.” A dramatic pause followed as she lifted the flask up above her head. “I would like to thank the Pickett Clinic for the Defiantly Insane for this moment of truth.” She took a cautious tipple, then a long swallow, then another. Her face flushed a faint pink, and the darting dance of her eyes accelerated furiously, until they seemed to flicker with the dulled intensity of a dying light bulb. Without warning she fell backwards on the car seat, torso rigid, her face a mask, her arms fluttering rapidly at her side. She lapsed into unresponsiveness.

“Gwen!” Lance shook her by the shoulder, feeling helpless and terrified. “Gwen! Come to!”

“Let her be.”

Lieb turned his head in astonishment. A woman’s head protruded through the open window where Murphy had sat, filling the forward space with a looming, disembodied presence, her face shadowed as she pushed in further and further. “Let her be,” she repeated. “She’s having a seizure. It won’t be long. Hopefully. Tilt her chin up.”

As the woman spoke Gwen stopped shaking and became limp. Lieb felt for her pulse, mortified. “Of course, a seizure. I should know that.” His eyes snapped back towards the woman. “Who are you?”

“An inhabitant of these parts. And you? You must be Jona Lieb.”

Lieb felt an electric jolt run through him like a thunderbolt exploding within his vitals. His jaw moved up and down repeatedly before he could speak, his voice hushed and quavering. “How do you know that?”

The head smiled. “Oh, I would recognize that face anywhere.”

There came a brief lull, a quick moment of quiet.

“Hey Doc, you O.K.?”

Jona leaned back in his chair, took a drag on his cigarette, and closed his eyes. He felt lightheaded, a floating sensation that made it seem as if he were hovering high above himself, looking down with idle curiosity as he defied the law of gravity. “Yeah. I’m good.”

The band soon started playing again, creating a frenetic blend of sounds from saxophone, clarinet, drum and trombone. The music pulsed like the beat of blood in his temples, rhythmic and dissonant all at once, swaying back and forth from one instrument to the other. The vibrant notes of the trumpet soared above all, ever higher, swirling into every nook and crevice of the pounding melody. It was jazz, but not like any he had ever heard. It was electric. Jona had never been moved by music the way he was at that moment, and he wanted the moment to play on and on. With eyes closed and shoulders swaying, he absorbed every sound as if it were a needed nutrient, feeding him with an infusion of...something. Something primitive, something necessary, something that could not be described easily with words. Not joy, not exactly. Neither ecstasy nor contentment. It was more like a sweet-sad fulfillment, as if the music was a seconds hand to his hours hand, spinning quickly around an imaginary dial of hidden pain, desire, everyday longing, and subdued memory. It danced a jig to his slow and creeping slog. And there was more; somewhere within the sound, imagined and believed, ticked the promise of sweet forgetfulness, a delirious, mocking remedy for all past sorrows, a playful, jeering reminder that laughter and love could be squeezed out of the anguish of any day’s life, ounce by cheeky ounce.

They were in the Venetian Room of the Grunewald Hotel, sitting for the second show, listening to the Jack Teargarden Band. Murphy was dead drunk, sweating through his jacket and tapping his fingers on the table as if playing the piccolo. The Louisiana government man who was appointed as their official chaperone clapped his hands in rhythm with the music as he belched out streams of smoke from an enormous cigar. His jagged, irregular eyebrows seemed to play up and down and back and forth, a silent instrument accompanying the band. Andrews sat across from Jona, appearing uncomfortable somehow. He remained blank faced and withdrawn while the others smiled and smoked and drank, preferring to play with his half empty glass of seltzer water as the musicians performed. Jona ignored them all, leaning forward intently to absorb every sound.

As he listened to the music, raw feelings of hurt and want flickered within him, soon overwhelmed by memories from the past months. Images of Marielle, and Elfieda, and Alex, and even Barzajian, would not leave him, shuffling in and out and on and off as if sprung from a deck of cards. Then, drifting even further back, memories of dreamy childhood fantasies and his boyhood desire to become a master conductor, a world famous maestro, washed over him, throbbing in and out of his memory in tune with the music. The sounds coming from tables nearby, the raucous laughter, the clink of tableware, the random, common, meaningless bellows and titters and hums and coughs all faded, dispersed within the syncopating wall of sound created by the musicians’ lips and fingers and feet. He had tried to follow the notes, attempting to identify the chords and scales being played, but he had long ago become lost in the fusillade of wandering tones and staccato repetitions that somehow, mysteriously, blended into unexpected harmony. Jona moved his hand back and forth, and with eyes closed imagined he was guiding the play of music with a baton, just as he did as a boy lying in his sick bed. Sights and sounds flowed through his mind, one at a time, as rapidly as the quick, steady thrum of low bass notes beating in the background.

He remembered a Victrola, solid and ornate, standing in the corner of his room, lit by floodlights of sunshine pouring in through an open window, lighting it with a supernatural glow, as if it were a tabernacle possessed of great power. His nurse, young faced but with graying hair, sat knitting mindlessly nearby while his father sat on the footboard of Jona’s bed. Caruso was singing an aria on the phonograph, his voice resonant, majestic, tinny only in the higher octaves. Jona remembered the scene as if it had just happened, as if it were that very moment. The aria was Niun mi tema, from Otello. His father had bought him the recording of the opera and explained the plot very carefully before he played it.

He concluded with a final, severe admonition. “This is the story of a powerful man, someone wise and brave. He destroys himself because he is consumed by jealousy. A simple human frailty, a failing that someone in his position should never allow. You understand, Jona? To be truly great, to reach for the highest star, you cannot allow yourself the most craven of emotions, like jealousy, or...” He pointed at Jona’s legs. “Fear. And most certainly, above all else, self-pity.”

“Is that the meaning, dad? About poor Otello?” Jona felt a rush of excitement, and squirming with arms and torso, struggled to sit up higher on his pillow. He could see that his father approved the effort.

“Partly. Perhaps even mostly. Jealousy is just a different incarnation of self-pity. A terrible disease when it strikes.”

Jona listened carefully as the aria drew to a melancholy close. I understand, he had thought, without any thought at all. Fear, pity, jealousy. These are feelings I must never have. They are disallowed. He had a copy of the libretto in his lap, and could read Otello’s last words as they played on the phonograph:

Pria d’ucciderti. .sposa ti baciai.

Or morendo. . .nell’ombra. . . ov’io mi giacio. . .

Un bacio. . .un bacio ancora. . . un altro bacio. .

It might have been a click or hiss on the recording, or it might have been some odd atmospherics, or a momentary creak from somewhere in the house, but as the deep and haunting sighs of the cor anglais resonated with the dying lover’s words, Jona thought he could hear a throaty coughing in the background, and then again, and again as the music faded. It sounded like a triple set of guttural, consumptive spasms accompanying Otello’s dying moans. In response, it seemed as if Otello clung to a few more moments of life for one reason only, to breathe a final echo of grief and passion: a kiss, a kiss once more, another kiss...

“Dad, did he love Desdemona?”

There was no answer for some time. The elder Lieb bowed his head, then nodded towards the phonograph. “He believed so.”

“Don’t you?”

Jona was not quite sure what he was asking. Looking back, the question could have been an opening for his father to discourse on the meaning of love, and loss, and the bonds that tie people together, and give life whatever meaning it can possibly have. But Earnest Lieb was never predictable in that way. Instead, He spread his arms wide, as if preparing to engulf everything that lay before him; Jona, the bed, the nurse, the entire room, everything. When he spoke, his words were smudged and hazy, not in the usual crisp tones of the great professor. “Do you believe in a Creator? I’ve never asked you that.”

Jona was ten at the time, barely entering the age when everything could be questioned, and when nothing as ethereal and unsubstantial as God could have much meaning. He could have lied, but instead propped himself up higher in the bed, enduring a red-hot stab of pain in his left leg, and answered truthfully. “I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”

“Maybe you should, though. Maybe there is a Creator in our universe, or was, some power that orders the way things work. Not necessarily what we do every moment, but all the background, something that first turned the switch on. Gravity, the speed of light, the neat arrangement of the elements, the steady sequence of logical, reproducible, predictable occurrences, maybe other things as well...All the things that let us be, and all the things without which we cannot be. You understand?”

“Yes. No. Yes. I mean no.” Jona paused. “Dad!” He felt tears begin to flow from his eyes, as sudden, as copious, and as warm as raindrops falling on an August field of clover. “Dad! I asked you if he loved her! Did he love her?” And then, without meaning to and without knowing why, he blurted out, “Dad, did you love mom?”

Earnest Lieb gave a smile. It was his very best smile, one that crinkled the corners of his lips and lit up his eyes with an inner light, one that made others want to be near him. Without a word he rose up, turned off the Victrola, closed the window shutters and drew the curtains tightly together, casting the room into near darkness. He motioned the nurse to leave, following her to the door. At the threshold he turned back in Jona’s direction. The smile was gone. Backlighting from the hallway inscribed the arc of cheek and chin, curving in one continuous line, making it difficult to separate face and head from neck and torso, and grimace from sneer, and pity from hatred. One eye was obscured, and the other gleamed with reflected light, alive, like a tiny creature curled up in the ball of night. He began to close the door but stopped himself midway as if he had just remembered something. He turned back into the room, so that now he was nothing more than shadow.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the words were slurred somehow, reverberating indistinctly as if they had been recorded ages before and were just now being heard, humming above a background of static. “Jona, if you want to create a great illusion, you must enter the illusion yourself. Don’t be afraid. Don’t ever be afraid...”

“Doc!”

Jona felt a blow to his shoulder. He snapped his head around to see the government man grinning as Murphy playfully punched him again. “Murph, leave me alone.”

“You look so serious, Doc. Ain’t ya havin’ fun? C’mon, lighten up a bit. This is some swingin’ joint.”

“Agent Murphy has a point Dr. Lieb. I hope you’re enjoying yourself. The governor told me to show you a good time, and I intend to.” Jona could see that the government man was trying to be friendly, but there was really no point to it. Everything about him reeked of deceit. His manner vacillated between oily solicitude and homey, okey-dokey familiarity, making his little charade completely unbelievable. Without question, he was not a simple public relations officer from the governor’s office. He was a spy, a government agent who was there to glean morsels of information, nosing around with whiskers quivering much like a rat sniffing for a crust of bread. Jona was almost at the point of telling him off, shooing him away like the little rodent he was. In any case, it was laughable to think there were any secrets left to be discovered. But, it was true the agent had his uses. Upon their arrival in New Orleans the government man had made all the arrangements for their hotel lodgings, and even better had reserved a choice table at the Venetian Club, assuring Jona he would have a night he would always remember.

So far, everything promised had come true. The band was performing with lightning-like energy, the crowd was festive, and Jona was on his third gin fizz. He was about ready for his fourth. “Here now, Mr. Agent Man, I forgot, what’s your name, anyway?”

“Why, you can call me Jones.” As he spoke, Jones’ eyebrows dipped and darted to and fro, like two dueling sabers, each thrusting at the other. “At your service, sir.”

“Listen, Doc!” It was Murphy, howling at the top of his lungs and grinning a satanic grin. “Listen to me. You know this guy’s full of shit, right? He’s the governor’s personal little boy, I can see the scum marks on his face. What he really intends is that he’s gonna stick his dick up your ass with one hand and stab you in the back with the other!”

Jones also grinned, baring a mouthful of teeth flashing with bright gold interspersed with pockets of blackened decay. Very smoothly, and without missing a puff of his cigar, he withdrew a dull finished, stubby pistol, a .38, from his jacket pocket and placed it carefully next to his glass tumbler. “I know you’re liquored up a mite, Mr. Murphy, so no harm, no foul. But you’d best watch your manner of speech down theseaways in the future. Otherwise,” he pointed at the gun, “This little thing would be considered insufficient for the occasion.”

Murphy’s eyes tightened slightly, but he raised his glass in silent salute to Jones as he shifted his gaze towards Andrews. “Hear that? Goes double for you, don’t it?”

Andrews glowered, holding Murphy’s stare with a fixed glare. “The only one we should be concerned about is Dr. Lieb.”

As Murphy opened his mouth to respond, the band struck up its next tune, and Jones clapped his hands loudly. He nudged Lieb and pointed. “Get ready for a treat. See that trumpet player? Hear him out. That boy’s somethin’ special, ain’t he?”

A cascade of high-pitched notes screamed harshly, settling quickly into a harmonious rhythm synchronizing with the other instruments. The trumpet player was a dark, dark black in color, and appeared very young. Somehow, along with the musical notes that permeated the room, he projected a part of himself outward, a magnetic source of power radiating in all directions through the sweat and smoke and boozy stink and din of the nightclub. The band leader played the trombone, artfully weaving his musical play in a dissonant synchrony with the trumpeter, and then, with a wave of his hand, hushed the band to allow for a prolonged trumpet solo. The young trumpet player then put his instrument to his side and began to sing, in a voice made gravelly and throaty, the sound of soft coal shoveled into a bin both wide and deep.

Jona stopped smoking and put aside his glass, trying to absorb every word:

I’m hurt inside, but that don’t help my case

Cause I can’t hide what is on my face

How will it end? Ain’t got a friend

My only sin is in my skin

What did I do to be so black and blue?

Tell me, what did I do?

What did I do? What did I do?

What did I do?

Tell me, what did I do to be so black and blue?

The crowd erupted as the song ended and the band took its bows. Jones stood up from his chair, joining the ovation by clapping furiously and then pursing his lips to blow a shrill whistle. He waved frantically, and in a few moments the band leader hopped off the stage and weaved his way to Jona’s table. Triumphant, Jones hugged him by the shoulder. “Dr. Lieb, sir, this is Jack Teargarden. He’s in charge of this bunch. Best trombone player ever.”

“You were wonderful!” Jona felt a surge of enthusiasm as he shook Teargarden’s hand, an exotic feeling of excitement and thrill that he hadn’t felt in so long that it now seemed foreign to him. He pointed to the trumpet player, who was still on stage, milling around with other members of the band. “I’d like to meet him too.”

Jones grabbed his wrist firmly, looking quickly left and right “No, no, Doctor Lieb. Sorry, you can’t do that. Just wouldn’t be proper.”

“Hey, it’s OK.” Teargarden smiled broadly. “Dipper can still meet you.” He shrugged a thumb back over his shoulder. “Out back in five. I’ll tell him.”

Andrews spoke up sharply. “Dr. Lieb, I don’t like the idea of crawling through back alleys in a town we don’t know.”

Jones assumed his silkiest tone. “Not to worry, Mr. Andrews. I will personally escort the doctor there and back. His safety will be my sole responsibility.” He patted at the gun in his pocket. “I’m sure it won’t be more than a few minutes.”

“I’m coming then.”

No, Jona thought. No more of that. “It’s OK,” he snapped. “I’ll be in charge of this little party.”

He gestured towards Murphy for a cigarette, who obliged with an amiable smile. “Sure, pal, you’re in control.” His smile turned into a glassy snicker as Jona sauntered away with the government man. He turned towards Andrews. “Hear that, Johnnie boy? He ain’t even in charge of his next crap, and he don’t know it yet.”

Stepping into the darkness outside, Jona felt as if he were submerging himself into an invisible tub of warm water. It was middle night, but the heat and humidity were still stifling, and within moments Jona was wet through and through, with thin trickles of sweat emerging like running fountains from his forehead. The alley stank from high piles of refuse stacked against peeling brick walls, surreal glaciers of garbage looming high above the narrow cobblestoned walkway in rear of the hotel. A puddle glistened with the soft reflection of an early moon hovering over the alley, a smooth silvery mirror that fractured into a thousand shards when Jones stepped directly into it, arms at his hips, waiting.

The trumpet player was not long in arriving, striding in long steps down the length of the alley. The clicking sound of shoe on cobblestone announced his coming before he emerged from the gloomy darkness, transitioning in an instant from indistinct wraith to human form. He smiled broadly as he approached, his teeth shining a luminous white in the blackness. Jona could not restrain himself. “Mr. Dipper, thank you, thank you, thank you! I just wanted to tell you how amazing you were at tonight’s performance.” He extended his hand.

Dipper gave a raspy chuckle. Instead of shaking Jona’s hand he gave it a soft slap on the open palm with his own palm in one smooth, sinuous motion. “You can call me Pops, and I ‘preciate it. You from up north, right?”

“New York. You would be a sensation there.”

“Yeah, always wanted to go, but you know, things don’t always work out.” He gave Jones a glance and then quickly looked away. “Love N’awleens, though. And you know what they say, nothin’s as good as home cookin’.”

“Yeah...” Jona hesitated. A myriad of impulses swirled through his mind, a confusing jumble of questions, feelings, and thoughts that he desperately wanted to sort through carefully. “So, tell me. How do you do it?”

Dipper’s smile became even larger. “Do what, man?”

“You know...The music. How do you do it? It’s crazy good, off the cuff, jumping like magic from one note and one key to another, but it all makes sense, and I feel like I’m getting it, really getting it. I mean, how do you know what to play?”

“Man, I don’t, that’s the thing. It ain’t like just playin’ flat seven. It comes from the heart, cat, you understand? If you ain’t gettin’ that then you ain’t gettin nothin’.”

Jona became visibly crestfallen. He studied the other’s face, looking for clues, but the musician’s features seemed to flicker in and out in the darkness, shading from black to transparent, fading from smooth skinned and firm to hazy and indefinite. “I thought that maybe there were rules. Some rules I could read, so I could understand. A book, maybe.”

“Believe me, I understand where you comin’ from. Myself, I crashed and burned many a time, too many to count. Sooner or later it either kills you or you straighten up and fly right. Listen to me, all you need to know is how to make the changes. That’s the main thing I learned from the old timers. Those cats had it all figured out and learned it to me. How to make the changes.”

“Changes? What changes?” Jona felt an involuntary fluttering in his chest.

Raising his eyes upwards, Pops shook his head slowly, the smile still affixed firmly to his face. He did not answer. The three men lapsed into an awkward silence. Jones looked at his watch, tapped it a few times, and crooked one of his eyebrows up to an impossible height on his forehead.

Dipper broke the silence abruptly. “Well, OK, man. Nice to meet a fan. Don’t worry, you’ll get it soon enough, just keep feelin’ it.” His eyes flitted towards Jones again, for just an instant. “You gonna be here a few days?”

“I think so.”

“In that case,” Pops lowered his voice to a thick, sandpaper whisper. “I’d be much obliged if you could spot me a sawbuck till Tuesday. That’s payday, and Jack, you know him, he’s no Santa Clause.”

“Of course.” Jona reached for his wallet, eager to offer a token of friendship.

Jones raised a cautionary hand. “Dr. Lieb, don’t do that, please. That’s like feeding the animals at the zoo, and we don’t much like it.” He gave a curt nod towards Pops, who turned quickly and trotted away. He disappeared rapidly in the murk, and in a few moments the rhythmic patter of his steps faded as well.

Although partial moonlight flooded down, illuminating the sky above, the alleyway remained a zone of darkness. Lieb sought out Jones in the murk, struggling to see his face. “Mr. Jones, is that man a...you know. You know what I mean?”

“A trumpet player in a band.”

“No, that’s not what I mean. You know what I mean. Is he owned? A man like that, a musical genius. Is he?” Jona could barely choke out the words.

“Don’t ask the question if you don’t want the answer, doctor. We have a system down here, don’t no one want to ask too many questions. It works for us, and all we ask is that you respect how we do things.” Jones paused with a relenting sigh. “I don’t know for sure. He might be under contract. Or there might be shareholders, like an ownership corporation, that kind of thing.”

Without warning, Jona felt the familiar, agonizing sting of pain and burning erupt over his back and hip, causing him to slump against the side of the building. The cool and coarse bare bricks lining the wall of the hotel offered momentary relief, until another wave of pain washed over him again. He felt suddenly nauseated, and in an instant burning bile licked at his throat and triggered an uncontrollable surge of vomit. The smell was overwhelming, and he quickly vomited again. He could barely breathe.

“Doctor, are you all right?” Jones seemed genuinely concerned, embracing Jona under the arms to help prop him up. “Do you need anything? A doctor?”

The words reverberated dully in Jona’s mind, over and over, as if they were echoes bouncing back from a deep well. “No. Just give me a minute.”

“Shall I help you back to the club? Your friends are still waiting, I’m sure.”

“OK. No. They don’t care about me, don’t be fooled. Not right now.” Jona gritted his teeth and moved his leg tentatively back and forth.

“Back to your room?”

“No. Let me hold on to your arm a minute. Let’s walk.”

“Sure.” The dancing eyebrows first merged then flew apart, framing Jones’ forehead like two thick eaves over a doorway. He guided Jona out of the alley, turning towards the hotel entrance when they reached the street. The sidewalks were deserted, and a foggy mist had settled down abruptly, a magical veil falling from the hand of an unseen wizard, masking the stars and the moon. The vaporous gloom was penetrated by a vague nimbus of light leaking out of a window across the street from the hotel. A faint wave of laughter wafted over the silence with a gentle ripple. Lieb could see a small sign over the window: 1-2-3 Club.

“Do they play jazz there?” Jona asked, pointing.

“No, Doctor. Not that kind of club. Gambling, and other entertainments.”

“What, then?”

“Why don’t I take you in to see? I know the manager well, he’s a good friend to the governor. In fact, the governor may be making a call there himself sometime. Who knows? You might enjoy yourself. First, though, I am just a bit curious about somethin.”

“OK, spit it out.”

“Thank you, but at the risk of causing any embarrassment…I don’t see a magic briefcase on your person. You know, the kind of a one that doesn’t come off without a secret spell or some kind of concoction. Something needing a magic key, so to speak.” Jones gave a low laugh, pretending he was sharing a joke. “Didn’t you bring something special with you?”

“Oh that. Stay tuned.” Jona found himself swaying left and right. “Let’s go in. I want to see.”

A narrow, wrought iron doorway adjacent to the window was the only entrance, and it appeared to be locked. Jones pecked at the clapper quietly several times before the gate squealed open. Jona was surprised to see a child, a young boy, at the doorway, standing within a cone of shadow in the hallway behind the door. At his graceful gesture, Jones and Jona entered.

“Good evening, suh.”

It was the boy, greeting them, but there was something strange about his voice; too deep and too rough. Jona turned to look more carefully. It was not a child. A dwarf stood before him, bowing. Lieb froze, amazed, and without wishing it, began to laugh with an incoherent, uncontrolled energy that caused him to collapse against Jones. The boy was a middle aged, smiling, solidly compact little man, of the kind he had not seen in very long. As billows of laughter erupted from him, another feeling, more primitive, deeper, overwhelming, began to weave through him, a woof crossing the warp of his memories. A rush of sensations emerged, textures and colors came and went, forms posed and moved, sibilant whispers floated through vaulted chambers, and then the deep purr of his father’s voice, coaxing, urging, demanding. God, Jona thought, are you not dead? Are you not gone? Can you not leave me? But the buzz of words and sounds would not abandon him, enveloping him in an invisible cloak, leaving him to float among his memories as if skulking through a deserted graveyard strewn with long fallen tombstones.

The time of spring, towards the end of his second year at school, bubbled up to his mind’s eye. He was fifteen, halfway between boy and man, a painful period of exploration, rejection and solitude. On that particular day, though, he was sitting with his classmate Peter, a pale, wan faced boy who appeared even more thin and frail than Jona himself. Both had perched themselves among the roots of a giant oak tree near the football field, secure in its protective shade. That day they were studying syllogisms. The material they were assigned to study was obscure and dense, much of it dating to medieval times, including the terms of nomenclature: Bocardo. Barbari. Copula. Universal affirmatives. Particular negatives. It was difficult, laborious work that seemed incredibly stupid and meaningless, and Jona was having trouble concentrating. He found his mind wandering, his thoughts straying in odd streams and eddies of silly, inconsequential daydreams, rapidly flowing rivulets of imagination that might carry him to a victory in the Olympic marathon, or travel to the moon in a spaceship of his own design, or better yet to the stage of a Broadway play where he would sweep a starlet off her feet with just a roguish smile and a wink. The warmth of the forenoon and the gentle sway of long boughs brushing over his head put him in the mood to relinquish the day and to immerse himself in the fableland of imagination, where there were no rules and no requirements, and where anything might happen. He felt strangely flushed and uneasy, squirming restlessly from one enormous, knotted root to another.

Nonetheless, he was determined to excel in syllogisms precisely because the subject was difficult. That was what his father expected of him; to overcome every obstacle and master every impediment along the way. If he had to memorize the writings of a medieval theologian to be successful, then he would do so. With great effort, he settled down and carefully studied a pictorial rendering of supporting and contradictory arguments derived from syllogisms: It was called The Square of Opposition, a diagram with Latin inscriptions that the great logician Abelard himself might have drawn to explain the reasoning behind the major and minor premises of an argument. Though he squinted at it as hard as possible, and traced his finger over it repeatedly, it seemed impossible to understand, appearing more like a mystical totem belonging to some ancient and long-lost civilization rather than a formal statement of reasoning. The principles of contraposition and obversion might as well have been explained in Chinese for all the sense they made.

Peter, on the other hand, seemed at ease with it, explaining it was nothing more than a simple example of semiotics, and could be understood in mathematical terms. It was a logic method used to analyze, in any formulation, the arguments of ‘all are true, none are true, some are contradictory…’, and so forth. Jona had a prodigious memory and found himself soaking in every word of explanation, to be repeated as needed in class, even as his mind continued to meander.

“Hello, Jona.”

The gentle breeze, the shouts of boys at play, the gentle friction of oak leaves rustling against one another - everything came to a frozen halt, creating a sudden, momentary dimple in time and space. It was his father, appearing before them as if he were a magical apparition, created out of thin air, or transported to that precise location under the tree by some mystical translocation. He was neither smiling nor frowning, neither excited nor reserved, but seemed to float forward, almost shimmering in a sun-bleached seersucker suit, holding a small travel case at his shoulder. It was a transcendent moment in Jona’s young life, a confirmation that his father was never really too far away from him, and it made him squeal in delight. He wanted to rush into his father’s arms, but his left leg had succumbed to a numbed palsy, and he could not move. Instead, the elder Lieb slipped between the two boys where they sat, resting his back comfortably against the tree trunk. He explained that he had returned from abroad a few days earlier than anticipated, and that he had taken the train from Boston to surprise Jona. How Jona soaked in every word with shining eyes, casting a triumphant smile in Peter’s direction. Earnest Lieb is a great man, a famous man, he wanted to shout, and he came all this way to see me!

“What are you boys studying?” Dr. Lieb leaned over to look at the book Jona was holding in his lap, and the illustration of the Square of Opposition.

“Syllogisms.”

“Excellent. Logic.” His father nodded sagely, gravely. “It all has to do with the laws of thought, where we may or may not allow ourselves to stray. One correct outcome, and one only, revealed by meticulous intellectual dissection, isn’t that correct? That is the one way, the only way life can be lived well. One possible answer, the only possible answer out of many choices. The only answer that can withstand the systematic analysis of the human mind. What a mystery that is, greater than any! To understand that gives us godlike power. And to understand, understand anything at all, requires something of the student, something that must be sought every day, eh?”

“What’s that, dad?” Jona could not wait for the next words to tumble from his father’s lips, an admonition or rule that would serve as a guide in his future life and strained his body forward to hear. “What?”

Earnest Lieb had a way about him sometimes, a look, a twist or strain of cheeks and forehead in such a way that his cobalt eyes seemed to free themselves from their orbits and, disembodied, float forward in their own three dimensional space, almost touching Jona eye to eye. And when his father breathed deeply the rush of air seemed to come from Jona’s own chest, and when he frowned it was Jona’s forehead that wrinkled. “Nosce Te Ipsum,” he said, with the finality of a sacrament performed at a deathbed. “Gnothi Seauton, the same meaning but in old Greek.” he paused for effect. “That’s what you must come to understand. The ancients understood. You must know thyself.”

Ordinarily, Jona inhaled his father’s words like vapors of wisdom, but for some reason, this particular time, the ancient phrases faded quickly, drowned out by the sounds of play coming from the football field. The moment simply straggled away, not lost completely, but becoming more like a forgotten message pinned to the collar of a neglected coat. Of course, Jona assumed the words had to be of great importance, and in later times he would research their meaning, and try to understand them, but at that instant, sitting under the vast canopy of the ancient oak, they were devoid of any special significance, nothing more than a fallen fruit left to moulder in the shade.

“And I brought you something, Jona, as a present.” The elder Lieb reached into the portmanteau strapped over his shoulder, shuffling among its compartments, rifling through one and then the other with a determined look. Finally, he withdrew a weighty book and held it high. “This is a volume of artwork from a famous museum in Madrid. I walked across half of Spain to get it.”

Jona grasped the book as if it were a sacred icon and began flipping through its pages. Images, faces, buildings, landscapes fled by as he turned manically from page to page. Finally, he stopped, at the very middle of the volume, at a rendering spread across two pages. He stared at the picture of a painting, fascinated. Unconsciously, he placed his palm over the picture, covering first one part and then the other, bending forward as if trying to look around a corner or into a far distance.

His father touched him on the shoulder, and whispered in his ear. “This is a painting that hangs in the Prado, a famous work. I am not surprised that it arrested your attention.”

“It’s wonderful.” Jona found himself outlining different parts of the picture using two fingers, up and down, left and right.

“So, Jona,” his father spoke smoothly into his ear, whispering softly so that only they two could hear his words, “Tell me. What do you find most striking?”

Jona did not hesitate. “This.” He pointed to the center of the work, to a diminutive mirror reflecting two faces. “This. It looks like a small picture inside a big picture, or maybe two people standing somewhere in front of a mirror.”

Earnest Lieb showed his irritation, as he often did, by pursing his lips into a tight mound in the center of his face, creating an appearance that was both opaque and completely expressive. He seized Jona’s hand, immobilizing it, and squeezed firmly. “That is speculation. Perhaps. Maybe. Could be. But do you see anything definite? Something clear in and of itself.”

Jona stared as hard as he could, but could perceive nothing else of importance. He was mesmerized by the two small, framed faces in the center, gazing at him with quiet equanimity, as if preparing to greet him for afternoon tea. Their images were positioned right in the middle, directly in his line of sight. The small tableau was a window into a secretive, unknown universe caroming past the two framed figures, a universe that could not possibly be known to the viewer without somehow stepping into their space. It had to be something symbolic of something very important. Surely, it was the focal point of the painting, wasn’t it? What else could matter as much?

Before he could say another word, Peter leaned over, pointing to one corner of the painting rather casually. “Look at these two. What about them? They look kind of strange, don’t you think?”

In a flash, Jona saw them; two figures emerging from a dimly illuminated corner, two child-like gnomes standing placidly within the scene, both of them fully present and yet unseen until the very last moment. Peter began to laugh, and then the elder Lieb began to laugh, with the deep and uncaring laugh that made Jona cringe, a laugh he recognized, a laugh touched by cynical humor and casual cruelty, both exhaled together in the same snigger.

“It’s easy to be fooled, Jona, but you must not be. The allure and fascination of fantasies can capture the imagination, and fill our heads with idle thoughts of vast and unplumbed mysteries, don’t they? They divert us from the here and now. But this,” he slapped his hand down with explosive force over the dwarf creatures in the corner of the picture. “This is truth. This is reality. This is what the human condition is about. Here you see the ugly, and somehow the artist has given them beauty. The obscure are given meaning. The shadows are stripped away from them, for anyone who wants to look. And just like these two in the painting, there are millions of others living in the shadows as well, not perfect but just as human as you and me. Your young friend got it right. He shall have the book as a reward.”

Jona felt a yawning emptiness as Peter scampered away with the book, holding it in high triumph like a trophy, eager to show it to the boys playing nearby. Jona was helpless to get up and follow. He remained sitting next to his father, and then what seemed like an eternity ensued while his father spoke about his recent travels. It was an eternity long enough to live ten lives, long enough to hear about a furtive passage across seas the color of sapphire burnished with silver, from restive Oran to sleepy Malaga, and travel by horse through craggy portillos high in the Sierra Nevada, then past great fields of almond trees, wheat and wild olive, and pastures waving with the rich blue crests of sweet pea mingled with thickly laid prickly broom, and forward to majestic Córdoba, city of resplendent emirs and conqueror Caliphs, where he touched with his own hands one of the five hundred pillars of the Great Mosque, each one glimmering with soft hues filtered through alabaster, marble and bloodstone, and onwards through the plains of the Guadalquivir, past vegas laced with vineyards that lay upon the land like so much delicate embroidery, and over the great central mesas where the sun burned and the breezes cooled, and boldly into the Castilian plains, treeless to the horizon, partitioned by ancient stone walls laid down by the legendary Giants of antiquity, then forced to flee for his life to Valencia, pursued every rod of the way by the Guardia, where he plotted with ardent Aliadófilos eager to enter the Great War, and rallied with rebellious students and laborers under tall and broad leafed palms they called datiles de raposa, prophesying both famine and revolution while sipping tart chacoli from brightly painted porcelain cups, and finally, with reluctant official sanction, on by train to Holy Madrid, across the quick streaming Jarama and into a city still living in the past, its pulse beating to frenetic tales told in nightly zarzuelas.

As the tale of travel and danger simmered in the hush of the shade tree, the rustling leaves seemed to whisper once again every word that was spoken, and again and again, until the very words themselves buzzed around Jona like so many bees, all intent on supping deeply on the nectar of rare adventure. And as the story was told, Jona imagined himself among the mountains of Andalusia, baking in the heat, an almost mirror image of his father tramping with grim determination towards a future that was both unknown and undeniable. He felt that he had entered the adventure himself, and had passed through the portals that bounded this life from the other, and as he did, he could not help wondering about the two faces in the window of the painting, looking wistfully into his world from the one beyond. He would never forget them.

But he did not forget about the dwarfs, either. In his later school years he scoured his textbooks, absorbing everything he could find about them. The rhizomelics, the achondroplastics, those who were hormone deprived, those who were grotesque and those who were perfectly formed; he became expert in identifying them all. For years they were a source of fascination, conjuring up images of sorcery and magic, black arts, icy fjords, Midgard and Nidavellir, black elves of the underground and pale dwarfs on frozen Nordic cliff heads. In time, some came to visit him at his place of work at the ME’s suite. They came in the usual manner, some bloodied and some neat, some contorted in final fear or pain, some in sublime peace. Jona had found the dissections interesting but in the end somewhat disappointing and deflating. He could not see the world through their eyes, of course, but ultimately they proved to be nothing special. Like others, they had sodden livers, tumerous stomachs, and stricken brains. Over time, any peculiarities of bone and cartilage were rendered irrelevant within the grander scheme of life and death. Their small size seemed insignificant as they lay upon the autopsy table, and any struggles they might have endured while living in a world of giants were obscured from view. They were taxonimized and categorized, listed and documented in the usual, logical manner. They were actually quite ordinary.

“Suh?” The beaming dwarf extended an arm with a gracious flourish towards a door at the end of the hallway. “Would you care to come in?”

Jona hesitated. “Is this a house of pleasure?”

“King Momus does reside here, it is true.” The dwarf spoke with a molasses smooth gentility, folding his hands patiently. “Would you like a lady companion to come down?”

“No.” Jona felt his cheeks begin to flush and burn.

“A young man?”

“No, no!”

“A girl? A boy?”

“No! Absolutely not!” Jona found himself beginning to shake and grabbed onto Jones.

“Hemp? Hashish? Peyote?”

Jona paused for the briefest blink of an eye. “No, thank you.”

The dwarfed host seemed to grow suddenly, becoming enormous, filling the small atrium like a genie emerging from a long-lost bottle. His lips became engorged and his smile grew until the corners of his cheeks became effaced, as if words of monstrous proportion were ready to be birthed out of his mouth. “Yes, suh,” he crooned. “We have cocaine and heroin, of course. But for today, I would recommend sweet opium, fresh from the lands of the distant Pashto.”

Later, Jona could not recall his answer.

Marielle hugged Jona closely, giggling in his ear and massaging his belly seductively. Elfieda seemed content to lie quietly on his other side, stroking his hair until it lay smoothly over his forehead. Jona was on his back, naked, spread eagled on an enormous white bed, somewhere near the center of the universe, past Ganymede and very near Aquarius.

“Jona, do you love me?” Marielle squeezed his navel, and inserted her finger deep inside it, seeking passage.

“I did.”

“Darling, do you know what love is?” Elfieda kissed him powerfully on the forehead, raising a welt swollen with blood.

“Not today.”

They then both spoke together, a chorus crooning in the same pitch. “Jona, don’t you want us?”

“Aren’t you dead, both of you?”

And they answered, holding masks up to their faces. “Of course not. We were, but that was before. Not now. We are here. You have changed us.”

“Changed?”

“Of course,” said Marielle. “Just look.”

“Yes,” said Elfieda. “Just touch.”

“You appear lost, my friend.” It was someone else speaking, someone standing nearby, measuring Jona from a near perspective, sizing him up and down, grinning with an understanding grin. He was dark suited, florid cheeked, with wrinkled brow damp with sweat.

“Who are you?” Jona didn’t mind a visitor.

“Could be a friend, maybe.”

Jona squinted but could not focus. He felt his respiration slowing, and a silent alarm vibrating somewhere nearby told him that soon all would be blackness. “Mr. Jones, is that you?”

The other laughed out loud. As he laughed his straw boater bobbed up and down and his bright blue galuses stretched and stretched across his chest, then contracted, and then stretched again to a syncopated rhythm of tones and hues that were reserved for the fairies of the night and unknown to ordinary man. Up and down, up and down went the suspenders, trying oh so hard to overcome the grim pull of the everyday world, straining as if about to twang loose and escape into uninhibited freedom with a baritone sigh. “Oh no, I’m not he. I’m the one you came to see, you see, and now that I’ve had a chance to see you, I can see that you’re quite a bit light in the loafers. Don’t know where you’ve been, do you, where you come from. Don’t know where you’re going, or where you want to be.” The words trilled as from a robin singing a summer song in high soprano.

Jona raised his finger high, waving it like a baton to the tune of the music. “I know where I’ve come from, that’s for sure.” He stared at the man as hard as he could, trying to really see him, and see his face, but as he stared he could not be certain whether his eyes were open or closed.

“You sure?”

“Sure.” Somewhere in the distance, Jona heard the screech of an owl. It seemed angry that it was dislodged from its habitual branch and bough outside his window just to be brought forward on a whim. “I’m’s free as a bird.”

“You know, some folks think I’m like a bird, too. They’ve given me that name, you know, sleek and slim, bedraggled and blue, flying way up and looking down on the high and low alike. Of course, I aim to fly even higher.” A peculiar thing then happened. The man seemed to shrink before Jona’s eyes, then shrink some more, and finally collapse to an impossible height, no taller than an elf, turning dense as a shadow while his sleeves and cuffs splayed empty and dragged along the floor. He also waved a finger, drawing the outline of a box, like a window, in the thin space that lay between them, inviting Jona to enter with a magisterial flourish of the hands. “Let me tell you a story, something to focus the mind,” he said. And as Jona began to close his eyes and drift into the abyss the pygmy bird began to sing:

In the time of the great emperor Zhou there lived a man in Quishan whose name was Ju.

He became rich in the service of the emperor and possessed many lands, so many they spanned the distance between the rising of the sun and the setting of the moon.

He acquired gold and jewels, wives of every shape and size, and many bolts of silk.

However, his greatest treasure, and what he loved more than life itself, was his stable of horses. They were pure white, more powerful than thunder and more fleet of hoof than the mountain wind.

It was said they were from the western deserts, the offspring of the god of the fast flying clouds and the goddess of the swift flowing river.

They were seventeen in number.

The man spent his days watching them run free and strong, and vowed they would one day become the patrimony bequeathed to his sons, and thus their lives would be a happy continuation of his own.

Now this man had nine sons born to nine wives, but only the first, third and ninth survived to walk the earth as men, standing tall in the sun and in the love of their father.

One day, completing the number of days ordained by Heaven, the man died, pointing from his deathbed to his written will.

The oldest son retrieved his father’s writings and read it to his brothers, and in the will was stipulated the father’s gift of the prized horses:

One half would go to the oldest son.

One third would go to the third son.

One ninth would go to the ninth son.

The sons wept with the reading of the will, and gnashed their teeth, and rent their garments.

How could they fulfill their beloved father’s last request?

The division of the seventeen horses could not be accomplished according to the will.

At last, the youngest son spoke.

‘Brothers’, he said, Let us go into the city and consult with the great Daifu. He is the wisest of wise men, and will tell us what to do.’

And so they went, and found the Daifu seated at the outer gates of the city.

‘Oh honorable Daifu’, they beseeched. ‘Help us fulfill the will of our father.

The horses are seventeen and cannot be divided as he required, and we

wish to do as he desired’

The Daifu read the will carefully but said nothing at first.

Shortly, he called his servant to him.

‘Bring forth my horse’, he commanded, and his horse was brought forth.

‘I gift my horse to the three sons of Ju’ he proclaimed

‘With this addition you can now make the division.

As there are now

eighteen horses there is no need for revision.

The oldest son receives one half or nine horses

The third son receives one third or six horses

The ninth son receives one ninth or two horses

Are we agreed?’

The three brothers fell to their knees, thanking the great Daifu for his

munificence and wisdom, and all three agreed to the terms of the division.

‘And now’, the wise man said, ‘since nine and six and two make seventeen,

you have no need of my horse, the eighteenth, and I will take it back.’

And so the three sons went their way.

One was filled with joy.

He wore sackcloth and ate plain congee for the required three years of mourning in honor of his father.

One was content.

He prayed at his father’s spirit tablet at the designated times of ancestral remembrance.

One was wroth.

He neglected his father’s spirit, cursed his brother’s names and conspired to poison them with gu in order to exact his revenge.

The story whirled around and around in Jona’s brain, nudging at some memory as gently as lifting the corner of a coverlet. The fable was familiar somehow, something he had read or heard before, and yet different in some unspoken way, as if it were being told in a language he did not completely understand. “Which one was the unhappy one?” He barely had the strength to murmur.

The visitor was now grown back to his normal size. “Are you worried it is you? If you really want to know that, then you’ll have to find out, won’t you?”

Jona felt himself sleeping but was somehow aware. He could feel the man’s breath on his face, a faint breeze of exhaled garlic and gin. King Momus is gone, he thought, trying to understand what the man was saying. Marielle and Elfieda had left by now, as well. He could hear them fleeing into the night, trailing a long howl of wails, and a warning: ‘King Somnus is come, with his many sons. And he is bringing his friend Phrike, master and god of fear and trembling. Beware.’

The end was very near. He spoke to the blue suspenders. “I can hear you, I can hear what you’re saying. How do I find out?”

The man with the dark suit and the boater and the very blue galuses continued to breathe, and as he did his words seemed to enter right into Jona’s mind, like a short dream planted in his brain by Phantasos or put there by a wizened black duende, weaving her sorcery with a magic wand.

There is a woman who can tell you everything you need to know, the words said. She lives in Echota, a small town north of Atlanta. I’ve talked to her, she is full of grace and wisdom, and I don’t think she’d mind talking to you. She would have a lot to say. You should go find her. Her name is Amelia. Amelia Lieb.

Subscribe now

INTERLUDE (Chapter 29)

MENTOR was a big man with a small head. Like others with small heads, he had big ideas. Not ordinary ideas. Ideas that were too complex and convoluted for ordinary people to understand, and so he kept them confined to himself. He lived each day knowing that he was superior to the simpletons who surrounded him, and the knowing of it ate him alive, as if he were infested by crawling ticks consigned to permanent and irritable internment within the depths of his body. There was something else about him, too. He had a mean streak that stretched the length of his spine. In that regard he was similar to most with the same predisposition. There was something inside, not too far below skin level, that regarded the pain of others without a hint of compassion. He felt contempt for those groaning of their wounds; any laments that others might make about the loss of love, or kin, or future prospects only prompted him to tap as deeply as possible into the recesses of their weeping scars and squeeze, squeeze if possible until every last drop of agony was bled out. With all that, however, he had an odd quirk, something that set him apart from others who used cruelty as they would use a knife and fork to feast on the weakness of others. Sometimes, though not always, he felt remorse for his actions. Regret might overcome him, but not because of pity or sympathy. In some obscure way, he sometimes felt badly that he had descended to a low and primitive level of behavior, the kind expected of the clods and mental defectives he loathed, but far below where his own standards should be.

Eventually, it was contrition and not cruelty that created MENTOR.

He had not always been that way of course. He had been chiseled, moulded, baked and fired from the earliest stages to eventually become the person he was. He had a quiet background and a middle class upbringing, but despite his ordinary beginnings he had always felt apart from others. It had begun very early on, partly because he had learned to speak slowly and with deliberation, as cautiously as a turtle stepping on hot stones. As a youngster growing up in Sheboygan, he had refused to join with the neighborhood pack of boys who whooped and hollered like invading vandals as they swept through quiet, tree-lined streets, and who delighted in blowing up frogs with firecrackers or burning captured squirrels alive. He had never been able to bury himself in his studies, which he found boring, and consequently his grades never reflected the superiority of his mind. From an early age he found school and schoolteachers to be no more than a suffocating blanket wrapped so tightly around his head he wanted to scream. As he grew, he found himself pondering thoughts that he couldn’t express openly, ideas about identity, adventure, and passion. These were difficult thoughts, leading down very narrow and rigid crevices of understanding. Sheboygan was not the sort of place where those kinds of ideas could easily be discussed. In Sheboygan people arose in the morning, read their newspapers, shined their shoes, went to work, and said their prayers at dinner time. Life was regimented, orderly, and utterly predictable.

So, he preferred to sit alone with his dog on the narrow sandy beach at Northeast Park, far from the tedium of home life and the mind numbing patter of his parents, and watch the great ships crossing the horizon. The town had no port of its own, not even a marina for pleasure craft. The only boats to be seen were far off, hazy, and wrapped in mystery. His young imagination was seized by the vision of great ships, sturdy steel vessels filled with dull iron ore, or sparkling copper, or untold tons of trimmed timbers, traveling over the endless pewter waters of Lake Michigan to distant and exotic destinations like Thunder Bay or Duluth. And there, his make-believe told him, the ships would disgorge the plunder of a continent to feed the mouths of great furnaces stoked by coal. And there, at the terminus, were to be found mile-long factories consuming raw materials at one end and excreting bicycles and washing machines and basting spoons like so much confetti from the other. Over time his fertile mind became crowded with visions of great cities occupying an entire hemisphere, fed by a constant stream of ships of every description, manned by crews steady and true. He came to know, eventually, that his fantasy was not real, but he pretended anyway. In the secret sketches of his dreams, he saw himself sailing over the far horizon one day to find that world. For a good part of his boyhood that was satisfaction enough to keep him sane within the constricting straitjacket of his daily boredom.

His father was an attorney who specialized in the kinds of lawsuits neighbors brought against neighbors. It was assumed that the son would follow in the steps of the father, and that the upstanding shopkeepers and homeowners of Sheboygan would be assured of unending opportunities to pursue justice against any unscrupulous butchers, tobacconists, and gas pump attendants in town. Matriculation at Northwestern University was the first step in achieving that prospect, but it turned out that plans and scripts didn’t always account for the unknown. The predictably unexpected happened one day in the form of an advertisement in the student newspaper, announcing that the Navy had opened a recruiting office on campus for anyone wishing to become a Reserve Naval Officer. He did not hesitate to enlist. The student was transformed into an ensign over the course of the next three years, and by graduation he found himself on the very brink of the adventure he had always dreamed about. He could almost taste salty spray spewing over him as he kept watch from the bridge of a capital ship, calling out bearings and courses to navigate through the bright blue waves of the great Pacific. The future, he thought, was bright and the horizon was limitless.

Unfortunately, the Navy did not have the same future in mind, and the horizon was actually quite limited. He was given a stark choice, in a matter of fact way, by a chain smoking officer sitting behind a very narrow metal desk. The freshly minted ensign was offered the option of assignment to the Portsmouth shipyard to monitor construction of naval vessels, or shipping out for duty with the submarine service. He complained that he had joined the navy to travel over sunlit seas to distant destinations. He was brusquely ordered to stand to and make his choice known immediately, or the decision would be made for him. It was his first exposure to the workings of indifferent bureaucracy. He didn’t know it at the time, but that experience was just the initial application of what was to become coat after coat of rule and regulation, a hardened, multi laminated shell of mindless authority and idle stupidity. That was the Navy way. It gave him odd comfort, in a way, to observe that the navy merely served as a reflection of humanity in general. He learned much later that it was a lucky break to have been given any choice at all.

Olongapo might have been a dreamy tropical paradise at some time in the past, in a long lost world of sensual south sea island pleasure, nestled as it was between the creep of primordial green-brown jungle to the east and the crystal blue expanse of Subic Bay to the west. If it ever had been, though, it was no longer. It was now become an irregular urban sprawl, smelling of jungle rot and beer by day and swarmed by rodents, cats, and drunkards by night. The only reminder of its jungle pedigree was the steamy heat that percolated upwards through muddy streets during the course of the day, diffused overnight by soft ocean zephyrs blowing in from the bay. The naval base was laid out like a neat and tidy appendage to the town, almost sterile in comparison to the hurly burly of daily life in Olongapo. Sleek ships clustered in their dockside nests, inert, their dark gray hulls suffused by the bright pastels of sunrise and sunset but otherwise lifeless, deserted by crews that were released to prowl the back alleys of the town.

The young ensign reported for duty as ordered, neatly starched and trimmed out in his dress whites, forced to run from the bus stop to the headquarters building in a torrential downpour that exploded with unexpected ferocity. He was neither apprehensive nor excited. Three months at New London followed by three more at Mare Island had taught him everything he wanted to know about submarine operations. More than it was necessary to know, so far as he was concerned. For someone of his intelligence, mastering the various technical manuals had been easy. Many were redundant, clearly intended for the dull of mind. Engineering. Weapons. Navigation. Supply. Radio. Each area was covered repetitively in the classroom and in his readings. Once the technical terms were stripped away, and the jargon reduced to ordinary language, the details and procedures were easy to understand and simply required memorization. His own plan was simple as well. He would qualify in every area aboard ship, allow his abilities to shine, and earn rapid promotion to lieutenant. In twelve months, eighteen months at most, he would transfer to a surface ship and begin to live his dream.

The world he entered was like nothing he had imagined, though, and certainly not what he had hoped for. His sub, USS S-40, did not have the dignity of a name, apparently just one in a series of S-boats. Pig boats, they were called, with some justice. He entered a shadowy, low lit universe of strange fixtures and eerie groans and creaks. The stagnant air belowdecks was a malodorous mixture of smells; the aromas of human sweat, engine oil, feces, fried bacon, and paint all blended into an overwhelming, poisonous, gaseous presence that numbed the senses and left him nauseated. While making his first foray forward from the aft deck hatch he found it necessary to bend, stoop and twist to avoid low hanging cables, overhead ventilation ducts, and a myriad of valves, stopcocks, gauges and taps lining the bulkhead, all of which seemed to be specifically designed to gash a human body part if care was not given to avoid them with sinuous contortions of the hips and arms. He at last found the captain, who greeted him with hostile belligerence.

“Have you even stepped foot on a sub before?”

The answer was forthcoming only after careful and deliberate thought. “No, sir. They said in peacetime it was not necessary. Just books and lecture hall. I’ve seen pictures. They said we would learn on board. But I think you will find me more than capable. Sir.”

“Really?” The captain’s snarl combined a complete displacement of lips and mouth to the extreme right side of his face, as if drawn there by purse strings, together with the exploding sound of a cracking boiler. “They teach you procedures?”

The ensign answered slowly, meticulously, and only after a considerable pause. “They were emphasized, yes sir.”

The captain wrinkled his forehead, creating a cross between the appearance of desert dunes and straight, newly plowed lowlands. “Bull turd. You don’t know squat about procedure, mister, and I sure as hell don’t have the inclination to teach you. See this?” He pointed at a picture on the wall of his cabin, a faded black and white of an officer in formal dress, with layered medals dripping from neck and chest. “This here is Luther Von Arnauld de la Perière. He was a U-boat commander in the war, on the enemy side, understand? Sank one hundred and ninety four of our ships. That’s more ships sunk to the bottom than the total number of craps I’ve flushed down the toilet in my entire life, you understand? And you know what he taught his crew? Procedure. Procedure. Procedure. From now on I don’t want you pissing without having procedure instructions in your hand, understand? Now, just so you understand your status here, you are worthless to me until you become qualified and can actually do something without hand holding, so until then stay out of my way. I am assigning lieutenant Canary to be your personal escort. He will be at your side every day and night and will report every breath you take directly to me. Unless he tries to screw you, I don’t want to hear a peep outta you. Your actual instructor will be Bill Maegher, Chief of the Boat. He is not a nice man, and he smells bad. Stay close and listen close, and you will learn everything you need to know about being an officer on this here sub. Understand?”

The COB was indeed not a nice man. Some of the profanity dropped from his lips was so exotic it might as well have been a foreign language. And he did smell, exuding a strange aroma that combined cigarette smoke and grease, a foul odor that seemed ready to combust spontaneously at any moment. Over the next weeks, expertly and with constant repetition, he explained the inner workings of the boat in minute detail, teaching facts that were not found in manuals, including the importance and location of the levelometer gauges for the sanitary tanks, the functions and types of reducer bonnets and hammer valve handles studding the main hydraulic manifold, the proper location and method for stowing foul weather gear aft of the IC board, and other innumerable details that needed to be absorbed for the sake of safe and efficient performance. When the Chief spoke, he spoke very loudly and intensely, with considerable spitting between the teeth, as if the boat was about to sink with loss of all hands unless his instructions were followed rapidly and precisely. He was careful never to touch the young officer, but there was much arm waving, demonstrative eye rolling, and finger wagging. He also expounded at great length about the importance of onboard etiquette, especially with regard to the enlisted men.

“Do not stop in the aft battery room to chit chat with the men. That is raghat country and officers have no business visiting there. Hold your nose and go through quickly if you have any business further aft. Anyway, there is no kinda chit chat allowed in the Navy. Also, don’t talk with them at their mess, either. First of all, they’re all hornswagglers right down the line, and second, they are all fluent in bullshit, and you ain’t, and they’ll talk rings around you, especially the ones that have a pack of Camels rolled up in their sleeves halfway up their arms. They’ll try to convince you that’s where they keep their Medal of Honor. And don’t forget, the Master Chiefs invented the language of bullshit, and wrote the dictionary too, so don’t talk to them neither. I advise you to smoke a pipe and keep it clamped in your chops at all times. That way you can listen without having to talk or answer questions, and you won’t be tempted to give any orders. A fucking satisfactory situation to be in, and I recommend it fucking heartily, kabish?”

After a weekfull of instruction Meagher cornered the ensign while demonstrating how to inspect the badger stills, speaking in a low but vehement tone, with lips twitching, as if he had summoned all his energy to communicate quietly this one and only time. “One more thing about the crew. If you’re the night watch Duty Officer while we’re in port, it’s your duty to protect the men, you understand, if they’re brought in by the Shore Patrol or the local cops. They know they’re goin’ on patrol soon, and wanna have a good time ashore. Protect them, and they will protect you when necessary. Unless they done something really wrong. But even then. You get them aboard from the dock any way you can, upsydaisy-like.”

The young ensign did not fully understand what the COB meant, at least in the beginning, but he learned well enough as time went on. At the end of the second week he was called to the control room by the captain. “You’ve done OK so far, according to Meagher. He says you don’t talk much, and you’re an arrogant pisshead, but you’re not lazy and you absorb stuff like a sponge. He recommends assignment to a watch section. Let’s see how you do. As of tonight you will take the topside middle watch, twelve to four, as Duty Officer. The DO carries grave responsibilities. You think you’re ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The chief explained things to you?”

“Yes, sir.”

The captain snapped off a wave of the hand as a sign of dismissal. “Take care of my crew. I don’t want half of them slammed in the brig, get it? We shove off tomorrow at 1300, and some of ‘em will want to blow off steam.”

As watch officer he was entitled to wear a sidearm, a standard issue .45 Colt, suspended from a thick leather belt slung low by his side. It was chambered with only one round and was meant merely for ceremonial show, but he liked the feel of the gun on his hip, and also liked the feel of having the fore and after watch salute him as he sauntered back and forth along the deck from one station to the other. He particularly liked it when the torpedo room chief, Moody, saluted with a limp motion of hand to hat. It was no secret that Moody had been assigned the night watch to keep an eye on the young ensign, and he could not hide his resentment about an assignment so far below what his status should allow. With every salute, he seemed to mutter something unintelligible under his breath, vague words that wafted silently into the sultry night, flying away to an aerie of other collected slights, wrongs, and affronts suffered over his many year career. As the hours dragged on, sailors began to straggle back, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups, sometimes staggering, sometimes half carried by their buddies. The young ensign watched all this with a benign bemusement, returning the men’s salutes crisply at the top of the gangway before they went tumbling through the after hatch. He was certain that the captain would have no cause for complaint in the morning.

In the very deadest part of night a jeep pulled up, disgorging a trio of Philippino marines wearing shore patrol patches. Between them they propped up a sailor clad in his white duck jacket and nothing else, naked from the waist down. The man’s malfeasance was quickly explained. After becoming very drunk, he had gotten into a bar dispute with a bosun’s mate from the Canopus. The Canopus was their submarine tender. Both crews knew each other fairly well, and in the past had proven repeatedly that familiarity does indeed breed contempt. The quarrel might have been about anything, and very possibly about nothing. After a few shoves back and forth the submariner had gone outside, pulled down his pants, and defecated on the sidewalk, in full view of his amused shipmates sitting inside the bar. It didn’t end there, though. It was charged that he then scooped up a pile of his own droppings with his bare hands, marched back into the bar, and mashed all of it into the face of the bosun’s mate, who was slumped over his beer and in serious conversation with an unsteady young lady nearby. The brawl that ensued resulted in cuts and bruises, a few broken chairs, but no serious injuries.

One of the Philipino marines, a corporal barely taller than the sailor’s shoulder, used his club to tap the seaman on the head. “What you want do with him, sir? You want him, or take to brig?”

The ensign tried to process the matter quickly. The incident was hilarious, hilariously disgusting, or just disgusting, any one or all of the three. This kind of situation had not been covered at Mare Island Naval Station, therefore the proper adjudication required some careful thought. Before a decision could be rendered, Moody came huffing and panting to his side.

“That’s Lewis, Torpedo-man first class. You gotta bring him on board, sir.”

“Why? His crime was heinous. Let him rot behind bars for a night or two.”

“You can’t do that, sir. Look, he’s coming up on his pension. If he don’t go on this here little deployment he’ll lose his chance to start collecting when we get back, and he needs the money bad. Has an eleven year old girl in Panama City with beriberi and scurvy, or somethin’. Like I said, he needs the money bad what with doctor bills and medications. Have a heart sir.”

It was easy to relent under the circumstances, but as the night receded and a brilliant dawn bathed the dread gray hull of the S-40 in colors of saffron gold and periwinkle blue, qualms began to set in. He told Lieutenant Canary the tale right after breakfast. Canary took a long drag on his cigarette and checked his watch as if he wanted to be somewhere else, or note the precise time of their conversation.

“First of all, Lewis was a Torpedo-man first class, but no longer. He’s a third rate now. I think he tried to pick up a nun in Coronado, and was busted. I mean it. A nun. Second, I don’t think he was ever stationed in the Canal Zone, so I don’t know where any kid would come from, at least in Panama. Third, he owes Moody a coupl’a hundred from poker, and I’m guessing the Master Chief don’t want to lose sight of his little friend until that small sum has been settled. Also, they been shipmates for a long time. Pretty tight, I think. Don’t worry, though.” The lieutenant clapped him on the shoulder. “I don’t think the captain will mind when I tell him. Wouldn’t look good on his record, either, to have one of his crew in the slammer.”

The events of the previous night were now seen in a different light altogether. The naive and inexperienced DO had been hoodwinked by a cagey, veteran noncom. The thought that someone so poorly endowed in mental capacity was able to trick him smoldered inside the ensign, a smoking ember waiting to be stoked into righteous flame. He thought about it carefully, patiently, and decided to bide his time and wait for the right moment to seize revenge.

The S-40 was ordered to patrol in a wide arc stretching from Boaya Point and Veradero Bay, then due east of Batangas before finally slicing back between Botolan Point and Subic Bay. Each day of the two week patrol was to be spent in training exercises, including ceaseless fire drills, gunnery practice, and emergency dives. The young ensign found the sudden plunges into the depths unsettling, but gritted his teeth and forced himself to remain silent, supremely confident in his ability to overcome any fear, particularly since the others seemed able to do so. As expected, the crew endured each evolution with the cynical wisecracking of a veteran outfit, but by and large scored very well with each maneuver. The captain was seen to unscrew his distorted lips on several occasions and offer a jagged smile once or twice. He did not deem it necessary to congratulate his new ensign on work well done, or offer encouragement, but he did acknowledge the young officer’s progress by assigning him to the bridge watch together with the Executive Officer, Lieutenant Commander Melville.

The XO, possibly under some psychological influence imposed by his name, considered himself a poet and writer. The crew seemed somewhat wary of him, mostly because he had the remarkable and unpredictable tendency to intone, at a moment’s notice and with sonorous affect, any number of poems, or snippets from plays and novels, and from time to time extemporaneous creations of his own. He made no bones of the fact that he intended to be a famous novelist one day, and that Wally Melville would become rich beyond compare. And when he did recite out loud, he made sure that everyone within earshot was forced to listen. For most of the crew, it was both irksome and tedious, just another example of the obligation to kowtow to an officer’s every whim.

That night the two officers manned the bridge along with Chief Moody and a sluggish, immobile, heavy-set seaman who wore his cap so low over his forehead that it did not seem possible he could see through his binoculars as he stood the starboard station. They were surface steaming at twelve knots, cruising the Verde Island passage between Mindoro and Luzon. The ocean crested three feet, causing the boat to porpoise just enough so that the men of the bridge watch rocked slightly back and forth in unison, a rhythmic sway that gently nudged them from heel to toe, in a continuous, unconscious dance beneath a low lying violet sky. The horizon was hazy, but the moon, fleeing fretfully across the heavens in an anxious gibbous mood, was strong enough to illuminate the seas surrounding them, striking each swell with a silver touch and gilding the ship’s phosphorescent wake with roiling flecks of argentine and gold. A chorus of sound surrounded them: the oblique crash of waves on the bow and tank tops, the regular thrum of the diesel engines, the ensign snapping in the wind just aft of the sail. Even so, looking back, the young officer could remember that he felt as if he were encased in a silent world of his own, gripping the twin barrels of his 7x50 against his chest as if it were a weapon, and aware of nothing. He had dreamed for so long of standing at his post high over the waves, his face to the plunging crests and troughs of an angry sea, spitting brine in defiance of the ocean’s fury, feeling himself swell with a sense of power as he devoured every twist of danger that came his way. And then, at some undefined moment, he had imagined that he would be given a revelation, a divine insight or vision inspired by the God of Nature, filling him with a promise of immensity. All in all, a gift commensurate with the standing of his native genius. But he felt none of that. There were no supernatural interventions, no spectral chimeras. After a time, he felt bored.

“Do you smell that?” Melville suddenly grasped his arm, as if shaking him from sleep.

“What? Smell what?”

“Are you alive, man? Take a deep smell.”

He did, and almost gagged. It was a nauseating, sour smell that might have emanated from a gaseous sewer. “My god, what is that stink?”

Melville leaned over the bridge, gazing forward, then pointed excitedly. “Look, there it is!” He pointed to a mound of green and black gelatinous debris near the forward torpedo hatch. “A whole pile of it!”

“What is it? And why does it smell so awful?”

The XO shouted some orders down to the control room, then peered forward in satisfaction as two crewmen appeared and scooped the irregular clumps of material into a metal container. Satisfied, he then turned back to the ensign. “My lord, it’s ambergris! Ambergris! Don’t you know what that is?”

There was a long delay before an answer seeped out, almost lost among the sounds of engines and pennants and waters from the deep. “No.”

“It’s whale shit. Or whale vomit, I’m not sure which. Maybe both. The stuff drifts through these straits, usually it washes ashore along the reefs and coves. We’re lucky, that was a big chunk.”

It didn’t seem credible that the XO was a particularly knowledgeable man, but he seemed to know what he was talking about. “Why do you want it? It smells atrocious.”

“You don’t know ambergris? Smells foul now, but in time it transforms into a fragrance so sweet a queen could bathe in it. Yes, it’s disgusting, but highly sought after. Loathing turns into lust, don’t you just love it? Poetic, no? It becomes miraculous, a loud perfume.”

“It’s chemistry, nothing more.”

It was Melville’s turn to hesitate in responding, squinting carefully, first at the ensign and then the others on the bridge. “You’re a strange one, aren’t you?”

“No stranger than anybody else. Sir.”

“Let me ask you a question. Where do you like it better, when we’re submerged or on the surface like this?”

“Up here. Where we belong.”

“You don’t feel anything when we’re down below?”

“Afraid, sometimes, just a bit. Nothing else.”

“Feel sorry for you. You can see all this anytime. Just a diversion.” He gestured broadly, taking in the dim silhouette of a pyramid mountain rising out of the sea not a mile distant. “But down below...you’re squeezed, compressed into yourself. Even if you’re just afraid, like you said, it’s still all inside, it belongs just to you. Like a closed book, don’t you think? You hold it real tight, up against your chest just like you’re holding your field glasses right now. You’re the only one writing in it, don’t you see? No one knows what’s in the book, only you. You and God. In the whole universe...” He pointed abruptly at the mantle of stars above, a swarm of wise and friendly holy fathers attending the boat’s narrow wake. “In all of creation, only you two know the secret of what is written, no one else. You. And God.” The XO breathed in deeply, as if inhaling an unseen nectar.

They lapsed into silence, but the ensign did not remove his gaze from the XO, measuring his mark carefully. “That may be. But what most people write is just a pile of shit, like ambergris. Don’t you think? Sir?”

The next day’s sun was barely risen when the hysterical clang of the klaxon erupted, alerting all hands to general quarters. The captain’s voice grated over the IC, announcing an unexpected practice torpedo run. The ensign hurried to his duty post in the forward torpedo room, groggy but anxious not to miss a moment of the drill. Moody and the Exec were both already there, supervising. The ensign made a point of standing right next to Melville, arms folded, grinning outwardly but inwardly steeling himself for the dive. The deck canted forward as the boat began to submerge, then straightened perceptibly as it reached periscope depth. Very shortly, though, and without warning, a great lurch upwards was felt, accompanied by a booming noise from the hull. Something was very wrong. His face grim, Melville scurried aft, dogging the watertight door to the torpedo room behind him, sealing the compartment securely.

Moody, perspiring heavily, placed his ear against the bulkhead as if listening for a secret message from beyond the boat. Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen. The boat began to roll at a sickening pitch, a clear sign it had gone dead in the water. The air became fetid, as if all oxygen had been exhausted. Soon, everyone was soaked from neck to trousers as the temperature within their steel-clad chamber rose steadily. Seaman Lewis, the same one who had been caught with his pants down at Olongapo, squatted on the floor and began to gag, appearing to gasp for breath. The ensign felt a sudden, irrational desire to scream. He understood logically that there was adequate oxygen to breathe, but he could not completely suppress a sprouting panic. Fear climbed steadily inside him, an unsteadying and unreasoning fright that threatened to explode into shouts, or screams, or an incomprehensible, sobbing babble. He struggled to keep from exposing himself to the others, forcing himself to keep his secret dread hidden deep within.

“Chief, you think we’re OK?” He regretted the question as soon as he asked it.

Moody picked up a wrench chained to one of the torpedo bays and struck it angrily against the carriage mechanism, and then again for effect, making a clang as clear and pure as the tolling of a bell. “All of you shut your holes!” He spoke in the direction of the crew, but his eyes flitted repeatedly towards the ensign. “Whassamatter, you never been belowdecks before? Anyone want their mommy?”

Lewis got up from his squat, smirking. “Naw, I want your mommy.”

Before another word could be said, the IC crackled into life, commanding all officers and senior chiefs to the control room. The ensign ran as quickly as he could, happy to be going anywhere, following Moody’s surprisingly agile form as they made their way aft. They found the captain scowling so hard it really did seem as if his lips were ready to descend onto his jowls. He gestured to the COB, who spoke in a voice loud enough to be heard as far away as the anchor chain housing. “The bow plane bull gears jammed on that last trim dive again. Had to blow the tanks to surface. Maybe somethin’ wrong with the bow planes, hope one of ‘em hasn’t fallen off.” Meagher leveled his gaze at Moody. “Get a volunteer from your crew. Get them outside, check it out.” He paused only long enough to scratch his sweat soaked underarm. “Who’s gonna be the volunteer?”

Looking back, time yawned. Or better, time gulped, devouring the moments and hours that followed. As if triggered by the push of a button, the ensign spoke up. “How about Lewis?” He heaved the words out as if they came from some deep reservoir of human understanding. “I know he wants to make up for some unfortunate past mistakes.” Moody had glowered and Meagher had nodded, and later Lewis had spit out some strange sounding rhyming curses when he was told, all very rude but reverent, almost like some kind of sacred spoken verses, and then before long he was on deck in his skivvies while his crew mates cheered lustily, with all the pent up passion of a crowd at the World Series. “Go it, Lewis,” they had cried, and “I got a beer for you when you’re done,” and “This will get your stripes back, man.” And as they peppered him with praise he raised his middle finger in salute, pointed to his crotch, and jumped into the water.

Some events have no explanation. They happen in the most random way, like two strangers meeting in a head-on collision at some forlorn intersection of no importance. Of course, afterwards it would be only human - in fact, very human, and vitally necessary - to measure up all the contributing factors to the crash, like velocity, and mass, and time, and many other things too, like ergonomics, and psychic stress, and nurture, and political persuasion, and gender, and hourly salary, and the cycles of the moon, and the physics of a tornado and on and on about the millions of triggers and restraints that dictate human action. But sometimes, events seem to happen only because a roll of dice tumbled one way or the other at the whim of a cosmic tosser.

The sea was calm, with the barest of swells caressing the slowly bobbing boat as it lay exposed beneath an azure sky that was clear from one end of the horizon to the other. Lewis dove, not very deep, a few feet only, then surfaced to announce that the bow planes were stuck at an odd angle and seemed loose. He asked for some rope and for some more help, dove once more, and was never seen again.

Later, there were many theories. Perhaps an unseen shark had come along, or a sudden, violent eddy had sucked him down, or an internal wave, silent and powerful, had dashed his brains out against the hull, or he had caught his legs, or arms, or neck as he attempted to secure the bow planes with the rope. Some even said it was certain that he had taken the chance and had swum to Marinduque, less than three miles off the port beam, and was already enjoying palm wine, women, and Tanduay. Much later, some would swear they could see scratch marks on the bow, conclusive and telling signs of a terrible fate. No one really knew, of course, and no Board of Inquiry could deduce the real reasons for this one man’s death. There was no family, and no telegram to send, and so his memory was fated to sink slowly down a distant horizon.

The next day, the ensign made a point of finding Moody topside on the fore deck, busy checking the muzzle tampion for the three inch-50. The young officer was chewing comfortably on his pipe as he approached, returning Moody’s salute with an affable wave towards his forehead. “Chief.”

“Sir.”

“Sorry about Lewis.”

“Yessir.”

“You knew him pretty well?”

“Twenty years. Got through the war side by side.”

“Friends?”

“Yeah. The son of a bitch was my friend. Maybe my only friend.”

“That’s tough. Well, it’s too bad.”

“That he’s dead? Too bad, yessir.” Moody grunted out the last words, expressing as much emotion as he would allow, and dropped his head just a bit.

“No, I didn’t mean that exactly.”

“Sir?”

“I mean it’s too bad that you’re the one who sent him to his death, seeing as he was your friend, and you were his. That’s got to be on your mind every moment, and the guilt, I suppose.”

The Chief said nothing, merely craning his neck to stare earnestly and deeply into the yawning muzzle of the cannon.

Weeks later the S-40 finally finished her refit at Olongapo, and orders arrived to rejoin the remainder of the Asiatic fleet at its summer anchorage. The base was now virtually deserted, as one by one the other subs, along with the Canopus, had departed with the blare of bands playing and the spectacle of crews lined along deck in their dress whites. The men of the S-40 champed at the bit to join their sister ships of the flotilla, and when repairs to the bow planes were finally completed an audible exhale of cool relief and exhilaration blew through the boat like a cleansing early March wind. At last, the XO ordered the mooring hawsers to be cast off. All lines and ropes were hauled in, and as the Leading Seaman secured the line lockers, wielding his T wrench like a scepter, the boat maneuvered away from its nest and drove its bow outwards, towards the sea, making turns for its summer base, to a place both mysterious and well worn. To Chefoo, in China.

It was dawn of the first day of June when S-40 carefully edged its way into the broad expanse of cobalt blue waters off Chefoo, with pennants flying as it paraded past the fleet’s majestic flagship, the venerable Augusta. A horde of Chinese merchants could be seen infesting the mighty cruiser’s foredeck, peddling their wares of fruit, silks, and straw hats, crooning, chattering, and hawking in voices loud enough to be heard clearly by the submariners as they drifted to their mooring nestled next to the Canopus.

The ensign devoured the contours of the town through his binoculars, feeling for the first time the thrill of adventure he had craved since the beginning of his enlistment. The following day, to his chagrin, he was assigned Officer of the Deck and remained on board while most of the crew packed themselves, sardine-like, into a launch for the half mile trip to shore. On the next day, though, he felt himself living a dream as he walked the whistle clean avenues of the town. He wandered away from the shoreline boulevard, studded with bars, souvenir shops and tea establishments, and meandered further into the depths of Chefoo. He was impressed to find the streets neat, laid out in an orderly fashion, and fronted by cleverly designed wooden homes with clay tile roofs and ornately carved latticework covering the windows. There were surprisingly few people to be seen along the town’s backstreets. He had expected the bustle of rickshaws and open air market stands, heavily rouged ladies of the night smoking cigarettes, or the collapsed and seedy entrances to opium parlors, but there was none of that. A few men were seen walking in the streets, short and thin and striding briskly and quietly. Occasionally, a wispy bearded elder sitting comfortably in a doorway would stare as he passed. It was all serene, quiet, and exotic. It was enchanting.

Somewhere in the heart of the city he turned a corner, and experienced a sudden, jarring sense of unreality. An enormous church lay straight ahead, made of ponderous and vaulting gray stone, with flaring arches and a high rising bell tower jutting proudly over the quaint streets of Chefoo. As he approached in disbelief, a plaque embedded in the ground swam into his vision, covered with elaborate gothic symbols more suitable to Cornwall than China:

St. Andrews Episcopal Church

All Who Believe in the

Everlasting Power of Christ

Are Welcome

Almost in a trance, the ensign wandered towards the main door and entered the narthex. The sight and smell were familiar, rushing back a trove of memories from his childhood. A church, a real church, a Christian church, erected in the depths of ancient China. He felt immediately uncomfortable, disturbed somehow, and turned to leave.

“Navy?”

Two forms were visible in the far darkened corner of the narthex, one a man obscured by shadow and one a woman in a long flowing yellow dress. The woman stepped forward, catching the flickering cast of candlelight across her face and shoulders, and by embracing the man’s arm pulled him forward very slightly as well. She had an imperial face, with vaulting forehead and broad, flaring eyebrows set over narrow, sloping eyes that glowed amber in the semilight. The raven black of her hair flowed freely down her neck, revealing her to be neither young nor old; the fine strands of her straight, silken, unbraided sentry guarded the mystery of her true age. Her focus stayed steady as she came nearer, gathering in the ensign’s face and form. She pursed her lips, and spoke again, gently, as if encouraging a bud to blossom. “Navy?”

For a long moment the ensign remained silent, overcome by her appearance. He searched for the right response. “U.S. Navy.”

The man standing behind her stepped into a sliver of light beaming down from a narrow stained glass window, smiling with a visible quiver of his lips. He seemed very old, sallow skinned, with a thick scar running down almost the center of his chin. The woman clasped him even more closely, also smiling. “Welcome. You are new here.”

“How did you know?” Immediately after blurting out the words, he felt shamed. “Of, course, it’s obvious.”

“Most who see this place for the first time react the way you do. It may seem out of place but for those who come to worship it’s a welcome sight.” She gestured with a wide sweep of her arm. “Remind you of home?”

He examined her more closely. She was asian, but different from the other moon faced women he had seen in town. The old man was certainly not Chinese. Even though his head hung low, the high sculpted cheekbones and round orbits of a westerner were testimony to his origin. “Not really.” He knew he was lying, but felt more comfortable for it. “And you, miss?”

“My father and I live here, on the grounds. We help the deacon. With the work.” She tugged at a small cross pinned to her collar.

The ensign dropped his eyes to view the lustrous silk of her dress. “I’m sure the deacon appreciates it.” He felt much better now, and did not mind flashing a broad grin. “See you next time, I guess.”

The woman touched him on the sleeve as he turned to go. “Please, sir. Wait.”

The ensign turned back towards her, raising his wrist in an exaggerated manner, hoisting it high between them as if it were a talisman of great power. “You realize I am an officer of the United States Navy?”

“Please, sir. Lieutenant. We beg for your help.”

The ensign stopped in his tracks. The hollow whisper of adventure and of the unknown blew softly, beckoning, entreating. “What help?”

Afterwards, he could barely recall her words. They erupted from her in such an incoherent and rapid stream of exclamations, entreaties, explanations and exhortations that they blended into a torrent of verbal babble. Somehow, though, he understood her, in everything she had to say. Her father was very ill, slowly losing the power of his limbs and of his thoughts. There was a doctor in Darwin, in Australia, they had been told about who was renowned for the treatment of this kind of condition, and that is where they needed to go before it was too late. She and her father had hidden wealth, but it was all in Chinese tender, fen, and it was useless for their purpose. To get to Australia they needed francs, or pounds, or dollars. She and her father were willing to offer ten times the market value of fen for dollars, if the transaction could be accomplished immediately. At the end, he could remember, she clasped his hands and looked into his eyes with a look he had never seen before. Defeat. Desperation. Determination. And desire, he really believed, desire hidden deeply within her gaze. It was a moment he would savor.

“What you want done is illegal. I won’t have anything to do with it.”

He almost skipped out of the church, satisfied he had done the right thing and put the exotic looking woman in her place. And, in some way, the defeat and pain he saw in her eyes was pleasurable to him. She was a mongrel of some kind, beautiful in her own way, but her pitiful plea did not move him. He had just begun to fantasize about possessing both her and her hoard of copper fen when he was abruptly accosted on the long, neat gravel pathway leading from church to street.

It was the man, her father, who had somehow gotten ahead of him, blocking his path. The old man could be seen vividly now, surprisingly tall and with robust shoulders and arms. He held a lustrous medallion in his right hand, thrusting it forward so that it caught the sun’s rays with a brilliant sheen. “Frrrom one navy man to anodder, pleashe help.” His words were thickened both by a slurring of the tongue and by a deep, foreign accent.

“What is the medal?” The American’s curiosity flared, a flame feeding on the moment.

“Order of Shaint Shtanislaus. Rus. Forrrr brave.”

A brief image of Sheboygan and the shadow of great ships cruising the horizon flashed through the ensign’s mind, just long enough to allow him to look the old man over once again, allowing time to trace the deep scar on his chin, a fibrous cord spiraling down to his neck before disappearing beneath his shirt. And then they walked together, slowly, while the sun receded below the great limestone belfry, touching it for just a few seconds with incandescent radiance, and the old Russian told his story.

He had been an officer aboard the Petroplovask, a Russian battleship blown out of the water during the Japanese war more than twenty years before. He and six of the crew survived a two week ordeal on a few planks of wood, crossing one hundred kilometers over the Yellow Sea before making landfall just north of Chefoo. They found refuge at the Russian consulate, where he was welcomed to remain, idle and safe for the remainder of hostilities. Instead, he and his men jury rigged radio transmission stations along the coast, hoping to report enemy ship movements. Somehow, the Japanese became aware of his signals, and before long their destroyers and gunships began patrolling, methodically shelling and destroying his stations, and killing, one by one, all of his men. Even then he did not give up. He trained homing pigeons smuggled in from Port Arthur, and continued sending reports for the duration of the war. None returned, probably because the distance was too great. Finally, sensing the end of the war was near, he purchased a decrepit sampan and attempted to run the gauntlet of enemy ships patrolling between Chefoo and the Russian bastion at Liantung. The rickety boat was blown off course at Changdao Island, and he barely made it back, starving and sick, to the coastline.

The Russian empire did not forget him after the war, awarding him the Medal of St. Stanislaus for exemplary courage and devotion. That was all well and good, and naturally there was a temptation to return home, but he had become disgusted and disillusioned with the ponderous incompetence of the military. And, he had met a woman. So, he stayed in Chefoo, ignoring the agents who had tried to woo him back to the land of Tsar Nicholas and then of Vladimir Lenin, and he had gone on to live a hard life in China. His wife was gone now, so his only daughter was the sole saving grace of his waning days. Her name was Kei. Kei-shaline, in memory of his own mother Catherine.

Now, he said, there were great disturbances in the country all around. The Japanese were threatening war on China. Brigands led by local war lords were terrorizing entire towns, even small cities, preventing safe travel from one place to another. Communists were just now arriving, beginning to peck at peasants and laborers like a ravenous bird searching for grubs in a rotting tree. The old man could smell calamity in the air and wanted more than anything to get Kei to a place of safety. Not Russia, never. Not Shanghai or Hong Kong. Australia would do.

“So it’s not to get treatment for you?”

“I don’t care about me. That is what she believes, but for me a convenient excuse only. Will you help? Navy offishers have duty to help fellow offishers.”

“My only duty is to my country.” The ensign made a half turn as if to leave, but hesitated, hoping there was more.

The old man coughed as if he were struggling to spit out something noxious he had swallowed. “I haff information. You help me, I help you, you help country.”

“What information?”

“Intelligence. Information about enemy.”

The ensign felt a shock strike at the base of his skull, an electric current that coursed down his spine. “What enemy?”

“Yourrrr enemy.” The Russian suddenly appeared younger, with eyes that gleamed and lips that twisted into a half smile. “You know who. Enemy. The shouthern country. They have spy here.”

“How would you even know that?” Without thinking, the ensign grabbed the medal of St. Stanislaus, yanking the old man’s head closer. “Tell me.”

“Know for sure.” The words gurgled out with a forceful exhale, like blood spurting from a recent wound. “They have agent who is shmuggling opium, knows everything and everyone.” There was just the briefest pause, no more than the time it takes for a teardrop to fall from eye to cheek. “He sleeps with Kei.”

It did not occur to the ensign, when the time came, to be frightened for his safety. He was not immune to the feeling; after all, confined within the thin walls of a steel coffin thirty meters below the ocean’s surface could cause sweat drops to pour down from brow and neck in anyone. But this, what he was about to do, caused no anxiety at all. He was vivified, his senses alert to every sound and motion, and he felt more alive than he had ever been. The old Russian, Yuri, had provided him with civilian clothes the color of faded brown and dark maroon, with wide cotton pantaloon legs that swooshed with every step he took. As they entered the darkened church, that was the only sound to be heard.

Yuri walked a few paces ahead, wheezing audibly. Kei had been told to stay away, but the father worried that she might appear anyway, out of concern that the meeting might somehow go awry. She had voiced her apprehension openly and honestly. It had taken her considerable time and toil to gain the trust of the southerner, and then even more effort to seduce him. He was in love with her, of that she was sure, and to a certain point he would do what she asked of him. However, there was another issue at stake, one of supreme importance. The agent had become their chief opium supplier; without him their brisk trade in the illicit powder would dwindle, and so would their only source of income. It was the ensign who insisted that the two men should meet, but it was she who insisted that they meet blinded to one another. In the case of a breakdown both men could then simply walk away, innocent of the other’s identity.

The arrangements had taken just a few days, once the ensign satisfied himself that the proposition made sense. There would be an exchange. He would give certain information to the CSA agent. The agent would give certain information to him. If the transaction was satisfactory, there might be another meeting. Or not. In either case the experience would be unforgettable, an event of high adventure, and if successful it would pay his ticket out of submarine duty.

The church interior was glum, lit only by a few candles clustered in the chancel. The old Russian trudged in the lead, head down until they reached the transept, then pointed with a grunt. To the right, on the near side of the communion rail, was a towering, ornately carved booth with three tall archways, the middle one larger than the other two, each enclosed by a glossy plank door. It was a confessional, something the ensign had never seen before. Kei was standing squarely in front, opening one of the doors and waiving impatiently.

“Get in,” she whispered, “He’ll come once you’re inside.”

“Did he see me?”

She shook her head quickly. “No. He’s outside. I will get him when you are hidden in there.”

“And you swear he doesn’t know who I am?”

“Swear. Better that way. For me and father too. I told him you have information. You talk. Then you give me money.”

The ensign nodded. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” He had agreed to exchange three hundred dollars, a sum that would easily buy two billets to Darwin. He would use the fen he received to purchase souvenirs and women, both in inexhaustible supply in the clean and hospitable city of Chefoo.

Once the door was closed, the ensign found himself immersed in blinding darkness. He suppressed a momentary move towards the door, a reflexive twitch to open it a crack and allow a wedge of light to come in. Instead, he passed his hand before his face, unable to see it, almost as if he was not really there, and allowed the blackness to seep in like a vapor, filtering through his body with the ghostly touch of unseen fingers. Feelings emerged from some subterranean space, then memories, then wild imaginings and thoughts, all spilling out one on top of the other, mingling anger and repulsion, desire and hope, disappointment, and great anticipation, and finally, a kind of disgust. He recognized it at once, a sensation he had experienced growing up as a boy, a latent hatred for everything he had come from, that had birthed and nourished him and then buried him a thousand fathoms deep in anger and acquiescence. A faint smell of incense wafted through the dead air of his cubicle, triggering the memory of ambergris, and he felt vomit rise to his throat.

The door to the adjacent booth creaked open. A brief splatter of light sprayed across the slatted window separating the two boxes, that was all, and then all was darkness again. “You there?” The sound was muffled.

“Yup.” The ensign put his hand over his mouth to disguise his voice.

“Got a name?” After a few moments of silence the voice resumed. “I am Rory. You?”

The ensign had not thought about an alternate identity in advance, but a name came to him quickly. “MENTOR. All in capitals.”

“Strange. Stand for something?”

“A king of great wisdom.”

A shallow, guttural laugh erupted in the darkness. “OK, MENTOR. So we meet. Why are we meeting?”

“I have things to tell you that might be useful.”

“And what do you want in exchange?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

There was a very long pause, long enough for thoughts to somersault through a million miles of empty space and race from moon to sun and back again. “Go ahead then.”

And MENTOR did. He quickly described the technical details of the S-40 class submarine, length and beam, tonnage, maximum speed and depth, torpedo characteristics, complement of crew, and he named the captain and XO of his own boat. As he spoke he could hear a pencil scribbling, and couldn’t help wondering how the man could write in the dark.

When he finished, the pencil continued squeaking for another minute, and then that sound ceased as well. “Why are you doing this?” The man’s voice was clearer now, less distorted and with a low resonance.

“To gain your trust.”

“Why?”

“Mind your hive, I’ll mind mine.”

“You got more?”

“Sure. Tell me what you want.”

“I’ll touch base with some folks. Meet you again.” With the creaking of the door, he was gone.

Afterwards, MENTOR did not give Kei three hundred dollars as he had promised. He handed her fifty dollars only, waiving the remaining bills casually in the air as if they were a bouquet of exotic flowers. He watched keenly as a look of confusion, anger, and then sadness overwhelmed her. “You’ll get the rest when my visits with Mr. Rory are terminated.” He snarled the words as roughly as he could. “And one more thing. You can take me to your room right now and you are going to pretend. You are going to pretend that I am your Southern friend, and you can do to me what you do to him.” MENTOR was very satisfied. There was no procedure for what he was doing, none was needed. That was all the difference, the difference between someone brilliant and the oafs surrounding him.

They met twice more in the same manner. Kei was absent when they met next. MENTOR volunteered information on fleet structure, order of battle, and doctrine. Rory’s scribbling continued frenetically and then stopped abruptly. His voice seemed high pitched when he broke into the ensign’s monologue. “We want codes. Fleet codes.”

MENTOR did not hesitate. “I need time for that. I’m not qualified in that area, so I would need time.”

“How much time?”

“I dunno. A week. Two.”

“We can wait.”

“Tough luck. We’re shipping out in three days. Shanghai. The marines there are getting lonely.”

“Wait. Wait...” There was a long pause that became longer and more uncomfortable with every passing moment. “Can we meet again before you go?” A lover’s entreaty could not be more earnest.

“I suppose.”

They rendezvoused again two days later as morning sun burst its swelling rim above the horizon. MENTOR entered the confessional uncertain about what was going to happen next. He had convinced himself that he would be abducted. He would resist, of course, but would undoubtedly be overwhelmed by a gang of kidnappers, then held at gunpoint by Rory. And after that, who knew what might happen? As he stood in the sterile emptiness of his booth he let his toes play with the prie-dieu and waited patiently, listening for any cues of an imminent attack. There was none. Straight, thin beams of light from the adjacent booth flashed on and off in an instant, all was darkness once again, and he could hear the sound of breathing just inches away. “My friends are very interested in you, MENTOR. You seem to be in the know and we’d like to keep in touch. When will you be back?”

“Dunno.”

“How can we communicate? Don’t have anyone in Shanghai right at the moment.”

“Dunno.”

“Do you want to keep up or no?” Rory hissed his exasperation.

“Sure.”

“OK, here’s the best I can come up with. I’ll give you an address, it’s In Montreal. You telegraph when you can, maybe when you’re back at your permanent base. Someone will respond, and set something up to meet with one of my associates. Alright?”

“Never said I had a base. What’s the address?”

“Kei will give it to you.”

“Kei.”

“Yeah. Kei. Listen, I know about the two of you. It’s fine, I had a good time while it lasted. She means nothing to me now. I’m done with her.”

The ensign could hear the repetitive scratching of Rory’s pencil, tapping rhythmically like the last tattoo of a long-dissolved regiment. “What about your business dealings?”

“Over, probably. Maybe. Every once in a while the two of them are useful.”

Sometimes, timing is everything. A cog has to fit into a wheel perfectly, or its mechanism does not work. If timed correctly, the gears work effortlessly, flawlessly, unconsciously. MENTOR had become a natural master of perfect timing. “You know, I’m curious about something...” He let the words dangle with a mellow resonance, enticing, glistening like a bunch of low-lying grapes drenched in moonlight.

“Well, what is it?”

“Just wondering where you get your product.”

Rory chuckled, and for the very first time spoke with something of a drawl. “A place called Ningxia. I been there, and let me tell you it’s the wild, wild west. Horses, guns, sabers, archers on horseback, the whole bit. It’s run by a warlord name of General Ma, and his brother General Ma, and his son, just plain Ma. Nice gents as long as you play by their rules, and believe me, they don’t tell you all the rules in advance, you need to figure’m out for yourself. We hide the stuff in bags of raw licorice, that was little Ma’s idea. I don’t necessarily approve of the shit, y’hear, I’m just an agent. We send the money from our transactions, every dime, to a bank in Baotou, and the Chinese, they count good, believe me when I tell you that. You do not want to mess with General Ma, he’s damn serious about his money. We talk real nice, once in a blue moon. They send me some copper every month, not much, but I don’t get much money from back home and it gets lonely out here, y’understand?”

The confessional lapsed into a deep silence. The confederate agent waited, cleared his throat as if to speak further, then left with a loud bang of the door.

Kei was sitting patiently in the front pew, stolid, her neck turned upwards in a graceful arch. Pure white lilies adorned her hair where it was pulled back. She was timeless in her beauty, her high cheeks framing her broad forehead and red lips perfectly. MENTOR sat next to her, clasped her hand, and brought his lips next to her ear, breathing in the fragrance of her neck. She stroked his hand gently, caressing each finger with a gentle touch.

“Are you really leaving tomorrow?” She breathed the words with a sigh.

“Yes.”

“I will miss you.” Her eyes gave a nervous dart towards his.

The ensign pressed in closer, and whispered, exhaling gently. “You are a dirty harlot. You sure as hell don’t deserve any money.” He leaned back expectantly, observing carefully. He thought she might lash out angrily, or even attempt to strike him.

Her shoulders heaved once and she sighed deeply, “This is for you.” She offered him a small, sealed envelope, the kind that looked like an invitation to a dinner party.

“Oh, I won’t be needing that. I’ve had my fun. The game is over, sweetheart.”

“Please, I am begging. He said he will destroy us, my father and me, if you are not genuine. He will learn if you send telegram or not. Please. My father will die, and if he does, I will die with him.” With a deft turn of hand she slipped the note into his pocket. She arose and hurried away, her sobs muffled by the vastness of the vaulting wooden beams that promised a pathway to heaven.

As she left, MENTOR felt elation, but also an unexpected sense of pride. Everything that had transpired was his handiwork and his alone. Every delicate detail had been woven by him, deftly and precisely. Taking a half step back, he could see the artistry in his work. Yes, he was a true artist, working in the most difficult medium of all. He had destroyed the life of a beautiful young woman, condemned an old man to an imminent death, and ensnared a witless southerner into a conspiratorial ballet that would surely lead to his downfall one day. How superb! How masterful! It was a stunning tableau vivant, a work of art of surpassing beauty. If only the world could see what he had done.

It was noon before MENTOR stepped back on the deck of the S-40. Hours had passed, and he had been immersed in thoughts of soft perfume, feathery floral silks and bedspreads of damask. He thought of Kei, of course, and pictured her in his mind. She was a mongrel, it was true, and now a wounded one, under circumstances where her beauty would not help her. There was no debt between them, and in any case, MENTOR did not believe in personal obligation. It would have been easy and even appropriate to put the whole adventure behind him, file her memory away for later retrieval, and go on with his life. Somehow, though, he felt a twinge of unhappiness that her humanity was completely consumed by the fires of his intellect. She was so far below him that it caused him some sadness. The feeling tugged at him without letup, until he made his final decision while still lounging on the deck of the sampan that paddled him to his boat.

Without hesitation and with no regrets he reported to the captain, and told him everything that had transpired, from the moment he met Kei and her father to the meeting with Rory that morning, and handed over the small envelope. The captain had him arrested immediately, and after being handled roughly by several marines the ensign spent that night, and the next, in the fleet gaol in the basement of an unused bank on Chefoo’s waterfront.

By the end of his third day of incarceration MENTOR began to wonder whether he had made a mistake, a terrible mistake, and overestimated the intelligence of the personnel investigating his case. Finally, that night his cell door opened without announcement and an officer with the rank insignia of a Commander entered. They exchanged salutes, the officer struck a cigarette, and then leaned into a corner to steady himself. He had long jowls and seemed somewhat old for the rank of commander.

“Sheboygan, huh?”

“Yes sir.”

“Sheboygan is a long way from Richmond.”

“Yes sir.”

“Right now you’re pretty far from either. There’s every reason to think you’re going to either hang or fry because of what you’ve done. I am the Fleet Intelligence Officer, you don’t need my name, and right now I’m not sure whether you’re nuts or a spy. I’ll decide that in the next few minutes. If you want any help from me I suggest you tell me what’s going on here. All of it.”

MENTOR did. He reviewed everything that happened, repeating verbatim his exchanges with the southern agent.

The commander sucked his cigarette down to the barest stub, then flicked it into a corner. “OK. Why?”

The ensign had hoped that he wouldn’t have to explain, that his actions were self revelatory and demonstrated a streak of genius. He spoke rapidly, frenetically, feeling more and more angry at the stupidity he was forced to endure. He pointed out the obvious fact that he had told the agent almost nothing that wasn’t already known or easily discovered through ordinary methods.

“You gave him the S-40’s specifications for maximum dive depth. You’re in uniform. That’s treason, usually handled by firing squad. Maybe hanging.”

“That knowledge is useless. We routinely go much deeper, and you know it. Besides, you’ve got to give something, or you get nothing.” MENTOR stood to his full height and thrust his chin forward arrogantly. He was a very large man, much larger than the commander, and appeared to overwhelm the cell’s narrow confines. “And look what I got back in exchange. We have the details of their opium operations in north China, the names of the masterminds, the location of their bank. How much would the Chinese government give in return for that information? And one thing more. We have the envelope. A contact. If we want, we can continue as long as it pays dividends.”

The commander shook his head slowly. “Whoever answers that telegram will be a true professional. No more pushovers like your hillbilly Rory.”

MENTOR gave a smile and sat down comfortably. “Maybe I could be a professional.”

“Possibly.” The commander retrieved two cigarettes, one for himself and one for MENTOR. “Just possibly.”

So, the past had carried him to the present, as surely as the train he was on was carrying him to Tulsa. Many days had passed, many seasons had changed, but he had remained himself, floating in a world where few were his peer and even fewer recognized his abilities. His boss, for one, still treated him like a junior partner, when it was painfully obvious that he scarcely knew what orders to give. It would be alright, though, in the end. The Director had agreed, after some gentle persuasion, to send him on this mission. It would be his final mission, but no one knew that yet.

The conductor opened the compartment door unexpectedly, leaning headfirst. “If you’re interested, sir, we are crossing the Municipal bridge right now. St. Louis is straight ahead and the Mississippi is right below us.”

MENTOR found it interesting that the conductor found it necessary to make that announcement. People were so attached to places and things. He wasn’t, not in the least. He was interested in ideas, and plans, and methods. And he was interested in himself, not knowing exactly where or how he was to be. He would go on for now, on to Tulsa, then to the Beaver River where he would meet Old Ben Duck, then over an imaginary border to Texas, and on and on until at last he would meet his contacts, and Patton, and Earnest Lieb’s son, and settle the whole matter of whether any letter was to be delivered, or peace was to come, or war, or good, or bad, or right, or wrong. He wasn’t sure what he would do when the time came, not yet, but he felt the story beginning to narrow down to its final acts. There would be no more diversions, and he, of course, would be the most important player. He inhaled deeply, with profound satisfaction, and for just a fleeting moment sensed the sweet, sweet, perfumed smell of ambergris.

Subscribe now

Chapter 30

Which fantasy should we believe? One that brings us joy or one that makes us grieve? How do we choose, and what do we lose, when neither one is true? Fantasy, some say, masquerades as a gift but is actually a grisly curse; a bug that crawled quietly out of Pandora’s open box and promptly infested humankind with the diseases of imagination, and hope, and worst of all, belief. Belief. Believing. Seekers of wisdom learn that when all belief is shed at last, discarded like a primitive pupal skin, fantasies of every kind are revealed for what they are: unformed figments that swirl within the fabric of the brain, coalescing and reforming in random, illusory acts of creation. And the greatest belief, and most foul, is that everything will go on and on, and that tomorrow the eyes will see, and the tongue will taste, and the mind will revolve around the million forlorn and meaningless flutterings and dead end spurts and flickers and reflexive spasms that are the creation of life, and that make life what it appears to be. A relentless, continuous cycle that seems never ending.

In actuality, though, not never ending.

Jona lay on his side, on his bed, awake in the drawn out span of time that transitions from utter darkness to primitive dawn, handling a revolver attentively, fondling the cold smoothness of the barrel, toying with the hammer, and playing with the trigger guard. Guns were completely foreign to him, even the basics of loading and firing. On this night’s gray turn into morning, though, he desired to know the weapon intimately, since he and the gun were shortly to be joined together in a holy union. Very surely no one within the sight of God, or Brahma, or Allah would be able to break that bond asunder. Their moment together would be frozen in time, an indelible instant of consummation etched in a universe of infinite moments, infinite connections, and infinite stoppages and starts. He had been thinking about the infinite all day and all night, just as he had contemplated and fantasized about what he was shortly going to do. Slowly, clawing their way, and quietly, like predators on the hunt, questions had crawled into his mind about his place within the infinite.

Yes he was alone. But was he alone, the only one of his kind, unique in all creation? Were there a hundred other Jonas, a million, a billion perhaps, or an infinite number circling all around him, or stacked one on top of another, or scattered in every direction like beams of light radiating from the sun? When he was extinguished, as he was about to be, did the others live on? Why not, he thought, nodding his head sagely. Why not? I’m no more important than they are. Why should they die just because I do? Some will live on. For sure, if there are infinite numbers of Jonas then the possibilities are endless that many will live on, and some will live three score and ten years, and have children and grandchildren, and watch sunsets and eat oysters and feel warm and delicate breath upon their lips. They will all take turns, checking in and out of a Grand Hotel, waving hello and goodbye to the concierge as they come and go. Or maybe, once I’m gone, they will be both alive and dead, ready to reveal themselves to any visitor who may come to see. Or maybe I will be the one alive and dead, both here and there. A different voice sliced through his mind quickly just then and was gone, a brief roar of water diverted through a narrow sluice, no more. Just like dad, the voice said, still living though dead.

Jona heard the words quietly, still stroking the gun. He concentrated as hard as he could on his own thoughts. And if I am dead, can I come back? To life? To this life? Could I open a vast and secret grimoire of spells, curses and benedictions and make it so? The odd looking scientist from Berlin came to mind, the one with the glasses, who had told him with a great deal of arrogant certainty that time could go forward and back, and that nature’s laws allowed motion in both directions and to occur in either way. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, a naked rhythm that first gives birth to life and then takes it away. Would I want to? All the many possibilities were too many, Jona had decided. He would grasp the infinite in his own two hands and wring it, squeeze it out to meet his own ends, and no one else’s, and so he would be done with destiny. He alone would decide to travel down one fork in the road and not the other. Maybe he could meet the other Jonas on the way, or some of them at least, and say hello, and clasp their hands, and wish them better luck than he had ever had. And if I did, could I change anything? Everything? Could I speak some words right now and change the past and just say ‘It’s all different now?’

Jona knew that if he placed the revolver against the roof of his mouth, angling very slightly upwards, and pulled the trigger, he would be snuffed out without a moment’s thought. He took a deep breath, a sigh, really, and struggled to remember everything that had ever meant anything to him. Marielle, Elfieda, Alex, his father, and the distant shadow of his mother each had their turn, their faces hovering in front of him much like animals at the zoo thrusting their heads out of their cages, staring curiously at the onlookers. Jona struggled with the effort to remember them as fully as possible, grasping at each one, each one encumbered by the tethers and ropes of loss, love, grief, and the mystery of what might have been if everything had been altered just a little bit. He might have been the Jona who defied the odds, and whose life went on to the fulfillment of its days.

But that was not to be.

He had been dreaming frequently, perhaps because of the opium. Recently, his dreams had been nightmares of one kind or another, some about his childhood, some drawn from his older schooldays. This past night he had dreamed that he was a spectator, observing autopsies he had performed in the past, monitoring every incision and blunt dissection as if it were a ballet, or better yet a gymnastic competition, with every move and motion judged for its perfection. He was able to remember every case in great detail, just as he had experienced each one, but in his dream his hands and fingers had moved nimbly and precisely, without hesitation, and with unerring accuracy. He was able to get through five, ten, and then a hundred, then a million dissections, until it seemed he was performing post mortems on everyone, everyone who had ever lived, perhaps on everyone now living, all of them opened and exposed to the uncaring glance of daylight, all their inner secrets slowly dripping, dripping, dripping into a common collecting vat of thoughts and memories. And beliefs.

Jona felt euphoric, somehow, and was grateful for the revolver. It had been easy to sneak into Murphy’s room and lift the gun from its holster while the agent snored away the effects of a pint of whiskey. It was the needed instrument, the object, the necessary conduit to oblivion. This is my boat across the Styx, taking me to my abode in deepest Sheol, he thought. It was his cross, his tree, his steed, the worldly agent of his translocation from the singular to the infinite. It’s like a totem pole. I have to pray to it to understand what I must do. He fondled the gun handle reverently. It was truly time to pray, and to say goodbye, especially to himself. Jona knew he was no longer the person he once was. He had become a shibboleth, a shallow platitude of complicity, and pretence, and guilt, and ambivalence and ambition and lust, each item hung out to dry like laundry under a parching sun. No more, then. He would end the pain on his own terms, for once truly in charge of his own fate.

Jona stared out the window. The stars above, fading under the gaze of early light, swam into his vision, eternal, mysterious, a magic carpet expanding infinitely in every direction. He remembered the night in Berlin with Alex when he sat below a similar dusky canopy, bejeweled and studded with unmeasured numbers of brilliant, flickering points of light, he seeking love and salvation as if both could be had by simply stretching out his hands and taking what he wanted. He would pluck love out from among the stars, he had imagined, and hold love close and wrap himself within it, and embrace love, and love would hold him tight and never let him go, and love itself would become his lover, and would warm him in the coldest, darkest moments, and would never flee because he had found it at last. It was out there, love was, out among the void of stars and nebulae, waiting to be matched with him, linked to him, waiting to be found in due time, creating the perfect couplet needed to complete his rhyme. But when all was said, love was not found, because he had not searched long enough, or because he had not discovered some magical, mystical purification that would let love flow over him like sparkling silver waters from above, or maybe, just maybe, there was only so much love to be had and the other Jonas had taken what should have been his fair share.

Or maybe none of it was true.

Abruptly, he brought the gun to his temple. He placed his finger against the trigger, barely touching it. Gently, he breathed, Oh so gently leave this life.

The door burst open with a crash.

It was Murphy.

“Doc!” he cried, his voice booming out from the resonant depth of a deep underground cavern.

Startled by the agent’s appearance, almost in reflex, Jona squeezed at the trigger.

Nothing happened.

There followed an interval of nothingness, when both fear and comprehension took their exit from ordinary human awareness, leaving a dull blank space where just moments before, thoughts and dreams and imaginings had crawled one upon the other like a shifting mound of maggots. Then, Murphy was upon him, and a struggle followed, but very brief. Afterwards, Jona seemed almost somnolent and only hazily aware of his surroundings. Murphy loomed over him, and for a second appeared to ball his fist as if to strike a blow. Instead, he clutched at Jona’s shoulder with what felt to be talons of steel.

“Jeez, I didn’t know if I was gonna find you dead or alive.”

“What happened?” Lieb felt disoriented and detached, as if questioning a witness to a minor burglary.

“What happened is you looked like you almost zapped your brains to kingdom come. And who woulda gotten the shit for that? Yours truly, that’s who. Lucky I heard you sneaking into my room. Even more lucky, for both of us, this here Special is a single action, but you wouldn’t know about that and I ain’t explaining. What were you thinkin’?” Murphy glared at Lieb and clenched both hands once again.

“I don’t know.” Jona stared at his right hand, fascinated. It was tremoring with a fine shimmy, back and forth, and he couldn’t stop it, just as if were under the control of some power outside himself. “I thought I would try something different. Do something. Sick of all this.”

Murphy sat down wearily, leaned his body forward, and began rubbing his temples furiously. “We’re so close now. Three days from now is the day. Three days from now you meet the president. The reason we’ve come all this fucking way.”

“No. Not we. The reason you’ve come all this fucking way. And Andrews. Where is he? I need another hit.”

“Scumbag is sleeping like a baby. I know he brought some shit with him from New Orleans. Hiding it. He thinks he can control you by holding on to it and dosing you little by little.”

Jona stood up and began to pace. His tremor was gone, but his mind was still in a fog. “It’s the other way around, isn’t it? Don’t bother answering. Get him. Or get the stuff, I don’t care which, and no sermons, especially from you. Now make it snappy. Until I hand over that little piece of trash, the so called letter, you all do what I say and when I say it. After that, I don’t care.”

Murphy stood up, shaking his head, and turned to leave the room. “You’ve turned into a monster, a freakish version of a Frankenstein.”

“Wait!” Jona’s mind had begun to unfog. “Where is this holy writ, anyway? It’s like I’m delivering a Godamn epistle, it’s so important. I’ve never seen it, it should be in a big leather briefcase, right? Or carved onto stone tablets maybe? I sure don’t have it. Do you?”

“Ya know, I used to think that at least you was pretty smart, but I’ve come to learn you’re actually kinda stupid, doc. This little adventure is just a ratfuck. There ain’t no letter, haven’t you figured that out? It’s a fable, is all. Or there is one, and they already got it. The whole thing is a show, like a marching band at halftime. You’re gonna hand over an envelope, don’t matter how fancy it is, or what’s in it, the cameras click and flash for a few minutes, and the politicians will do the rest. But they need the photo, first and foremost. Then we go home and everything can go back to normal.”

A thought pierced Jona’s mind. A quick thought. A crazy thought. Yeah. Normal. Just like before.

Jona came awake again, now to late morning. The long ceramic pipe he had used at dawn was just inches away from his eyes as they opened, touched by a deluge of bright sunshine from the open window, teasing him with the promise of more mindless pleasure and release to come. He squinted at the gummy residue coating the interior of the bowl, then rubbed his finger vacantly along the rim. Andrews had given him a single pellet at first, but Jona had insisted on more, and in the end had smoked two before he fell unconscious. A current of nausea rumbled through him, accompanied by a feeling of exhaustion. He knew he should eat, but preferred crawling under the covers and trying to fall back asleep.

Without a knock, Andrews entered the room, treading carefully. He forced a smile and sat down on the edge of the bed. “You’re awake now, I see. That’s grand. You had some good sleep?”

Jona extended his middle finger and yawned. “Why are you here?”

“Lunch, remember? Lunch with Dr. Wilson? Let’s get moving. We’re supposed to be on a good will trip.” He helped Jona out of bed, laid out a suit for him, and watched as he dressed. When Jona faltered while putting on his socks, Andrews helped him, then tied the laces on his shoes. “Last night was crazy, truly insane. What got into you? You know, Dr. Lieb, it doesn’t have to end like this, the way you are right now. This could be a crowning moment in your career, something tangible you can take back to New York with you. Proudly. You are doing something very important for your country and the world. Have you forgotten how all this began?”

“Yeah. A lot of water under the bridge since then, though.”

“They say everyone contends with their own demons. Me with mine. You with yours. It doesn’t mean you can’t do great things. Like the delivery of this letter.”

Jona snorted. “Well let me just harrumph, and preen like a cockatoo and stick my chest out for the medal I am sure is coming. Yeah. The letter of all letters, the letter of salvation, the letter of end days and the letter that will launch a new era. Even though there’s no letter. On and on, the same bullshit I’ve been hearing for months. And for what? Even if you are sincere, you’re just tilting at windmills.”

“Believe me, I’m no Quixote. Right now, I have to be very pragmatic, and so do you. Accomplish the mission, right?”

Jona paused a moment, thoughtful. “Funny you should say that. Something came to me in my sleep, a reminder. There was a letter in the Quixote book, the one he gives Sancho to deliver to his imaginary girlfriend. I dreamed about it for some reason. This is the same thing right now, a kind of silly farce, a delusion.”

“But Quixote was insane, right? You’re not. Even so, it was no joke to him. And the letter you’re talking about in the book was real. This one is too, I assure you.”

Jona was startled for a moment, surprised that Andrews seemed to be sincere. “Lies. There’s no letter, it’s a game of make believe.”

“But there is.” Andrews quickly decided not to laugh or chuckle condescendingly. Instead, he gazed into Jona’s eyes with great earnestness, tenting his thin eyebrows with intensity. “There is, believe me, even if it’s not on any paper you have. Would you like to see it?”

“How could you possibly have it?”

“I have contacts.”

Jona paused to consider, glancing at Andrews through the corners of his eyes, not willing to look at him directly. “Man, you must be swimming in deep, deep waters. Or maybe you’re already waist high in flames.”

Andrews gave a long and genuine sigh. “Like Sancho said, nulla est retentio. Now come on, let’s face today.”

Atlanta was different from New Orleans, palpably different in almost every way. Pedestrians strolling the streets seemed to amble about in an orderly manner, and even when Peachtree Street was crowded the scene remained purposeful and sedate. The irregular shouts of coarse vitriol, the roll of wheels on cobblestone and brick, the background buzz and tempestuous feel of hourly tumult, and the omnipresent distant strains of street music so common in New Orleans were all absent. Missing also was the smell of rotting refuse and manure, the iridescent and violacious glare of neon signs, and the taste and texture of cigarette and cigar smoke swirling in the air. It seemed to Jona that Atlanta had been built to order, based on a master plan of construction spread-eagled over a large swath of north Georgia. Eager, clever, and ambitious, but still a backwater vying for prominence with other southern backwaters. Jona sensed the difference in the feel of the town from the moment of their arrival.

Their hotel was the Henry Grady, and it said everything about itself by its location next to a Masonic Temple on one side, a department store on the other, and directly across the street from a substantial, granite steepled church. Business could be conducted in the Henry Grady, ideas concocted, and great plans constructed, but only within the limits of what was proper. The hotel was both a place and a message, and Jona hated it immediately. They had been received at the train station by a close aide to the president, a man named Mosby, who laid out their itinerary as if naming the books of the Bible. They would meet the president at a convocation in honor of the great Dr. Lieb, to be held at the university. Jona would be asked to say a few words, and at the end of his remarks he would offer a sterile salutation from the President of the United States, and make a big show of handing over a document to President Pickett. He would be shown around the university grounds, including a tour of his father’s old laboratory, and then it would be over.

“And by the way,” Mosby had added, “An old friend of your father’s would like to meet you privately. Vice Dean Wilson. I have arranged for lunch at your hotel tomorrow. I hope that is... satisfactory... to... you.” The last three words were drawled out so elaborately that Murphy had laughed out loud and snickered something unpleasant under his breath. Mosby had sneered right back.

They were to meet in the hotel’s Paradise Room. Jona was running late. As he and Andrews hurtled fast paced into the dining room, they were greeted by a blare of music. Three musicians stood on a low platform, one vigorously strumming a guitar, one wailing on a violin in high pitch, and the third huffing and puffing an accordion. The instruments played a repetitive, entrancing rhythm, but most striking was the dolesome, fulsome, nasal twang of their song, crooned with a backwoods harmony that was new to Jona. He continued to stare at the performers even as Mosby appeared out of nowhere and guided them to their table. Wilson was sitting there, waiting for them.

At first glance, Jona thought that Mosby, or someone in the government, was creating an elaborate ruse, and one that was not very clever. Wilson looked nothing like any friend his father would possibly have. The man was monstrous. From a distance, it appeared to Jona that for some unknown reason Wilson was bundled up inside several oversized overcoats, but it was soon clear that Wilson himself was truly enormous, with spindly shoulders that drooped over a narrow chest that in turn was overwhelmed by the man’s bulbous, blubbery girth. With a start, Jona realized that Wilson was sitting on two chairs pushed close together. The professor was starkly white haired, with a long mane that hung down his back in irregular, unkempt, tangled strands that reached below his shoulder blades, proclaiming to anyone interested that he didn’t give a shit about almost anything. His face was very round, a deeply stained cacao color interspersed with mottled patches of white and pink, giving him the piebald appearance of someone with a desperate skin disorder. A sparse beard dispersed itself over a chin that was unidentifiable, lost within elephant ear jowls that framed his head and sagged downwards without remorse, obliterating any sign of a collar around his neck, and almost obscuring a small cloth cross that dangled from his lapel. A foul, unwashed, almost feculent odor suspended itself around him and possessed him. He was the most repulsive person Jona had ever met.

“Dr. Lieb, this is Dr. Wilson. I know he would like some private time alone with you, so I’ve arranged for a table nearby for your bodyguard and myself. Do not fear, your man will not be far. Do try to be comfortable.” Mosby spoke as if he were addressing Congress, bowed formally, and walked away stiffly with Andrews close behind.

Though he had sworn to himself that he cared nothing about Pickett’s aide, or Pickett himself, or anyone else he was going to meet, Jona could not help pointing at Mosby as he retreated. “He can barely say a civil word to me, can he?”

Wilson took a long sip of water before responding. “That’s because your bodyguard right there is a nigger, Dr. Lieb, and Mosby doesn’t like the idea of hanging around with a nigger.” Wilson’s voice was deep and pumice-polished smooth. He took another long drink, and filled his glass.

“No he’s not!” Jona spoke vehemently, now jabbing a finger in Wilson’s direction. “He’s not. He’s got Polynesian blood. Figi or somewhere like that. Maybe you don’t know that dark skin is found in more places than Africa, but I do. I am an experienced coroner and I can assure you that is the case. Why would you say such a thing?”

Wilson took another casual sip of water. “Because they say I’m one, and I’ve got the gift of discernment. He is corrupted. I can tell.”

“You are one? And you admit it?”

“Well, they say I am. I suppose because of the way I look, you understand, no other reason. But I have papers that prove I’m not. Not legally, anyway. Legally, I’m like you are. I hope that Is acceptable to you. It was to your father.”

A deep buzz began to penetrate Jona’s skull, vibrating over his temples and forehead. The sound of music in the background seemed to intensify, becoming loud and mournful caterwauling. It dawned on Jona that the band was singing in an unknown, foreign tongue. Joli blond, they were singing, over and over, and at the end of each lyric they managed to let out a sigh, a deep puff of breath, an exhale that might have first been inhaled a hundred years before in a place far away. He pointed at them, exasperated. “What are they singing? Are they French?”

“Cajun. They’re pretty known around these parts, these three, and you are lucky, because that is their most famous song. I love Cajun music, listen to it whenever I get a a chance. Also like zydeco, but I don’t care to admit it. I can tell you the words, if you like. Listen to me and I’ll say them:

Joli Blon, ma chere ‘tit fille

Gardez donc quoi t’aprés faire

Joli Blon, tu croyais

Il avait juste toi dedans le pays

Eh ha! Eh a ha!

Joli Blon ma ‘tit fille criminelle

Joli Blon, tu m’as laisse moi tout seul”

Wilson grew quiet as the song ended and the audience clapped, with a whoop and whistle here and there, but not too many, not too loud, and not too long. Jona leaned closer to make himself heard. “But what do the words mean?”

“Well, that’s another story, isn’t it? Your father also liked Cajun. Also, zydeco too. We were similar that way. He was down there, you know, as a young man just out of school. That’s where we met.” He barely finished speaking before gulping down more water.

The buzz got louder, reverberating in Jona’s ears with the sound of cicadas playing their music in the cool dark of night. “I didn’t know that,” he mumbled. “Never told me.”

“Yes we go way back. You look kind of like him, sort of, just a bit maybe, hard to say, but he was younger than you at the time we first met. Just out of school, he was maybe twenty two or three. Crazy, too. Already.”

Jona felt the old sensations begin to flare up; the rapid beating of his heart, the narrowed cone of vision and the tightened breathing, a bushfire threatening to flare into an all-consuming blaze within him. He could not restrain himself. “Tell me,” he implored. “Please tell me more.”

“Not too much to tell, really. We were both doing our years of government service right after graduation. I’m from the hills you see, a small place in Arkansas called Moody Holler, not too far from the Hiawassee. I was raised on chicken, corn, and cabbage, so any place at all was new and exciting for me. He was permanent in Alexandria, a pretty good sized town, since he was already a genius by most folks’ reckoning and an expert in infection, and so he got a real nice posting there. I was no genius, I can tell you, and I was posted to an office in a small place called Mamou, not too far away, maybe twenty miles or so. I didn’t get to sit in one place like Earnie. My job was to make the rounds of all the nearby villages. Some were no more than three or four houses where two roads met, that’s all, but I took them all in turn. I saw everything and everybody. I saw some of the saddest sights you can imagine, and once or twice some of the happiest. Made it all worthwhile. Anyway, I rounded in a place called Centerville every Monday, had a room set up in the mayor’s parlor. Mostly old folks there, blacks and such, mostly dying, I suppose, and not much I could do. Sometimes a baby or two.

One particular day this young fella comes in, black kid, kinda strapping, thick around the neck and chest. He had just recovered from smallpox. No big thing, he was way past any danger to himself or anyone else. But something happened to his left eye, he was losing sight in it, and I didn’t quite know why, so I telegrammed your father about it, asked if there was anything I could do. It won’t surprise you to know that he arrived in my office the very next day, poof, like magic, and let me tell you did he fill a room. He was all bubbles at first but turned to steel very quickly. He wanted to see this person promptly, examine him, and get the low down on him. The next morning we rode out to Centerville.

He was riding a big gray bay that worried him terrible, seemed like the horse hadn’t been broken in real well, and I thought your father was off his stride because of it, and he went on and on about this theory and that. Claimed the bodily system sometimes attacked itself after being thrown awry by infection, say like smallpox, and that some of the complications we were seeing were secondary to such a perturbation. Well, his ideas were a perturbation! It was a lot of guesswork at the time, he didn’t have proof you see, and I just had to keep my mouth shut about the whole thing. I realized quickly, though, that he was either a mad genius, or maybe just mad in the ordinary way. It took me a long time, years actually, to figure that one out.

We found the place of the young man in question, somewhat surprised to find he was a tenant farmer and belonged to nobody. It was kind of airish that day, already early evening by the time we arrived, and we weren’t dressed real well, so both of us were happy to get into his cabin and out of the cold, and look for him there. We were quite surprised when we entered.” Wilson suddenly hiccuped violently several times, causing him to pound his chest in distress and burp loudly. The stench of rot gushed out of him with every belch. When he calmed down he took a deep breath and several deep sips of water and gave a crooked smile.

It seemed to Jona, for just a fleeting moment, that Wilson’s eyes wandered left and right before they focused properly. “Tell me something, Dr. Lieb. Has anything ever happened to you that changed your life? Looking back, I mean, something that came along, and everything was suddenly different?” Wilson snapped his fingers for emphasis. “Just like that?”

The question made Jona feel even more dizzy and short of breath, a lightheaded sensation that made him stand up and lean over the table with both hands propping him up. “Pretty sure. Yes.”

“You O.K.? The way you’re bent over you look like you’re leaning crooked, kind of siggoglin’ a bit. Didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”

“It’s alright, I don’t mind talking about it. Yes, definitely. Life changing, and not too long ago. Some things happened that I can’t forget, that have changed me. Forever.” Jona clutched at his coat pocket, suddenly yearning for his pipe.

Wilson nodded. “And the result? Of the change? You a better man for it?”

“If you mean, do I see reality more clearly now than before, then yes.”

“But that’s not what I mean. I asked if you’re a better man for it.”

Jona shook his head. “Truthfully, I don’t even know what that is.”

“So you came out different, dented, twisted, bent and beat up, but no better. Like I said, siggoglin’. That’s a pretty common occurrence, I’d say. I’ve heard lots of stories about Earnie, some bad, but I think it was different for him. I’d like to think he did come out better, despite everything, beginning that very day.”

“Well tell me, godammit! What happened? What’s the godamm secret, the one I can’t seem to find in all this fucking mess?” Jona pounded his fist on the table, then again, harder.

Wilson’s eyes seemed to wander back and forth again, briefly. “You are somewhat intemperate, aren’t you. Sort of like Earnie, who didn’t care very much for the feelings of others, but he never used foul language. He was a great one for shouting, pounding his fists, and so forth. Well, we all want that secret, Dr.Lieb. I can’t honestly say I’ve found the answer yet. But I have learned one thing for sure; it all begins inside. Someone told me once, and I believe it, that each of us has a deep place inside, a place of comfort, a fathomless well that refreshes and sustains even in the worst of times. For most, the well runs dry pretty soon, and long before death comes to them, they are already the living dead. For others, those who search deep enough, the well never dries up and the cool waters flow. And here is the peculiar thing; every once in a while, for no rhyme or reason the waters rise up, and overflow, and give voice to something divine. You believe me?”

“Did my father believe you?”

“He’s the one who taught me.”

Jona said nothing for a while, canting his neck to one side as if one half of his brain was burdened by a great, unmeasurable weight. Finally, he nodded at Wilson, a silent assent to proceed.

“We entered a room, a small one. A whole flock of people were there, maybe ten or fifteen. It was dark, and the shadows were long and deep, but I could see three or four whites in there, they stuck out pretty much. You might say that was unusual. This young man, the one with the eye ailment, was seated in the middle, in a halo of light, holding a bible in his lap and reciting. I grew bored after a while, I was not a particularly superstitious man, and the scriptures were mumbo jumbo to me. I wanted to leave, go back outside, get on my horse and go home, but Earnie restrained me. He sat down in the corner leaning against the wall and so I felt I had to as well, and we both listened. Lord, that kid could preach and pray! He went on for hours, first reading a passage, then going on about it, until he came out plum some other side of the reading in a place that you would never imagine. I’m not saying he made it up, but it all came out a certain way, you see. Look deep inside, he was saying, then you’ll be ready to take the next step.

I have to admit I fell asleep. Earnie jostled me awake, maybe a half hour later, telling me to watch. I was still a bit groggy, and what I saw didn’t make a lot of sense at first. There was a woman in the middle of the room now, standing next to the one eyed fellow, and would you believe it, she was a white woman. Standing pretty close to him, too, made a big impression on me. She had her hands straight up in the air, eyes closed, swaying back and forth as if she was about to keel over. I heard her mumbling, I guessed it was some kind of hymn, when suddenly she began to holler out some praying words, real fast. It was the strangest thing. It sounded like she was saying something, but not in words that made sense, not really. They were made up words, like babbling, but she was saying them in whole sentences as if they were real, like a recitation.”

Jona interrupted. “Yes, the phenomenon is well known. It’s called speaking in tongues. Gratuitous nonsense. Either a deliberate charade or a deep psychosis.” Jona felt good about speaking up, sparking a small sense of empowerment that had not touched him in a long time.

Wilson nodded his head judiciously and took several more sips. “Interesting you should say that. Your father came to speak in tongues over time. Guess he was nuts after all, huh?”

Jona’s hip suddenly began to throb in pain, and he felt a momentary panic when the left side of his waist seemed to lock up, freezing him in place. With some difficulty he managed to shift his weight to the right side, wincing with every ache that streaked down the length of his leg. He saw that Wilson was watching him carefully, silently. “It’s OK Dr. Wilson, don’t bother yourself, I’ll be fine.” Jona could not suppress the sarcasm in his voice.

“Alright. Let’s talk about you now.”

“No. No you don’t. You opened this chapter, now you’re going to close it. What happened with my father?”

“You know he gave up everything, right?”

“I don’t know shit. Now tell me.”

“My gracious but you’re a sweet-talking son of a gun, aren’t you. Now listen here:

He started coming regularly to that little cabin, got close to the preacher, and in not too long it seemed like he was coming over every night. It was quite a journey for him, coming up from Alexandria like that. Told me that these people were an interesting group, worthy of study, that they provided an unusual insight into human behavior, that’s how he justified it. In the beginning, he didn’t say anything about his beliefs. In early spring sometime, two months or so into attending these prayer meetings, Earnie came to visit me in my office. He told me he was beginning to feel it.

I asked him what he was talking about.

He told me he was feeling words coming up to his throat, regurgitating into his mouth, and that he couldn’t help it. Said that he felt out of control, that he couldn’t concentrate on his medical duties. We talked about it. I told him he was overwrought, which seemed like a good general kind of explanation to me. Earnie seemed a bit nervous... No, I would say a bit afraid. Maybe the only time I sensed fear in him. He tried to rationalize and make sense of the whole thing, give some kind of scientific explanation, maybe some kind of chemical imbalance in his system, as if his blood sodium was out of kilter. In the end, though, he confessed to experiencing something supernatural. He said it was a gift from God.

I have to say I didn’t know the man real well at the time, but he had not struck me as particularly religious when we first met. You know, none of that “Praise Jesus” sort of stuff. Believe me, I know that kind of talk from back home, it never made no sense to me. I told him he was grasping for answers, childish and juvenile answers, simply creating a world of make believe. I will never forget how he answered, it has always stayed with me. Just at that instant, as if on cue, he stood up and began spouting all kinds of words, great phrases, ringing exhortations, and great pronouncements. And not a single one of them made any sense to me at all, and as he did so he began to pound his chest, right over his heart, kind of regular, and sway back and forth. I won’t say he was in a trance, but nothing seemed to register with him, he just went on with whatever he was speaking. I remember thinking he might be talking in ancient Hittite, or Inca, or some other nonexistent language, or that he might just be smart enough to be making the whole thing up. This went on for a few minutes, then it stopped as suddenly as it started. When he finished, he sat down as if he was awful tired, rubbed his brow, and looked me up and down. Then he spoke in words I could understand.

‘I feel as if everything, all the present, all the past, all humanity, all that this world can offer has just run right through me’, he said, ‘just like I was a door that opened and let it all come through. It is an ecstatic feeling, and so it must be real. Nothing untrue could touch me that way. This is what I want to feel forever, as long as I am alive. I want life to flow right through me, like a river running from a time before time began. Not my life only, no. More. I want it all, all of everything, filling me up until I explode.’

There you have it. That is what you need to know to understand about Earnie. He wanted everything. ‘Filling me up until I explode’, he said, and he said it again many times afterwards.

He had a way of connecting with people, controlling them. It was kind of like sorcery, looking back at it. He certainly connected with me, I can tell you that. In a way, his dream became mine, and what he wanted sort of became what I wanted. It’s like he released me, from a rock I was buried in, or maybe a tree I was trapped in, immobilized, and would stay trapped in forever. That’s why I followed him.”

Jona’s head shot up. There was no longer any pain, or worry, or preoccupation. There was only the story being told, spread before him like a parchment of ancient runes that read without a beginning or an end. “What do you mean?”

Wilson refilled his glass and gulped down more water. “Well, I’ll tell you, I can see you don’t know:

We made the decision to leave. It all happened real fast. Four, five men burst into the prayer group one night. One said he was the sheriff and said the others were deputies, but they were dressed regular and I saw no badges. Who knows what the truth was. Announced we were breaking the law. Anyway, they had billy clubs and baseball bats and beat up some of the folks in there pretty bad. I think the white lady speaking in tongues got it the worst. I heard one of the deputies say they especially wanted to shut her up permanent, and sure enough she went straight to hospital in Alexandria and we heard later that she died. Billy, the preacher, got it pretty bad. He had his forehead split right through to the skull. I think Earnie put up a fight, but I wouldn’t know since I was hiding under a table. That’s the truth.

After stitching Billy’s scalp and cleaning up the place, Earnie announced that very night that we couldn’t stay in Centerville any longer. Billy said he didn’t care, that he would continue his ministry no matter what, but that didn’t fly with your father. He decided we had to go somewhere safe, and it followed logically that Billy would never be safe in the South. We spent a few days investigating, and decided on the Camaroons, the German part. In case you don’t know, that’s in Africa. It was Earnie’s idea of course. It was cheap and easy to go, and would cost almost nothing once the three of us settled down. He spoke to a merchant who did business there, who told him we could live like kings in Camaroon. Your father took care of the legalities.”

“Legalities?”

“Sure. Your father had to buy the preacher, you know what I mean? Own him legally, so that we could take him with us. We talked about it, and Billy agreed to sell himself for one dollar. It was the best dollar Earnie ever spent, I think.”

Jona shuddered. It’s not the same thing, he thought. Not the same thing as owning a slave…” OK. Go on.”

“So we took off for Camaroons, bringing a trunk full of quinine and a few bottles of whiskey with us, not much more, first to Cuba and then Caracas, and a month later landed on the other side of the Atlantic, at a mud hole on the coast called Douala. Turned out that Douala used to be a slave trade port in the old days. Ironic, don’t you think? Returning a slave to where it all began? I thought it was rich, but Billy didn’t seem to have much interest about it, he was too busy setting up in a rented house so that he could begin spreading the word, as he put it.

There was still a lot of slave dealing going on, mostly women and children shipped to Egypt, places like that. Did see a group in chains headed to Brownsville, though. Not supposed to happen, but none of the ship’s crew appeared too concerned about delivering their cargo to its destination. Still, it bothered me. You see, I felt like I was in the belly of the beast, and it made me real uncomfortable. Started thinking about it, the whole thing, how things were back home, and I became kind of tetchy about it. Maybe because there weren’t many whites around. You know, my kind. Maybe because the locals were living in filth among the flies and mosquitos. Some looked sick, others starved. Maybe because I couldn’t speak the language. Maybe, mostly, because I began to feel that something was wrong, and that I was part of that something, and I was stained by it, and that I would never be able to make myself clean. I had never thought too deeply about right and wrong before then, it had all been clear cut and black and white, like a straight line from point A to point B. But it wasn’t a straight line at all. At the time I remembered hard that I was made to study Aquinas when I was a youngster at school, to build moral character I guess, and you know what I remembered most? He said there was only one truth. One only. That’s hard to believe on occasion. Maybe there is only one truth, but it was not the one I was raised to believe in, I can tell you that. The more I thought about it, the more it caused a great collision, a smash up between what I thought I knew in the past and what I was beginning to know in the present. Looking back, some of Billy’s preaching was probably beginning to sink in, though I pretended not to believe a word of it. It didn’t take long before I was desperately unhappy.

It came to a head for me because of something that happened later. I had seen a little girl, seven or eight or nine, sitting every morning at the roadside in town selling bean cakes, fried plantains, stuff like that. She had a small straw mat spread out where she rested, and she sat there, morning after morning under the shade of some palms, pretty patient as she swatted the flies away in the deep, deep heat. She was molasses black with the biggest eyes you can imagine, and razor thin. Don’t believe I ever saw her sell a thing, so I got in the habit of buying something every time I passed that way, which was pretty often. After a while, she gave me a smile, and I gave a smile back, and it would make me feel good. Every now and then she might say something to me, too. I couldn’t understand, of course, but I knew she was speaking friendly, it’s easy to tell that kind of thing, you don’t really need to know the language. It turned me around, I have to say, just a little bit. Because of how I look, and my size and all, I don’t get a lot of people smiling at me.

Meanwhile, Earnie was telling everyone he was in hog heaven. He had set up a small office next to Billy’s place, and before long had a line of locals waiting outside his door in the mornings. He managed to get a lot of people real mad at him because he refused to see any Europeans or Americans. Africans only, because he wanted to see native diseases and how they effected the native population. Not for any other reason, believe me, he was a little rough edged in that way. I don’t think he was particularly devoted to the good people of Douala, far from it. It’s more fair to say he became devoted to filariasis and schistosomiasis. Liver flukes, amebiasis, even a few cases of Kal Azar, they were all to be found there. He’d only seen a few of these infestations in the past, back home, and now there were dozens literally at his doorstep. It seemed to me he was less and less interested in tongues and more and more interested in tropical diseases. Also, he turned a little sour, and not much interested in Billy, me, or anyone else in our church. Began to behave a bit brusquely, at times downright rude, and began shutting himself up in his office for long hours. In a few months he had mostly stopped attending Billy’s prayer meetings, and I found myself attending pretty regularly, and in not too long I was there every day. I think it was out of boredom in the beginning, but you know how people can veer sometimes.

I confronted him about his change of heart one evening near prayer time, real casual and off the cuff. In one way it didn’t matter to me, but in another I was curious about what had come over him. He didn’t want to talk about it, but I pressed him until he lost his temper with me and told me to get off his back. He never did tell me why he drifted away, but I had my suspicion. I felt afterwards, and to this day, that the whole thing touched him too deeply. Prayer and belief, the way he experienced it, was pretty consuming, in fact all-consuming. Anyone who truly believed had to give up everything inside, empty out completely, and succumb to faith. It’s not easy to surrender yourself in the beginning, and Earnie just was not going to do that. Or maybe he did, and had his fill, and refused to sip from that well again. He chose to lust for life and not lust for the Lord. Billy thought he was simply flitting from one flower to another, and was not ready to accept the true word. I don’t think he was a butterfly, though. I think he was more like a drunk staggering from one spree to another, losing himself in a different bottle every time he got juiced. Looking back, I think that was a low point for him, a time when he hit rock bottom and was looking desperately for anything to devote his mind to. I think he turned to science to help escape the rapture, to put it behind him in a safe place. Studying parasites seemed to fit the bill, I guess.

Anyway, one day I passed by where the little girl usually sat, and she wasn’t there. I wasn’t particularly concerned, but I passed by the next day and she wasn’t there again. After three or four more days had gone by I began to think she wouldn’t be coming back. Well, I missed that little smile, and that squeaky voice saying something friendly. I guess that she had come to mean more to me than I realized. I thought I might want to find out what happened to her, so I asked Billy to help me. He had picked up some of the local language and was able to say a few words, but more important he also had this little fellow he called Michael. Michael had become attracted to Billy’s sermonizing and by now was a regular at the prayer sessions. He was quite a character, this Michael. Of course, Michael was not his real name, God knows what that might have been. Billy called him his archangel, because he was fierce faced, with tattoos on his face and arms, and long straight scars on his cheeks and forehead. Also, he was extra loud in his praying, as if God was sitting way high up on a mountain top, and one not too close by. Now, this particular archangel was four foot tall, what they called a baka, the local word for a pygmy, and he told everyone, Billy included, that he was the king of the pygmies. Sure enough in the first few months we were there he gathered up more and more pygmies, the whole clan it seemed like, and insisted they all be baptized. That is of more than passing interest because they provided food and volunteered as workers for various tasks that Billy would set them. They were the shortest disciples you ever have seen, little bundles of energy. Truth is, it was Billy who became king of the pygmies, and he organized them like the heavenly hosts; archangels, regular angels, cherubim, and what not down the line. We had arrived in May. By October they were harvesting fruits, nuts, maize, some kind of turnip, and arrowroot from the fields behind the prayer house. And people, too. There was a small colony of expatriates from the South living there, and the North too, and before very long first one or two, and then many began crowding into the prayer meetings, black and white together. They say the Lord works in mysterious ways, you’ve heard that, haven’t you? If you’re not sure what that means, then that there is an example for you.

I mentioned the little girl to Billy, and he asked Michael about it. Turns out he had seen her a time or two as well. I asked if he could find out what had happened to her, and at first he said no. Turns out, the markings on her dress showed her to be from a tribe that was an enemy to the Pygmy race. They were from the lowlands and the Pygmy were from the highlands, and some such. Guess that kind of situation is bound to cause hatred. Billy pulled out his bible and read a passage of some kind, said some words that sounded prayerful, and in a flash Michael was off. Of course, I asked him what he said that caused the turn around, and he explained it to me. He had told Michael that whites were the enemy of his own race, the blacks, but they were welcome in his house of prayer anytime, despite that. He said that God created enemies so that they could feel the exaltation of a special kind of love when they finally made peace with one another. That sounded kind of nice, don’t you think?”

“Discard hate for love?” Jona sneered at Wilson. “Say that to the Germans. Say that to the Russians, and say it right here to the apes running this country. Hell, say that to the whole goddamn world, to goddamn humankind.”

Wilson’s eyes seemed to wander again, up and down and left and right, only briefly, as if trying to find Jona. “Sounds like we first have to say it just to you.”

“I knew it! I knew it from the moment you began speaking. You were infected, weren’t you? Infected by religion. And it is a disease, you know that, right? That’s something my father taught me!”

Wilson took another long sip from his glass, gulping water with abandon. “Disease is all around, isn’t it? You can die from it, that’s true, or survive and it will make you stronger.” He pointed in the direction of Jona’s leg. “Isn’t that true?”

“Hell no!” Jona found himself snarling, unable to control a flood of anger. He slapped his thigh, hard, feeling nothing. “This destroyed my life and is still ruining everything. Keep the claptrap to yourself, I’m sick of it.”

“Dr. Lieb...” Wilson’s hand wandered briefly, searching for his water glass once again. “Some are content with anger, accept it, welcome it in fact. It’s what they want. You?”

Jona found himself deflating as quickly as he had engorged. “No, that’s not me. That’s not what I want.”

“And you want what? To come out the other side of what you’ve been through...there’s got to be something better. If you don’t answer that question, you’ll die. Inside or outside, you’ll die. Answer that question, and you will come out stronger. Better. You must believe that. Your father did.”

“I didn’t come here for this. Complete bullshit, the kind I’ve been hearing all my life from him. You don’t know me, Doctor, so please keep your little soul-searching paradigms to yourself. Thanks for the memories, but I’m out of here.” Jona did not budge, though. He sat stiffly, unmoving, watching carefully as Wilson took another long drink of water, and then another. The band had finished, and the luncheon crowd began to clear from the room. The afternoon was dispersing into an ephemeral cloud of forgotten words and useless, insignificant chatter. After a few minutes of silence Jona called the waiter over and ordered a double bourbon and cigarettes.

Wilson said nothing until he saw Jona down his liquor in one gulp and light a cigarette. Bluish smoke curled over both of them, blunting the rank odor that emanated from the old man. Finally, he spoke, pointing at the smoke. “You know why it’s blue?”

“Actually, I do, O great teacher and phony. It’s because of the Rayleigh effect. Light scattering enhances the blue, because of the color blue’s shorter wavelength. I’m a well educated man, you see, grounded in the sciences and not in your asinine gobbledegook.” Jona inhaled deeply, feeling himself become slightly vertiginous. A little glimmer from the past came to him, a feeling of control. He puffed a halo in Wilson’s direction. “Go ahead. Tell me the rest of the story, now that I know it’s all propaganda.”

Wilson sighed. “Isn’t physics wonderful? It’s humbling, but it’s so rewarding and reassuring, puts everything in its rightful place. And it predicts so much. Do you think it predicts human behavior, though? I don’t know for sure but I tend to doubt it. It turned out the little girl had malaria. Quotidian fever, shakes and chills, sweats, vomiting. No science could predict whether she was to live or die. I went to Earnie. He was in charge of the quinine. I begged him for some, for the sake of the girl. You know what he said?”

Jona laughed in a high pitched vibrato, a laugh that reverberated across the arched ceilings and carefully manicured corners of the Paradise Room, a laugh that travelled across sea and sky and to the dusky furrows of Africa. “Of course I do. He said no. The quinine was needed to keep yourselves safe, not for a nameless, unknown, here today and gone tomorrow child who’s selling bananas in some Godforsaken coconut grove.” The cigarette smoke began to curl over his head, a thornless crown that twisted and swirled as if driven by unseen machinery. “That comes as no surprise to me, O zealot!”

Wilson gave a laugh also, a deep one, in a language of its own. “You are a peckerwood, I have to say. Your father’s son for sure. Well, he didn’t say no. He didn’t say yes either. It occurred to him that he should use the quinine - our quinine - as an experiment. He explained it to me this way, as I’m about to say:

It was midday when I approached him, in the heat of the day, and we were both in a haze of sweat and buzzing flies, the big blue kind. Now, mind you, he began talking kind of fast, almost frantic, as if the words were coming to him on the fly, just as if he was inventing the whole thing as he spoke. He had a serious look, you know, with those jet-black eyes kinda blazing, and when he began to rattle at you tat-tat-tat with all those many words exploding all around... He was something else, let me tell you, and there was no way to stop that diesel once it was revved up. You got on board or got out of the way. So he told me we had an opportunity. Blackie, he said, which was what he usually called me, Blackie, you can guess why, though I have to say I grew to dislike that name intensely. So he spoke, and though it didn’t make much sense, I remembered his words, then wrote ‘em down, because it was the last time he talked in a different tongue. It was his kind of tongue talking, though, you could tell it wasn’t just babble. Let me read it to you.” Here, Wilson ponderously retrieved a length of paper from his coat pocket, unfurled it carefully, as if it were the national flag, and read without any intonation at all:

Lo I the man whose Muse whilome did maske as time her taught in lonely shepheards weeds, am now enforced a far unfitter taske, and so must find a way to help mankind non sibi sed omnibus I dispense such pharmakeion, powerful and pure as bundes befod in pennyroyal following close the teachings of masters Averrois, Damascien, and Constantyn whose writings of these lectuaries have shown and proven that sublata causa, tollitur effectus learned we from the hermetica syriaca, that gold in physik is a cordial, the dawn soft fingers of healing can cheat lurking Thanato, es is nicht Ernstes some would say, legyen hitetek on one side lay Scylla on the other divine Charybdis, the sons of Seth stand watching, edel sei der Mensch hilfreich und gut, great meteors mark the path both left and right, enclashing toto caeolo. O great empeirikos remember the golden rule, without question páthei máthos, over us still stands the Muse, watching and boasting exegi monumentum ære perennius if we are to mark our way, puesto ya el pie en el estriuo, watch unblinking, faithful in hope and healing and in the hidden arts, recorded by uncaring Clio, hinc ars atque inventio eius in deus ipsos relata est.

Jona shook his head, numbed by what he heard. “Crap. What did he say? It’s meaningless nonsense. Jargon.”

“You mean a lot of flapdoodle? Not really. I came to understand it eventually, and it very much made sense, if you can believe in lies. It’s not speaking in tongues, it’s phony. A good many of those words are out of the way or dead, but not gone. Latin and such, and Greek. Most found in the dictionary. Makes me think he invented the whole thing, and was not truly babbling. A sham, in other words, complete pretense meant to impress. You could spend hours trying to decipher it but in the end it’s just pretension. He must have rehearsed it a few times, that shows you where his mind had gone to. By that time he had become a man driven by will, ignoring all matters transitory and ephemeral, a seeker of greater things, you might say. He was lying when he said that as researchers, we are observers only, it was a sop thrown out to me, an attempt to assuage any guilt about the rights and wrongs that were to follow. You know, he grew to be a magnificent liar. Earnie was no observer, Dr. Lieb, you understand that, right? He became the greatest actor of his time, exposing himself wherever he thought the thrust would come, only to parry the blow and thrust back; that’s how he flourished. No...that’s how he survived, that’s how essential it was to him.

He decided he would distribute the quinine treatment in a random manner. You do know that he was virtually the first to conduct experiments along those lines, don’t you? Random allocation of a standardized treatment to two study groups, followed by a comparison of the two groups. Science. What a mind he had. What a shame.” Wilson fell silent again. He filled his glass with more water, and sipped repetitively.

Jona stubbed out the last embers of his cigarette and leaned forward. “So. The girl got the quinine and lived?”

“No, Dr. Lieb. She was allocated to the untreated group by lot. Random, uncaring chance. Despite my pleas, my arguments, my threats, my total submission, he would not change her designation. It would corrupt the science of the experiment, he said. But,” and here Wilson let go a vestigial smile, barely visible among the scraps of beard clinging to his face. “The little girl lived, as fate would have it, and grew to be a beautiful young woman, and married. In later years I played with her children. No, the protocol was followed to the letter. Ruthlessly, actually, to the despair of many poor natives who watched their loved ones die while others survived by taking the magic white pill.

The procedures and analysis took about a month. He was kind enough to name me coauthor on the paper, though I did very little. In any case it was never submitted for publication, I don’t know why. There was no shame in its scientific merit. He left in a hurry, back to Atlanta. You know the rest. To pursue a life of science, a life of service. A life of ambition, really. As he left he told me he needed more, much more than he could find in Douala to complete the journey of his life. Like I said before, he needed to be filled up completely, with everything possible that a man could experience. And, he had to leave that little prayer house behind, and all the demons swarming through his soul as he drained himself of his beliefs. Well, I suppose those beliefs did not stay with him very long, but it couldn’t have been as simple as draining a radiator. Something, a spark, a flare, a flicker, must have stayed with him. I often wondered whether he felt tormented in later years because he abandoned his sacred self for a temporal self.”

Wilson appeared content to sit quietly while Jona had a second drink and smoked a third cigarette. Outside, the day became overcast as storm clouds obscured the sky. Through an enormous, room-length window Jona could see bolts of lightning cracking across the arc of the horizon, lighting the summit of Stone Mountain in the distance, a thunderous message that the day was coming to an end. Soon, they were alone in the restaurant except for the watchful Andrews, sitting at sentry duty a few tables away. Mosby was gone for unknown reasons. Although the room was lit by the electric glow of ornate overhead chandeliers, Wilson’s skin seemed to have turned darker, morphing into plateaus of coffee brown mottled by grotesque, startling pink and white parcels that covered face and nose and ears indiscriminately. The smoke from Jona’s cigarette had transformed into a hazy smog that settled over his own head and shoulders, creating a vague aureole of gray settling over him, and partially obscuring his features.

“So. He pursued the requirements of the experiment. As you said, my father was brilliant in the application of scientific method, a necessary procedure done in order to help mankind. He was cruel to be kind.”

“No. He was cruel to be king. It had to be his way, always. I used to be bitter about it, but eventually I came to understand, and forgive.”

“Yes, I understand, you were helped by your faith and all that. Did you stay in that little church with Billy? The bible readings? The speaking in tongues?”

“A few years more. Twelve, actually. Came back to University a few years before your father defected. Anyway, I was never graced with the spirit of speaking. I became an interpreter of tongues, though it took some time for me to recognize that gift. I enjoyed doing that, tried to make some sense of the nature and rhythm and cadence of babbling, syllabic structure, and stuff like that. Interesting, ya know? Always thought that if a Martian came to visit, they would sound like they were babbling at first, till we figured it out.

Life was good there, and for the longest while I had no desire to come home. After a while I became interested in local things, like cocoa beans, and maize. It seemed to me that I awakened one day and I became curious, as if I were suddenly touched by the flame of inquiry. Studied and investigated, discovered a few things here and there. Billy gave me some money and I opened a small lab, and others from our church gave money, and I bought some equipment, and Michael gave me some young men to assist. Developed a few novel techniques, got around to flavonoids and then tocopherol, selenium, and so forth. Antioxidants. It was easier to study reagents in a flask than to study people. Published a paper or two. Eventually made a little name for myself, the university wooed me back, I climbed the ladder and here I am. Thought I could do more good by coming back, and I think I have.”

Jona swilled the liquor in his glass around and around, trying to imagine a foreign landscape of heat, and buzzing noises, and shifting shadows, and profound patience. He avoided looking squarely at Wilson. Don’t judge a book by….The words buzzed through his mind, then evaporated. After a few moments his head jerked up. “Why did you say he left in a hurry?”

“Because he did.”

“But why?”

“I thought it was nuts at the time, truthfully. He really should have stayed, there was so much more productive research to be done. God, how he loved worms. But he was persuaded by the agents they sent to get him, to bring him back home.”

A sound began keening in Jona’s ears almost instantly, sharp but distant, growing louder and more distinct in brief steps and stages, rising like a raven shriek bouncing over the bleak cliffs of a deserted mountain. There were secrets hidden within the moaning; quick whispers and beguiling half-truths that beckoned insistently. Listen, he heard, listen, listen, listen.

“What agents?”

“I told you before. Everyone thought he was some kind of boy genius. The government wasn’t about to let him get away easy. They sent two agents out to Douala to tempt him back, or coerce him, whatever, a man and a woman. Whatever they said to Earnie, it worked, because they all left together within a week or two. I am sure it was a hell of a bribe, whatever it was. The man did most of the talking, but said very little that made sense. Kept repeating he was from the agency, but never said which one, at least not to me. He was a jasper alright, and I disliked him right away. Don’t remember the name but I decided he was a spook, sent to shoot Earnie on the spot if he didn’t agree to return.”

Jona moved his jaw to speak, feeling it crack as if encrusted by a coat of rust. “And the woman?”

“Her I’ll never forget. What a doll, and did she know how to give Earnie the come on. Why, I think she gave me the come on as well. Blond, blue eyes...you get it, right? She was a doctor, and she worked for the government also. I think she gave him an offer he couldn’t say no to, and a big blushing smile he wouldn’t say no to. I saw them walking real close before too long, and I think Earnie fell for her in a really big way. Maybe that’s why he returned. She was daisy sweet, Amelia was. Daisy sweet, but sharp as a tack and tough as nails. I often wonder what became of her.”

Jona hung his head, lost in a fog of despair, and doubt, and disbelief, and the kind of madness that singed the edges of reason. Wilson remained quiet too, and for just a moment time was suspended, dissolved as if it had never been. Without warning, Jona felt a hand grasp his shoulder, and turned his head slowly, as if in a languorous dream.

“Why, hello, Jona.” The words wafted like a mist, creamy smooth, evoking in one instant feelings of both pleasure and shock. It was Kohler, cane in hand and black homburg set rakishly over his forehand. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Jona thought he knew his father. He was wrong.

A hidden past. A woman named Amelia Lieb. And now, just as Jona begins to understand how much has been kept from him, Kohler has found him.

The search for the truth is getting closer to home.

Subscribe to Searching Jona to continue the story and receive the next chapter when it’s released.

Subscribe now

BOOK 2

Chapter 25

Abraham begat Isaac;

And Isaac begat Jacob;

And Jacob begat Judas...

And Judas begat Phares...

And Phares begat Esrom;

And Esrom begat Aram;

“And I am?” Robert Jones fingered the page he was holding carefully, studying the words with great intensity. “I am? I am. I say I am, but am I?. What am I before my Lord God?” At first the list of names made no sense to him. Why were they in the Holy Book? They were just names, with no connection to anything that he could make any meaning out of. But something attracted him to that particular page, and to the words, something that held him, and caused him to keep reading.

And Aram begat Aminidab;

And Aminidab begat Naasson;

And Naasson begat Salmon;

And Salmon begat Booz...

And Booz begat Obed...

And Obed begat Jesse;

As he read the names, he was reminded of Old Jack, someone he had met during his days at Lexington. Old Jack’s real name was completely different, but was a name that could not be said properly by anyone, it was so filled with clicks and clucks and other guttural noises that were incomprehensible. He called himself Koo-ki-ka-ki-ki-ki-ka-na, or so it sounded, anyway. He also called himself Atif, interchanging the two randomly. By the time Jones met him, the old fellow had not yet reconciled himself to being called Old Jack and would spit out his true name in his own language whenever he had a chance. His owner was a professor of Theology and Biblical Revelation at Washington College, not far from VMI, someone who had done missionary work in Africa. It was not allowed to bring slaved Africans back to the CSA according to the law, but Pickett had explained to Jones that it was common for the government to look the other way in most of these cases when it was a personal matter, especially if it had anything to do with preachers doing the Lord’s work. Yes, Old Jack was quite a character in more ways than one. Jones read on:

And Jesse begat David the King;

And David the King begat Solomon...

And Solomon begat Roboam;

And Roboam begat Abia;

And Abia begat Asa;

And Asa begat Josaphat;

It was gripping, somehow, to recite the names, word by word, one syllable at a time, as if they were a list of sounds, and not names at all, just sounds that created their own meaning after saying them often enough. Or maybe they were some kind of secret code. Some said the Bible was filled with secret meanings that only the few would ever understand.

Old Jack often told Robert Jones that words had secret meanings, and that even though words were the creation of men, they could never truly be understood by most men, only by those with special powers. He claimed to have those special powers himself. One day, for no particular reason, Old Jack grasped Jones by the forearm while they walked past stalls heaped with green beans, and summer squash, radishes and onions, eggplants and watermelons, hanging cheeses and strawberries, early apples and late peaches. They were at the farmers’ market down on Taylor Street, the largest market young Jones had ever seen, and on display was every kind of produce from every corner of the Shenandoah. Old Jack didn’t seem interested in buying food for the reverend’s dinner, though. He seemed to be shuffling along, looking bored and distracted, and when he saw Jones he came right over and grasped him by the forearm, clutching him with strong fingers and over-long nails that bit into Jones’s skin.

They paced together up and down Taylor Street for quite a while as Old Jack told his story. He said he was a poet, and that he learned his trade as a young man in Sofala. Later, in his middle years, he went to Mombasa where he chanted his poems every morning near a mosque. He was made a Muslim as an older child, and as a good Muslim he would not sing, but rather intoned the verses with a powerful voice that carried far. Passers-by would leave behind a piece of fruit, or tomatoes, or eggs, or even a chicken for the pleasure of his poems. He perfected the Maishari cadences, sacred songs so he said, which were very much more difficult and complex than anything a Christian could understand. Over time he became quite famous, and men would come from very far to hear him. The further they came, the greater the gift they would leave at his feet. He had dreams to study and become an imam one day, but unfortunately he was abducted as he was declaiming and reciting his poems one clear cold morning. It was the Maishari meter, the rhythm, he claimed, that opened the doorway to understanding the true meaning of words. Thinking back, Jones thought he could see a glimmer of truth in what Old Jack was trying to tell him. He continued reading:

And Josephat begat Joram;

And Joram begat Ozias;

And Ozias begat Joatham;

And Joatham begat Achaz;

And Achaz begat Ezekias;

And Ezekias begat Manassas;

For many years Old Jack served the master who had purchased him, a rich merchant from Nairobi, a man of faith who answered the call of the muezzin every day as scrupulously as he collected every farthing due on his accounts. The merchant was content to have his new servant chant to him only once in a while, on a whim and without warning, so that each time the poems would be like new. Sometimes it would be at a feast, such as a wedding attended by a hundred or more, and his invocations would be accompanied by much clapping and good cheer. Sometimes it would be in the lean hours of the night, with no one else to hear his words other than the master. No matter when or where, Old Jack would keep the rhythm meticulously; quatrains of sixteen syllables with a measured caesura in the middle of each line, and within the space encompassed and created by meter and words he would find solace and even happiness. Twice that he could remember, three times perhaps, his poems were so powerful and said with such strength that they had cast him into a holy frenzy that surrendered him, trembling, at the feet of Great God Himself.

Jones never forgot what the old man had said about the dominion of words. He felt that same tug as he read from Matthew’s list of Hebrew ancestors, but there was something else that came over him as well, a cold numbness that wrapped around his heart. Maybe Old Jack was feeling the same icy grip when he stopped to talk to him that summer day on Taylor Street, the strangled feeling that the end of time was drawing near. He went on to finish his story, telling Jones of his loneliness and pain while enslaved in the house of his master. Eventually, and slowly, he lost the mastery of the Maishari cadences, and his poetry grew weak and withered. His voice shriveled up like the nether parts of an old, old bull, and his master grew displeased with him. As a final sign of displeasure, Old Jack was brought to an auction market at Fort Jesus where many foreigners came to buy, and was sold to the itinerant preacher who shipped him back to the strange and beautiful country of the Valley of Virginia.

Using his forefinger as a guide, Jones continued his reading:

And Manassas begat Amon;

And Amon begat Josias;

And Josias begat Jechonias...

And Jechonias begat Salathiel;

And Salathiel begat Zorobabel;

And Zorobabel begat Abiud;

Old Jack died not long after that, they said of old age and the dropsy. Jones was very young at the time and had not learned much about life as yet. But looking back, he grew to believe that the old man had died of a broken heart. He had lost the one bit of magic that had made him special, and he turned into an empty flask once the vital fluids of his poetry had drained away. And when he had gone, there was nothing left of him, not even his name, because it was surely not Koo-ki-ka-ki-ki-ki-ka-na. There was no entry for him in the long list of his ancestral line, only a blank space where his name and the art of his words should have been written down. In the short time they had been together Jones did not come to learn whether the old man had any children back in Africa, living offspring that would allow at least a residue of his identity to be left behind.

Jones slammed the Bible shut, not wishing to read any more, feeling weak. Names, lineage, identity had no meaning in the end. In the end was only...the end, the terminus of the journey, where the tracks of this life intersected with eternity. That was all that mattered, the ultimate destination, already preordained. His mother had told him, at her end, that she had already been a long time dying, and that along the way she had suffered a thousand little deaths. None of it mattered, not the deaths of her other children, or her dear brother, or the myriad daily oppressions and miseries that were suffered onto her body over the years. She told her son that her life had been lived like a blade of long grass, bent by wind and rain, worn down by snow, and cast in shadow by clouds above. But like the grass, she had lifted her body up each day to seek the sun, and allow its fingers to touch her face with sisterly affection, and like the grass she could not look back or feel any regrets. She had fought each day of her life, his momma told him, to reach the final day, when she would be reunited with all those who had passed before and fought before, and that is what she swore him to do as well. Fight. Fight to reach the end.

His momma had come back into his life no more than ten years before. Pickett had been true to his word, eventually. He had promised to reward Jones by finding his mother, and if alive, to reunite her with her son. It was a shrewd reward. A payment, really. Payment for the murder of Merope. It was her death that was fixed as the price of finding his mother after so many years of separation. Merope, such a beautiful woman. And so different from her daughter Madeline.

Merope was George Pickett’s last wife, and the mother of his only living child, the one name that would be marked down and scribed in stone when Pickett’s own life was erased. It was a surprise wedding, the two of them, consummated in a rapid fire of frenetic activity. It all happened while they were stationed in El Paso. Pickett was Colonel of the Second CSA Colored Cavalry at the time, punishment duty for unruly, lascivious, and demeaning behavior directed at the daughter of Fort Bragg’s Commandant the previous summer. The Second CC was tasked to border patrol, and naturally Pickett’s interpretation of his orders included the freedom to initiate frequent incursions into Mexico proper.

The border with Mexico in those days was chaotic, a porous, volatile blend of armed confrontation with regular troops from either side and guerrilla raids by bands that were no more than horse thieves and smugglers. Mexico was in a roiling state of revolution, and the fighting spilled over the border into Texas as Mexican National troops and revolutionaries fought for regional dominance. The greatest danger to the ranchers and scrub farmers of southwest Texas came from the guerrilla band of Pascual Orozco. His marauders had perfected the strategy of attacking isolated ranches or haciendas and confiscating livestock that was then sold back to buyers along the border. Deals were transacted either for CSA gold or for weapons, and were the lifeblood of Orozco’s guerrilla operations. Pickett swore to destroy the Orozquistas, hanging every one of them along the banks of the Rio Bravo if necessary.

At times his Troop would disappear for a week or two at a time, often to return with a gaggle of prisoners said to be captured in battle. Rumor had it that the dark ones were put up for sale, and that west Texas ranchers would take almost anyone who could pass for Negro, or part Negro. At the right price of course. Whether money changed hands was never proven, but it was true that most of the prisoners generally disappeared under mysterious circumstances within a month of their arrival, and that large numbers of Texan tourists would serendipitously appear on the barren, beautiful, straight streets of El Paso at or near the times of the raids. Jones heard the stories, believed them to be true, and was filled with disgust at thinking that Pickett was nothing more than a plunderer purveying in human flesh. The fact that Pickett spent almost every night drinking and whoring was further proof that he had degenerated into evil ways.

It came as quite a surprise to Jones when Pickett instructed him one day to come along when he led the regiment on patrol the next morning. That had never happened before. Jones was not good with horses, hated to ride for extended periods, and abhorred the desert even more, but Pickett was firm. “Come on, Jones,” he mocked. “This here is a cavalry outfit, and the troopers are your people, same as you, no better or worse. Anyway, a few days in the saddle will harden up your ass and shrivel up your balls. Make a man out of you.” He laughed at Jones as he often did, with a sonorous, insincere civility and an enormous, twisted smirk to his lips.

The troop rode out at military dawn the next morning, making a wide sweep northwest and west at an unhurried trot. Rumor among the men was that they were headed for Las Cruces, but that would prove to be wrong. The land was pure desert, an opaque purple and brown in the half-light, turning a dull ocher as the sun rose, dotted with the grotesquely contorted, ghostly figures of cactus rising up among low lying boulders. It occurred to Jones that this was a land that the devil himself wouldn’t care to visit. The heat was overwhelming; in a short time, Jones felt his shirt soaked in sweat. He began to pray for release from the torturous patrol, buried his chin in his chest, and pulled his hat down over his forehead. Pickett swung close by and waived his arm grandly at the empty landscape surrounding them. “What do you think, Jones? Beautiful, ain’t it?”

Jones was miserable with the heat and dust, and the mere fact of being on horseback for hours, and allowed himself a scowl. “I think instead of patrolling it we should give it away to the first one willing to take it off our hands. Mister, If the Mexicans want it, let them have it. For that matter, let the Canadians have it, or the Germans.”

Pickett nodded with a mock show of gravity. “We is negotiatin’ with the Japanese right now. C’mon, it’s not that bad. Anyway.” He stopped himself and grew suddenly more serious, nodding at the troopers riding with them. “Anyway, if we wasn’t patrolling here we’d be patrolling somewhere else, somewhere just as Godforsaken. That’s what we do as soldiers, Jones, it’s never particularly appetizing work. We have a duty, and we follow it.”

Still irritable, and mopping his brow with a handkerchief, Jones gestured at the cavalryman next to him. “Bet he doesn’t have much to say about it, does he? I mean being a nigger and all.” As soon as the words left his mouth he regretted saying them. Since Nicaragua a bond had formed between Pickett and Jones, but a bond no stronger than a thin strand of straw, a bond that could be broken easily and without remorse. Jones always kept in mind the vivid memory of what had happened to old Rufus.

Pickett reached over, grabbed the reins from his hands, and pulled both his own and Jones’s horse to a halt. “These here are soldiers. Some of ‘em served with me in Cuba. Any one of ‘em would kick your ass to hell,” he snarled. “I thought you learned proper behavior back in the jungle.” He whirled around in his saddle, seeking, seething. “Sergeant!”

A narrow, gaunt looking fellow, light brown enough to blend into the desert sands, his features partially submerged under an expansive slouch hat, came cantering up to join them. There were no salutes and no words were exchanged. He merely gave Pickett an inquisitive look.

“Sergeant Powell, see this man? Eleven lashes, good ‘uns, when we make camp.”

As he thought about that day, Jones shook his head in dismay. He did not at the time believe that he would be whipped, thinking that Pickett was only trying to frighten him. And besides, he was owed a debt for carrying Pickett on his back through uncharted jungle, wasn’t he? He saved the man’s life, didn’t he? But whipped he was, bound to an impromptu whipping post right after supper, as if he were the dessert to the day’s proceedings. And not by the thinly sergeant, either. Instead, a certain corporal Meeks was given the honor, a strapping young man who was a slightly smaller version of Promise Stone. The young corporal did not behave at all in accordance with what his name suggested as he set himself to his assignment. He had the peculiar inclination to call out a woman’s name with every stroke he applied, which offered Jones a very brief diversion from the searing agony of the strikes against his back. With each whipsaw of his arm and wrist Meeks made a call: ‘...Maria...Isabella...Teresa...Anna...’ Meeks seemed more excited with each name ‘...Verghinia...Elizabetta...Renata...’ He leaned into his work, and soon the names were shouted with a bellow ‘...Grisele...Alejandra...Miranda...’ Even in the cool of the desert night Meeks became flushed and sweaty with his work. He stopped before the last great lash was delivered, asked for a drink, and downed a small flask of whiskey. The final blow was delivered with a flourish, a great show of whipping the long leather lash back and forth in the air in great arcs of increasing power before crying out a name as if he were at the bedside of his dying mother, or in the fleeting arms of the first and last love of his life ‘....Manuela!’

Jones barely heard the last name echo in the shadows of the night before he lost consciousness, lapsing into a deaf and dumb, unsensing state that hovered somewhere between deep sleep and darkest coma. Just before he became unconscious, just as the whip was snapping down for its final strike against his wounded, bleeding flesh, he conjured up a name as well, one that flashed across his mind and soul with a despairing hatred...’PICKETT’.

He was resurrected the next morning by the ministrations of one of the troopers. His back had been cleaned and washed thoroughly, bandaged with clean dressings, and now stank of iodine. The pain at first was unbearable, but as Jones was assisted to his feet he found that he could walk with help.

Meeks came to him. “Sorra, brotha’. Followin’ orders.” He did not seem sorry, though.

Pickett wandered by with a tin of coffee in his hand but said nothing. In later years Jones would have sunk to his knees and prayed. Prayed for guidance. Prayed for forgiveness. Prayed for the soul of George Pickett, and all the troopers in the regiment. But he had not as yet made his final acquiescence to the Will that guided all human actions. So instead of praying, Robert Jones festered with pain, and humiliation, and anger. As Pickett had taught him, he did not show fear. He walked through the camp with head erect, and with steady eye, but in his heart he nursed a burning fury and made the coldest of calculations. Somewhere, sometime, somehow, he would kill George Pickett, even if it cost his own life. That would be revenge sweet enough to justify any pain that could possibly follow.

On the second day they turned west and crossed the Rio Bravo, which was nothing more than a deep, wet rut on the desert floor, and veered due south into endless, empty desert. That night, under a mirror-clear mantle of sky and stars, Pickett gathered his command around a hissing bonfire that licked the air with dry, red-hot flames, and ordered them to be at ease. He wore a duff brown coat without insignia and carried a poncho over his arm. He spoke quietly, without any show of emotion. “Men, anyone who wants to come with me tomorrow needs to know that I’m going on a raid beyond Juarez. I can’t order you to go with me, because the raid I’m plannin’ is illegal. I’m doin’ this on my own and without orders, so anyone who wants to sit here until we get back can do so. But I want you to know a few things first. The most important thing is, I’ve got some information about the location of a detachment of Oroszquistas to the south of town on the National Road. If we can hit them hard and by surprise I think that will be the end of them, at least for now, and we can kiss goodbye to these regular patrols. Second thing is, they’ve got some of Señor Pasquale’s gold with them, gold he’s using to buy off Los Rurales, the local militia.”

At the mention of gold the troopers began to hoot and clap their hands, wave their hats in the air and shout Pickett’s name. The sergeant, standing on a saddle to increase his height, waved his arms to quiet them down. “Shut up, you sonsabitches,” he shouted. “Let the colonel finish!”

And that was when Pickett weaved his magic. It had something to do, for sure, with the way he canted his head, and something with the way he spread his arms straight up, as if about to plead the Lord’s forgiveness for the sins of his men, or the way his eyes gleamed, or his voice vibrated in the thin desert air, or how his hair hung and swung in tight little ringcurls down his neck. It could have been all those things, or none, because it was the perfect pitch of his smile, and the whiteness of his teeth, and the dimpling of his rounded jaw that won them over, as it always did. “And boys,” he purred, “Here’s the third thing. There’s girls where I’m goin’, boys, plenty of ‘em, and they’ll take a black man just as well as a white man, maybe for a little of that gold I was talkin’ about. And I can tell you right now that I’m gonna be gettin’ myself one little lady for this hand, and a bottle of hard tequila for the other! Now who wants to join me?”

And with that said, the men erupted with cheers, throwing their hats in the air. The sergeant sprang from the majestic height of the grounded saddle to use his hat as an imaginary dancing partner and began a waltz, kicking up sand as he performed neat pirouettes in his thickset boots. Jones grimaced and shook his head in dismay when he saw the reaction of the Troop. Company C, Second Colored Cavalry, was heading not to glory but to hell, and their commander was responsible. Jones had been around the military long enough to understand the importance of discipline and obedience to orders. He had seen men court-martialed for failing to follow instructions from a superior officer. Yet here was Pickett, boldly and baldly announcing that he was flouting orders and raiding on his own authority. No wonder the men’s behavior so quickly degenerated into that of a mob. An armed mob at that. He vowed again that Pickett would see his last patrol. Surely, there would be an opportunity during the coming raid to take his life. Jones did not have a gun, but he had several knives, used to prepare the colonel’s daily mess. While the brigand band marauded, there would come a moment, without doubt, when he could slip a blade between that awful man’s ribs. The world would be free of a slave merchant, the Army would be free of a degenerate officer, and he would be free of a cruel and uncaring owner. What might happen to him if he was suspected of Pickett’s murder did not once permeate his thoughts.

As the Troop saddled up the next morning, Sergeant Powell strode over to speak to Jones, waving his arms to signal that he should stop packing the Colonel’s kit. “Boss says you stay here.”

“Stay here? Why?” Jones was dumbfounded.

“Dunno. Sergeants don’t ask Colonels any questions, see?”

Jones quickly felt a sense of dread come over him. “What am I supposed to do here all alone?”

The sergeant handed over a pistol, a new Browning model 1910, the type that was a favorite among CSA cavalrymen. He did not attempt to hide an audible, derisive snicker. “He says you guard our packs, you and Tiberius.” Tiberius was the Company’s dog, a bull mastiff with massive jaws and vicious possessiveness. “If any banditos come along, don’t worry, the dog will protect you, just don’t get in his way.” He walked away, laughing under his breath.

The Troop disappeared in a short while, swarming like a cloud of flies buzzing towards the horizon. Jones spent the morning in his tent, letting his anger flare within him, allowing his rage to consume him. Every abuse, every slight, every insult to his manhood swirled through his thoughts like a vivid moving picture, feeding his fury even further. Even though he sat in shade, protected from the violence of direct sunlight, heat began to radiate upwards from the furnace of desert sand beneath him. The crawling bite of coloradillas tortured his neck and groin, and a violin spider scuttled over his leg, searching for prey. He was in a hell of torment. Jones drank some tepid water but felt dizzy and lay down on his side. Sweat began to pour over his forehead and around his eyes, blurring his vision with a foggy haze. He began to imagine how he would kill Pickett. He could picture the man’s astonished expression as Jones placed the muzzle of a gun to his temple, or the blade of a knife to his throat. He could hear Pickett’s pleas for mercy, and hear his death rattle.

The rising temperature outside the tent took its toll, forcing Jones to remove his shirt and use it to sop up the trickles of sweat appearing on his face, and chest, and back, but he remained determined to continue his daydreams of revenge, transfixed by the image of his owner slowly bleeding to death. His brow furrowed with concentration and his eyes closed in fierce focus as he imagined in detail every drop of blood dripping slowly down Pickett’s neck, and chest, and arms, and belly, and slowly trickle over groin and hips and legs and calves, and slowly over feet and ankles, slowly...slowly...slowly...

Very nearly, he did not see the old woman until she was almost upon him. When he did see the silent brush of her shadow on the sand, he almost could not make sense of it. His mind could not comprehend that there might be someone at his tent flap until he bent over to look outside. Even when he did see her, he could not believe what he saw. She was old, wrinkled in her arms and body, her face creased like the bed of an old and dried up desert creek cracked by ten thousand sunrises. Her eyes shone with a dark green light, as if illuminated by a rotting lime. She was dressed in native fashion, with a long, tasseled rebozo draped over her head to protect her from direct disturbance by the sun. She smiled at him, opening a mouth marred by wide gaps between her remaining teeth, and gestured for him to come with her. Jones spat in his hands and rubbed them furiously to convince himself he was awake and not dreaming or hallucinating and then arose to follow her. They walked through desert sands for a long time, avoiding the dried up desert sage, saguaros, and shrunken creosote bushes that dotted their path. Occasional scorpions scurried around his feet, and he could see the black shadows of buzzards as they floated by in effortless, patient flight. A long row of Joshua trees rising in a straight line into the distance marked their path forward.

They climbed a low-lying mound. The woman turned to speak to him, saying words that sounded directly in his mind. “Open your mind and be respectful,” she said. “This is a tumulus that protects many that have passed.” And then she pointed.

Jones turned to look. His legs buckled at what he saw, and he fell to his knees, clasping his hands, collapsed in strength and spirit. An ocean of bones lay before him. Arm bones, shanks, hips, skulls, jawbones, vertebrae, ribs, and the myriad small bones of the hands and feet, tarsals and metatarsals, hyoid bones from the neck, flat sternums, tiny stapes and the odd looking vomer, phalanges, ulnas and sphenoids, and diminutive pisoids. The bones covered a vast expanse, filling a punched out craterous bowl dug deep into the earth, a great kettle stretching to the extremity of his vision. In some places the skeletal remains were moving, heaving and shifting as if trying to force themselves back into alignment, cracking and snapping with tidal movements that rippled from one end of the crater to the other. Jones knew where he was, understood it completely. He knew the story as if it were buried deep within his heart, told by a prophet who had lived very long ago. He had read the prophet’s story as a boy; he was now seeing the truth of the story as a man:

He led me back and forth among them, and I saw a great many bones on the floor of the valley, bones that were very dry. He asked me, “Son of man, can these bones live?”

The old woman said nothing, but continued pointing.

Jones prayed, remembering the Scriptures:

Then he said to me: “Son of man, these bones are the people of Israel. They say, ‘Our bones are dried up and our hope is gone; we are cut off.’ Therefore prophesy and say to them: ‘This is what the Sovereign Lord says: My people, I am going to open your graves and bring you up from them; I will bring you back to the land of Israel.’ “

Jones bent his head in submission. “Is that what you’ve brought me here to learn? That the great God above can reassemble even the dead long dead?”

“No.”

“What, then? Why bring me here?”

“Look inside your heart.”

“I feel nothing in my heart except love for the Lord.”

“You feel hate.”

Jones dared a glance at the woman’s face. She seemed softer, younger. Her eyes had grown to enormous size, and in her eyes were mirrored his own, which mirrored hers, and again, and again, and on and on a hundred times, a hundred thousand times, and on forever. He thought of Pickett, whose face appeared to him, right next to hers. “I understand.”

“No, not yet. You wish to believe you do, just like you wish to believe you are saved and will live for eternity.”

The old woman was changing as he watched. The wrinkles on her face dissolved, and the smooth sheen of youth appeared over her arms. The rebozo fell to her shoulders, revealing a graceful swan-like neck and black tightly curled hair that glistened with a varicolored iridescence in the glare of the sunlight. She stretched a brown hand to touch his head. Jones felt his chest heave with a sob, and as her fingers touched his forehead he felt the heavy weight of saving grace fall upon him.

“Those are not bones, are they?” He simply thought the words, he did not need to utter them aloud.

She pointed at the cauldron of moving, restless bones just as the first flickers of flame appeared among them. “There is fear.” She pointed at a mandible. “There is desire.” She indicated a tibia that began to crack. “There is doubt. There is wonder, and curiosity, and there is craving, deceit, lust, honor, pride,” pointing each time to a different bone. She waited a moment, and fires flared among the bones with great heat. Then she pointed at a thorax, totally intact but completely empty of its internal viscera, now all gone. “There is love.” The bones began to move, stirred by the flames, flowing as if the current of a mighty river were pushing them towards some far-distant destination. And as the river of bones flowed by, a perfect skull appeared, grinning as if it knew it was traveling at last to its secret final resting place. And the old woman pointed again. “And here is belief.”

And as she spoke those words, other things appeared, odd looking pieces of tissue and meat and sinew and fat, and Jones recognized a kidney, and then a liver, and a heart, and lungs, and the flayed muscles of an arm, and lips chattering in the boiling heat, and an eyeball empty of sight, and all the fleshly pieces of man and woman, mixed in with bone, and all were moving quickly in a rapid circular current, a great soup of humankind stirred by a mighty, unseen hand. “It’s all one thing, isn’t it?” Jones shouted, as if he needed to be heard above some unseen storm of wind and lightning.

The woman seemed to study him carefully for a moment. “Form. Feeling. Faith. They are one.”

“They live together. And when one dies the other dies.” Jones felt the wash of understanding come over him like a powerful fall of water cascading from the sky above. “But the soul lives, isn’t that right? The other things die, but the soul lives?”

“God does not die.”

“And the soul? The soul does not die? It becomes one with God?”

“God does not die.”

“But me? What about me?”

And there it was. There it was said.

Great sadness seemed to radiate from the woman, or perhaps a great serenity, or both, both feelings weaving in and out, one within the other. “You can learn everything you want to learn when you are ready.” She raised both arms with palms up, eyes raised, standing orans over the kneeling Jones. Her chin moved almost imperceptibly in the direction of the swirling, churning, burning cauldron that swept by at their feet. He heard her voice. “When you are ready, just step over.”

The vision ended then, falling away from his eyes like the gentle dew of a desert morning. Jones was not yet ready to step over then, but with the passage of years he had become ready. He was ready now, this very moment. The outcome of his life’s struggle would soon be known. But on that day in the desert, he had finally succumbed to the will of his Maker completely, and so his hatreds had fallen away, molted like excess skin. Ambition, vengeance, and even anger had been cast aside as he allowed himself to follow the road that had been prepared for him, understanding that acceptance was the only and final virtue. And so he accepted Pickett when he returned to camp the next day, fully and unconditionally, without love or hate, desire or distaste, without slowness or haste.

The Troop rode back in good order, but many of the men appeared drunk, and many more collapsed into deep sleep as soon as they arrived back in camp. Three or four were missing. They drove back a newly acquired wagon crowded with miserable appearing captives, male and female, and not a few children. And George Pickett, waiving his hat triumphantly, rode in all his splendor at the rear of the column, with a young woman seated behind him, clutching him tightly around his waist.

Sergeant Powell wheeled his horse up to speak to Jones. “Any trouble?”

“None.” Jones jerked a thumb in the direction of the young woman, raising an eyebrow.

Powell took his time responding. “Her name is Merope. The boss really likes her, if you know what I mean.”

“What happened?”

“Nothin’ much we couldn’t handle. Followed El Camino Real south until it intersected with a dirt road heading east to a place called Rancho Palo. Hacienda was owned by a man named Martinez, it was nothin’ more than a dried out piece of shit, a tinderbox sitting out in the middle of the desert. Martinez and the boss have done business before, a coupl’a times. Horses, cattle, things like that. Orozco’s men were there, about ten of’m. Surprised the bunch. The fight wasn’t nothin’, really. Two, maybe three got away, took care of the rest real good. We found some gold, alright, but no booze. And no women willing to keep us company, except for her.” He jerked his finger in Pickett’s direction.

Jones watched as Pickett carried her into his tent. The tent flaps fell shut. “What’s her story?”

“You curious, man? We all is.” The sergeant gave a gritty chuckle. “I think she’s the reason the boss was so bugged to raid.” He pointed to the open wagon holding the captives. “The ranch hands were sayin’ that she be an orphan from Juarez, raised by the priests at the Cathedral of Guadalupe. A real young thing. Only been at Rancho Palo a few months, brought down to the hacienda to be a servant to Mrs. Martinez. They says that she was pretty much used up by Señor Martinez, though. Well, the Colonel I guess took exception to that, because he shot up Señor Martinez pretty bad and then watched him die. And here she is. Wonder if he’ll be selling her.”

She was not sold. Rather, she seemed to have woven a spell over George Pickett, and had her way with every request she made of him. Jones had never seen his owner so smitten. Back in El Paso he ensconced her in the Paso del Norte hotel, the best in town. He bought her a new dress of cotton and crinoline, shoes that laced up to her ankles, and saw to it that her hair was bobbed and curled. Overnight, she was transformed from a dark-haired servant girl into a sloe-eyed lady. Pickett could not seem to get enough of her, seeing her every day, and occasionally staying overnight in her room. Every time he did that, of course, he violated army regulations that required him to sleep at his headquarters on the post. He didn’t seem to care about that, though, or much of anything other than Merope.

As for Jones, Pickett acted as if nothing had happened in the desert. He had Jones driving Merope around in the brand-new Siemens Protos motorcar that Pickett had ordered from Germany. It was a Type G, able to do forty miles per hour, but there were no roads capable of sustaining that kind of speed. Instead, Jones contented himself with a leisurely pace, usually in second gear, that suited the arid heat of the city, and Merope liked it that way. She would sit in the back of course. Pickett had somehow acquired a German feldmutz that he insisted Jones should wear instead of an ordinary driver’s cap, though it looked ridiculous and offered no real protection from the heat and sun. Usually, Merope was impatient to get to the post, where she would meet Pickett, and so they would go there directly; down St. Louis Street, past the depot, then a right onto palm lined Montana Street and on to Bliss Street directly to the fort. She did not speak English, and he did not speak Spanish, but they managed well enough through signs and gesticulations. She would spend the day at the post, that young thing did, almost always doing nothing but follow Pickett around. Later in the day, Jones would bring either her alone or both of them back to the city. For Jones, it became a regular treadmill made somewhat pleasant by the powerful machine he was able to drive. And, truthfully, by Merope’s presence in the car.

Jones made a point of not looking too hard at white women. He knew that could be very dangerous and was most often a fatal mistake. But Merope was not really white. She was a buttery brown, very soft around her eyes, with a prim mouth that revealed brilliant teeth when she laughed. She was big around the top and slim around the middle, about what any man would want, and she knew how to sit with her bottom just so, a mystery wrapped in an invitation. Jones didn’t mind feasting his eyes on her when he could; she was certainly a fine sight to see. One day just a few weeks into their routine, after picking her up at the hotel, she handed him a small piece of paper. There was an address written on it, a house off Alameda Avenue, near Washington Park. She made it clear she wanted to be taken there. The house was an ordinary clapboard with no distinguishing features, other than a sign hanging on the porch:

William Nelson

Dentist

Veterinarian

Notary Public

Merope hurried to the door. Someone opened it. She reappeared in about an hour.

The next day, they made the same stop, and again the next. Jones was sure he knew what was going on but said nothing. It was none of his business, after all. Little more than a week later Pickett shocked Jones and everyone else on the post by marrying Merope. The wedding was held at the Fort Bliss chapel, attended by only a few officers. Jones stood at the back of the church, and as he heard the couple exchange vows he could feel the hair at the back of his neck rise. He knew that trouble, big trouble, was just around the corner.

It was. The couple moved into new quarters on the base, suitable for newlyweds. At first Merope appeared to revel in her new role as First Wife among the very small group of officer’s wives on the base. They were all white, of course, and as Jones could have predicted, most had no intention of befriending the raven haired, dark skinned beauty just because Mad George Pickett decided to marry her. They remained aloof by and large, leaving Merope with the worst enemy a bored and beautiful girl could have: time on her hands. Soon enough, she began to find ways to occupy her time while her husband was out on patrol.

Jones prayed for the girl. He prayed for Pickett. He prayed for the other wives, who were consumed with jealousy and scorn for the woman they considered a tramp, and even worse, as he sometimes heard them say, a river nigger. His prayers did not change Merope, however. Before too long, she was observed going out on picnics with one or the other of the few single officers on the post. Unfortunately, it didn’t end there. Jones could remember very distinctly one particular warm and gentle late fall evening when he saw her being driven off the base by Captain Parker. Captain Parker was a married man. A beautiful silver dollar moon, a beaver moon they said, was rising low on the horizon as the single-horsed buggy disappeared over the arid, quiet sandy hills behind the base, and Jones found himself thinking two things. First, that it was the second full moon of autumn. It was no coincidence, he thought, that it was the start of rutting season. Second, that Mrs. Captain Parker had the shrillest shriek on the post, and under the best of circumstances could not shut her mouth. He knew then that matters would not end well.

Not that he blamed the Captain. There was something about that very female looking girl that was special. Her lips formed a small bow, curving into an enchanting smile even during ordinary small talk, and the shimmer of her laugh bounced from tongue to teeth and somehow to the tip of her nose, and lit her eyes with a delicious looking licorice hue that reflected a dusky inner light. Her waistline ran just a little bit lower and her hem line just a little bit higher than proper, and the most fleeting glimpses of ankle and calf were enough to set any man to thinking hard about what might come to be if things fell just right. Even Jones might think that way from occasional time to occasional time.

Soon enough, the talk was everywhere, among the officers, their wives, and eventually the enlisted men. Her husband, though, seemed oblivious to it all. Jones found it touching to see the older man walking hand in hand with his young wife. He couldn’t and wouldn’t say anything of course, but one day, during his bath, Pickett spoke up about Merope.

“She’s a hell of a woman, Jones.”

“Yes sir.”

Pickett paused a half heartbeat. “What do you think of ‘er?”

“She is a hell of a woman, sir.”

“You ever think of gettin’ married? Havin’ kids? If I was to allow it?”

Jones could barely respond. He was pouring scalding water into the bath to keep it hot and had to stop himself to keep from spilling some onto Pickett. He’d thought about taking a wife from time to time, and the same thought would recur occasionally in future years as well. He felt his destiny was to know no such comfort. A spark of anger flared somewhere within him, but only briefly, extinguished by a snippet of scripture: A wife of noble character is her husband’s crown, but a disgraceful wife is like decay in his bones... “No. Not me. The only family I want to see is the one I already have, where-all I’ve come from. I don’t know if they’re alive. My sister Maude. My momma.”

Pickett shot him a keen look. “You want to be reunited? You’re a grown man now.”

“That’s right. But a man’s connections to family can be mighty powerful. Don’t end easy.”

Nothing more was said on the subject that day, and in any case the events that ensued shortly after, in rattling sequence, overwhelmed Pickett’s attention. The very next day, Merope announced that she was with child, due in little more than six months. Pickett could barely crow more than he did, strutting around like a cock-o’the-walk and accepting congratulatory handshakes like a teen-age boy. He even clapped Jones on the back and, in the rarest of displays, offered him a cigar. Mister had never been more happy.

Two days later Captain Parker’s wife Hilary presented herself at the Colonel’s headquarters office, very formal and haughty, with her narrow chin pointed upwards at an impossible angle. Jones was not present in the office at the time, he was in the private quarters across the way, shining shoes, but Mrs. Parker was able to generate both a high pitched yelp and a sonic rumble many times more powerful than her diminutive size would suggest was possible. Her words traveled easily through the desert air, and what she said could be heard by almost anyone on the post who had a mind to listen. “Colonel Pickett,” she shrieked, “Your recently acquired wife is responsible for the greatest misery ever inflicted on a loving family, far worse than any single act in the whole history of the human race. Why, sir, I will not stoop to denigrate anyone, but I tell you plainly that if I see her sniffing around my husband again, I will consider her to be no better than the lowliest breeding bitch on this outpost, and I won’t hesitate to discharge my brand new Remington side-by-side right into her little rodent eyes. Twelve gauge, mind you, and believe me I know how to use it. And no jury of my peers would convict me, given how she’s flaunting herself in the face of every man this side of the Rio Grande. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s thrown herself at the enlisted men already, seeing as she seems to need a new man every week...”

At this point there were some garbled sounds that emanated from Pickett, not too pleasant sounding, and then Mrs. Parker, and very soon after she was seen being escorted out of headquarters by gray haired Sergeant Major Nolan, the oldest soldier in the Second CC, who was careful not to come too close to the livid lady as she swept down the steps and out onto the street. Jones, naturally, had paused in his shoe shining to absorb the whole matter, and only at the end realized that Merope was sitting on the edge of a couch near an open window, taking in every word, her face set in stone. Without hesitation Jones hurried over to see Pickett. The Colonel was sitting calmly at his desk, writing.

“Why you here?” He growled the words without looking up. “Don’t you got work to do?”

“Don’ know. Thought you might want me, though.”

Pickett gave an evil grin. “Now that you mention it, I do. Get my dress uniform cleaned up and ready, get it shiny as new.”

“Mister?”

“You nosy sunnabitch. Alright, I’ll tell you. Gonna have a duel, Jones, Captain Parker and me. Got to. Writing out a challenge right now. One of us is gonna have to die. Can’t both of us live after what I just heard from his dear little lady.” Pickett leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Funny how things work out, sometimes.” He gave Jones a sharp glance. “There’s gonna be no doubt that baby she’s carrying is mine, hear?”

The duel was set for the following Sunday morning. Parker chose sabers, supposedly because he had been some kind of fencing champion back at Ole’ Miss. It was rumor, of course, no one knew for sure. Seconds were chosen, the time was picked, the place marked out. That was when the course of events became murky. Word came that a herd of cattle had been raided down at Markham’s ranch, called the Double M, not twenty miles distant from the post. Old man Markham and a few of his men had surrounded the rustlers, probably some of Orozco’s gang, and had them holed up in a barn. Markham was pretty damned mad and was planning to burn them alive or shoot them dead, or both. Troopers were needed immediately to take hold of the situation before a massacre triggered another border war.

In later days, most people said that Parker volunteered to take a squad down to the Double M and calm things down. The duel was not for three more days, and he would be back in plenty of time. Besides, it was said he would do anything to get away from Mrs. Parker, even for one night, and that he would rather sleep on steaming sandy ground under an open sky than sleep within the stifling confines of her bed. There were others, though, who claimed it did not happen that way. Some said different. Maybe while swapping stories under the deep cover of night below a cloudy overcast, when the embers of a campfire might be burning down, or, maybe, bent over a bottle of rum, when tongues might be loosened and memories might run as free as a wild deer. There were a few who would claim to know the real truth, a claim made with half mutters and contorted lips or flicking glances. They said that Parker didn’t want to go, but was egged on by Pickett, who accused him of being afraid to stray too far from the protection of Mrs. Parker’s petticoats, and that Parker was forced to agree for the sake of honor to lead four men to the Double M ranch, promising to return within three days’ time to pierce Pickett’s heart with a blade of steel.

The promise was never kept. The squad was ambushed on its way, wiped out to the last man. They were discovered the next morning by none other than old Markham himself, who was riding up the trail to Fort Bliss, herding the group of Mexican cattle rustlers that he had wisely decided to capture rather than kill. Poor Parker was found hanging from a Ponderosa pine, stark naked, with his severed genitals stuffed into his gaping mouth. The other men were not spared mutilation either. How they were ambushed, and who had killed them, forever remained a mystery.

When the news reached the post, delivered by a rider who pounded up to the headquarters building on a lathered horse, and who promptly vomited upon dismounting, the message was understood by all. It would be war. And sure enough, war, grim war, war without pity would be declared. There would be no more raids. There would be no more prisoners. The time for killing had come. The women and children were dispatched to Fort Worth, including the newly bereaved Mrs. Captain Parker, who expertly commanded a beautiful chestnut colored bay, with her shotgun sheathed in prominent display on its flank.

Over the next few weeks the fort began to hum with activity. The Tenth Colored Cavalry Regiment, the Buffalo Soldiers, were the first to arrive. In short order, regiments from Texas, Louisiana, Alabama, and smaller units from about every state in the Confederacy concentrated in the immediate environs of Fort Bliss, converting the small frontier outpost into a major military base within a fortnight. War was declared by Congress, the country was in a frenzy, and President Bacon declared that the Mexican State of Chihuahua, or a goodly portion of it at least, would constitute adequate compensation for the outrages suffered at the hands of the border terrorists. Pickett sniffed the wind, inhaled deeply, and breathed in the opportunity for glory. He moved quickly. Major General Henry McCaine was due to arrive in a week’s time with a brigade of Carolinians and would assume field command of the gathering army, including Pickett’s small unattached unit. Pickett was hell bent to act before the General could take charge, and in just five days he had the entire Second Colored Cavalry, together with two batteries of artillery, equipped and ready for action. One week to the day after Captain Parker’s death, seven hundred fifty troopers rode out of the fort at two o’clock in the morning, to the amazement, dismay, and confusion of the regular army infantry units camped nearby.

They headed northwest once again, just as they had at the time of Jones’ last sortie from the post. It seemed scarcely possible, but it was actually hotter than it had been previously, and the dust stirred up by thousands of hooves, combined with the heat, made Jones feel lightheaded. He struggled to keep himself upright in the saddle, and barely took note as the Troop passed into Mexico over the same section of muddy river they had traversed before. The arrival of the evening’s cool finally revived Jones, rejuvenating him with the excitement born of danger and the unknown. He felt no fear, though. He felt a burning inside, as if a flame lit within him by a greater power was giving all the comfort and guidance he could need.

They camped on the same hillock as before, a spur of chaparral that had served as their base during the previous raid. It rose high over a carpet of desert that gleamed white in the moonlight and offered unobstructed views for miles in all directions. Jones took comfort in that, and took comfort in the company of veteran soldiers spoiling for the enemy to appear. He felt safe. The Milky Way arched overhead, a coruscating cascade of stars that glimmered with eternal light, stretching far over his head, and the head of everyone who had come before him and everyone who would follow, stretching a billion years from the beginning of mankind to its very end in the far future. Jones knelt to pray, clasping his hands fervently in the sight of his awesome God. Words from the psalms came to him as a deep peace settled over his mind and spirit. “When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him, and the son of man that you care for him?” As he dwelled on the sanctity of the ancient poem, he heard other words drifting through the soft night air. It was Pickett’s voice he heard, strong and animated, speaking to a group of his officers by a campfire nearby.

Jones ventured over to listen. Pickett was squatting on the ground in a circle of men, his white officers, all leaning over an oversized map spread on the ground, some on hands and knees. He was using a pencil to point as he spoke. “So, as y’all can see, this is the tactical key, men. Let me show you again.” He tapped the pencil at one edge of the map. “Here is El Paso. Right across the river directly opposite is Juarez. Here is the Camino Real, the old road that skirts Juarez on the west, just a few miles from where we are camped right now, and it links up with the National Road which runs due south to the capital city, Chihuahua. Any supplies coming to Juarez must come up this road, the road from Chihuahua to Juarez. There is no other, and the surrounding terrain is impassable desert. And right here, about thirty miles south of Juarez, is a village called Samalayuca.” He traced a line on the map with the pencil. “It’s almost halfway between Juarez and Chihuahua. I’ve been there, and believe me there’s nothing there except mud huts, sand, dried out lake beds, and dunes. Enough clean water, though, to make it worthwhile, that’s all. But it does have one thing that’s important.” He tapped emphatically at a spot on the map. “Just west of the road a couple hundred yards is this low mountain ridge. Sierra de Samalayuca. Mostly rocky, towers a couple of hundred feet up, with sandstone terraces that are perfect for gun emplacements. This ridge commands the road. Hell, it commands the entire territory. Men, we get ourselves and our Hotchkiss guns up there, and we can hold off the entire goddamn Mexican army. Nothing will get through to Juarez without our permission, and we won’t be givin’ any invitations. Juarez will starve. They’ll have to surrender. Seven, at most ten days. That’s it. We hold out ten days and the war is over.” He leaned back, satisfied, as the officers murmured among themselves, tracing out the route with their fingers.

One of them spoke up. “What about enemy opposition?”

“Just a few vaqueros, no more.”

“One detail, Colonel.” It was Sergeant Powell, standing a few feet behind the tightly huddled group of white officers, somewhat apart but somehow included, arms clasped over his chest, studying the map with lips pursed.

Pickett rose up to face the Sergeant. In the irregular flicker of the firelight, Jones could not distinguish which man was officer and which was enlisted man, which was white and which was black, which was in command and which was bound to obey. “Go ahead, Powell, what is it?”

“Beggin’ the Colonel’s pardon sir. I been down there too, you remember, I was wit’choo at the same time. How exactly you gonna get there? The entire area for miles around is sand dunes, some real high. Los Medanos they call it, because that’s all it is, sand dunes. The horses will have a real hard time, but the pack mules won’t make it at all. An’ without the mules we ain’t gettin’ the Hotchkiss cannon up the mountain. Twelve guns, three mules to the gun. An’ that’s a fact. Another twenty or so needed for ammo and fodder. An’ that’s another fact.”

Jones did not know much history, and almost nothing about the great captains of the past. Napoleon, Alexander, Caesar, Genghis, and even Washington were unknown to him, names without meaning, nothing but vague legends from long ago. But he did know about David, and Joshua, and Jonathon, and the enigmatic Joab. He understood that they possessed a power over other men, giving others to believe even when it seemed the odds were hopeless. Whatever Jones thought about Pickett, he could see that his master wielded that power as well, changing men in some magical way, filling them, charging them with the will and the hunger to achieve victory.

Pickett turned to face the officers who squatted and kneeled at his feet. He raised his voice, turning slowly as he spoke and spreading his arms widely to encompass every campfire on the knoll. “And here is the greatest fact of all, sergeant. These men. These men right here. ‘Cause these are not ordinary men, or ordinary soldiers. These are men who have been lashed to the great ordeal of soldiering for many years, men with cool eye and grim mouth, men who can measure the odds to the nearest grain of sand and raise themselves up to meet the moment to the nearest second. I know their mettle. I know where they’ve come from, every one, and I know the burden they bear. They have already felt the pain this life can bring but can still dream the dream of becoming something greater than themselves. Look up, all of you! There course the stars! They will rise and fall, night by night, long after our names are obliterated and become less than the desert dust. God knows, the world will go on after us, blessed or cursed, good or evil, sane or insane, free or slaved. But while we are here, while the red blood rushes through our bodies, and our hearts pound, and our thoughts soar beyond the limits of the stars above, let us do something that we alone can do, something wonderful, something that will live until the last one of us draws his final breath. That is the only fact that matters.”

At the end, no one clapped. There were no whoops, ululations or shrill cries, and no hats were thrown in the air. The men seemed to settle more deeply onto their blankets and bask in the warmth of their fires, each man contemplating the moment and preparing for the day to come. Pickett sat down cross legged, his face suffused with a ruddy glow from the flare of the flames, seemingly lost in his own thoughts as well. In that moment Jones perceived a great truth. Pickett was powerful because he spoke the truth as it was revealed to him. He believed everything that he said, as surely as Jones believed the written words of God. Somewhere within him a flame glowed just as surely as it did in Jones, guiding him along the path already chosen for him, whether he knew it or not.

They travelled by night to avoid the heat of day, but made no attempt to hide their movements as they looped around Juarez to approach Samalayuca from the rear. Giant sand dunes loomed before them on the third day, great smooth featureless mounds that undulated like relentless waves. By the fourth day horses and mules were buried up to their fetlocks in sand as they laboriously heaved their loads up and down over ever larger and steeper dunes. On the fifth day they camped next to a water hole that appeared as if by magic out of the desolate sands of Los Medanos. A great noise was made by the men with the discovery of two sets of skeletal remains just a hundred yards from the small pond of water that perked out of the sand. Stories were quickly invented about the two, who died within easy sight of their salvation. To some it made no sense. How could two men die simultaneously just a minute or two from lifesaving water? To others it made perfect sense that two comrades would either live or die together, regardless of how close they came to the turbid water hole.

Pickett instructed Jones to stop there, and together with two soldiers bury the remains. The bones had bleached out, and each weighed no more than a feather as they were tossed into a shallow pit. A few tattered remnants of cloth were all that remained of their clothing. The digging was accompanied by a great deal of sweating and cursing on the part of the soldiers, and Jones found himself to be dizzy headed by the time they were done. It was past dawn as the work was completed, and the heat began to radiate up from the ground below their feet, a scorching heat that burned relentlessly through the soles of their boots. As they finished filling in the unknowns’ tomb, something caught his eye. It was a curious appearing crystal, an aggregate of several crystals that adhered together to make a multifaceted, lucent crystalline rock the size of an orange. One of the soldiers told him it was a common thing to be found around those parts. It was called a desert rose.

The two soldiers trudged off to join the rest of the Troop when the internment was completed. Jones lingered behind. He wanted to pray over the anonymous bundle of bones that once supported two human lives, but he found himself entranced by the desert rose he held in his hand. It reflected light like a prism, casting a rainbow of colors across the burial mound as he toyed with it. For an instant, as he stared into the depths of the crystal, he thought he could glimpse the two men who had died, just as they were in the flesh. A great heat came over his brow, and he fell prostrate as he held the crystal before him. The images became very clear, and the faces of the two men refracted into the stillness of the early morning air, as if projected onto an invisible screen. They both had thickly woven hair and sparse beards. The men were neither black nor white, but one was dark and one was light. The light one gazed at Jones without a smile. We were trying to find a road that would take us where we wanted to go, he said. We tried so hard and finally we found it. We had to kill many to find the way. The dark one extended a muscular arm straight ahead and pointed. You are on the road now. Now that you are on it you must never leave it. Both men grimaced with the grim and lockjawed grin of death. Then the images slowly dissolved into the tan colored sand covering the newly buried bones.

Jones planted the desert rose carefully onto the brow of the burial mound, crawling over burning hot sand on hands and knees. The crystal seemed to scintillate with life as it caught the sun’s rays and radiated the beams back out in every direction. The light streamed over his skin, like a soft spring rain that washed the desert sand from his body. Jones felt the presence of the two men lying beside him, pressing very closely. In a moment he could also sense the angel from the jungle, and then the old woman who appeared at his tent, all of them lying next to him, above and below him, mixing into his depths, giving off a living warmth that distilled deeply into his being. The crystal he had set down so reverently continued to flash and gleam, creating a texture of crystalline opalescence. Rays of bright sunbeams wove themselves into sparkling gemstones, coalescing onto a distant road that gradually unveiled before him, a road that disappeared in a straight line into a far, far away horizon. Jones was content, very content, to know he was on the road at last.

The entire campaign was over in weeks. The Second CC secured its passage to the Sierra Samalayuca through herculean effort, at times dragging their mountain guns by hand over the resistant desert dunes. Once they fortified their positions on the jagged apices of the long ridge, they commanded an invincible citadel. Their guns held sway over all the approaches to the National Road, and thus held the key to the resupply of Juarez. Military maneuver for the Mexicans was stalemated by Pickett’s bold move, and as the war quickly ground to an end the newspaper coverage of the campaign hailed him as a worthy son to his father. Some even dared to compare him to the supreme and god-like Lee. Soon after the brief border combat came to a jagged, sputtering end, Pickett was interviewed by a Richmond reporter. When asked about what drove him to undertake the risky flanking maneuver that ensured the quick victory, Pickett nonchalantly answered “L’audace, toujours l’audace!” His casual response became the next day’s headlines. No one understood it at the time, perhaps not Pickett himself, but that interview marked the beginning of his road to the presidency. He became an overnight paragon of Southern military genius, encapsulating in a few words the mood of the entire country.

The Regiment’s return to Fort Bliss was marked by a cool reception from other units. There were many in the Army who did not appreciate the fact that the war’s most daring thrust was made by a black outfit. Pickett was publicly shunned by a number of officers, but that was not his only concern. He might be acclaimed as a hero, but his wife had developed an ever-growing reputation for promiscuity. As the stories of Merope’s infidelities swarmed around him like an angry horde of hornets, Pickett took to drink and disappeared into his quarters for days at a time. The sound and fury of their spousal clashes could be heard throughout the base, and became more fodder for public ridicule directed at the misfit couple.

Merope didn’t seem to care about any of it. Her pregnancy progressed robustly but did not inhibit her in any way. Instead, she gloried in her freedom to come and go as she wished, despite the swelling in her belly. She had learned how to operate their exotic new automobile and drove into the city about every day. Pickett appeared powerless to stop her or influence her ways, and was grimly determined not to send her away until after she gave birth.

Late one night he called Jones into his room. He was pacing, agitated, in his woolen underwear. Merope had left in the early afternoon and had yet to return. Jones knew it was not the first time. Pickett appeared old that night, much older than the vigorous horse soldier who had so recently stormed the Samalayuca at the head of a regiment. His cheeks were hollowed out and sprouts of grey competed with dark blond at the edges of his temples and forehead.

“You think she’s alright?” He collapsed on the edge of the bed as he hid his face in his hands.

Jones thought carefully before answering. “She’s been able to take care of herself pretty well.”

“I’m thinkin’ of the baby.”

“Yes sir.”

“Baby’s gonna come into this world under some tough circumstances.”

“Many a baby been born under worse. Some much worse.”

“I know that, dammit! Don’t you preach to me, boy, or I’ll need to eddicate you pretty quick.” Pickett deflated as quickly as he flared. He stared at the floor morosely, the picture of dejection. “Truth is, Jones, can’t live like this no more. And I can’t raise a child in this kinda shit, neither.”

“Well. You’re the father.”

“Wanna be rid of Merope, Jones. I been thinkin’ hard. Don’t want a divorce. I’d know she’s still out there. You know, doin’ whatever she’s doin’ and carryin’ on like she is...You get me, right?”

Jones felt a shiver at the nape of his neck. In a heartbeat, he did understand. He watched silently as Pickett retrieved a snub nosed, matte black handgun from his waistband. It was one of his favorites, a British Bulldog, a weapon he generally carried in a side pocket of his service overcoat. “Mister, what are you planning to do?”

Mister said nothing at first. He held the gun tentatively before tightening his hand on the broad wooden grip and fingering the trigger lightly. “You know, Jones, you kinda got me thinkin’ that day you were talkin’ about your momma. I miss my momma too, all these years, so I know how you must feel.”

Jones felt a hard fist clenching his heart. “Yus sah.”

Pickett pointed the gun idly in the direction of Jones, holding it at arm’s length. He squinted down the short length of the barrel, aiming it towards Jones’ head. “This pistol chambers a .442 cartridge. Webley. Devastating at short range. Turn a belly into chuck ground.” He abruptly tucked it back into his long johns. “I want you to help me, Jones. Help me and I will show my gratitude in a tangible way.”

“You’ll free me?”

Pickett did not hesitate. “Absolutely not. Much too valuable to me. Besides, you wouldn’t last a week out there. You’d starve or be strung up, or both.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Naw. Won’t set you free. But I’ll make you a vow. You do this thing for me and I will find your ma if she’s alive. I’ll find her, buy her, bring her to you, and set her free.” He paused, raising his eyes to meet Jones squarely. “My word on it, as a gentleman. I’ll do that for you. You just have to do what I need for you to do. Right after the baby is born.”

The idea was insane, born of the despair felt by Pickett, but something about the proposal grabbed hold in Jones’s mind, took root, and grew slowly, day by day, fertilized by foggy remembrances of his mother, and cousins, and his plantation boyhood in Florida. Remembrances that connected him to a past that had seemed long dead and suddenly sprouted again, completely alive. He had reconciled to being alone, with no history to speak of and a future that could end any time at the whim of his owner. For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to dream that he could reforge the links in his family line, engrave his name onto the scroll of all those names that preceded him, and in one stroke make the last years of his mother’s life as comfortable as possible. He never directly assented to Pickett’s proposition, but never denied that he would consider it. He found himself glancing surreptitiously at Merope’s waistline from time to time, estimating size and progression, and the likely date of confinement. He became mesmerized by mental images of a baby’s development within the womb, imaginings that were based on nothing more than fantasy, and tried to visualize the infant as it might appear upon delivery.

No one could imagine the baby girl that was eventually birthed, however. She had the same wrinkled and peeling face and hands that other newborns might have. But there, any resemblance ended. Her body and extremities were alabaster pale, marbled by thin blue veins that networked below a pellucid skin. The thin tufts of hair on her head were white, the pupils of her eyes were lucent grey, and her nails were ivory white, as if a pallid spirit from the dead had come to inhabit her living body. She did not look like George Pickett’s baby. She did not look like Merope’s baby. She did not look like anybody at all who was known in those parts. The doctor performing the delivery had never seen anything like it, and earnestly confided to Pickett that he should brace himself, as the infant could not be expected to live.

She did live, tenuously at first, but in the days that followed seemed to gain strength, her cry changing from a mewling warble to a lusty howl. Pickett had arranged for a wet nurse, a stocky Mexican woman with broad face and braided hair, and that seemed to suit Merope just fine. In a week or two she was taking drives out into town for hours at a time. Someone said she was seen once in Socorro, sitting at a bar with legs crossed, a row of empty glasses lined up in front of her and a row of eager cowboys lined up in back of her. If there was any thought of reconciliation after the baby was born, that hope was dashed quickly and irrevocably. Pickett announced the baby would be named Madeline, would be raised Anabaptist, and would be sent to his cousin in Virginia to grow up in the genteel environment of the family estate. Then he summoned Jones to his quarters one night.

The hazy smell of alcohol permeated the room; he had been drinking heavily again. This time, a pint of peach brandy was wedged precariously into his waistband instead of a gun. As Jones entered the room Pickett abruptly withdrew the bottle and hurled it at Jones’ head, missing by a generous margin. Shattered glass shards tumbled across the floor tiles in a hundred directions. Neither man seemed to care.

“Mister, you should be more careful.”

“I don’t give a good godamn shit. That bottle is like my life, broken in a million pieces. Got a wife who’s proba’ly out with the dogcatcher, and a baby girl that looks like a freak at the county fair. What’s next, a court martial? Better yet, a firing squad, put me outta my misery.”

Jones watched as Pickett edged himself unsteadily towards the bed, and using it as support he slowly slid to the floor. “Want me to draw a bath?”

“No.” Pickett’s eyes narrowed into feline slits that glowed, two beacons roving across a desolate shore. “I want you to kill Merope.”

Jones was then more than thirty years of life, old enough to have lived through much. He had seen more than his share of death. He had seen men killed, dying before his eyes in various postures and stances, dead by bullets and disease, occasionally by accident, and at least once by whipping. He had never done any killing himself, but had come close a time or two, and his scriptural readings had taught him that killing another human being could be justified under the right circumstances. He stared at Mister, who leaned against the bed frame clutching at his belly as if grasping at an awful tumor. Jones frowned and opened his mouth to speak.

Pickett held up his hand, acting to ward off an untenable verdict. “It wouldn’t be in exchange for the deal I offered, though I will honor my pledge to you, just as I promised. But I’m not trying to make a deal like that, not now. You knows me pretty good, don’t you, Jones? You know I can’t go back on this. If you don’t do it, Jones, I swear I will. Everyone will know right away it was me. I’ll be caught quick. Hanged probably. No way of knowin’ what will happen to you then. Now, you do it, and we will make the perfect alibi. Sergeant Powell will swear you was with him and the boys playing cards. The sheriff will look the other way, I promise. He don’t care about harlots masquerading as married women. You see, Jones, you can save me. You can save my life. You done it once before. Now you can do it again.”

An image of Pickett lying unconscious in his arms quickly flashed through his mind, but Jones could not bring himself to respond.

“C’mon, Jones. She’s a whore.”

“And you? You any better?” Jones pointed at the shards of glass scattered over the floor.

“I’m telling you.” There came a long pause. “I’m askin’ you…” Pickett lowered his head, exhaling deeply.

Jones sighed deeply as well. He had been out of sorts all day, feeling a premonition coming over him, touched by a sense that he was being led somewhere by the hand, like a child who needed help to find his way. For a moment he thought he could hear the two skeletons of Samalayuca whispering to him. They had killed many, they said. How many, or did it matter? He remembered one of the men extending an arm, pointing. Was he pointing to the road ahead or the road behind? How many skeletons were strewn in their wake? How many bones scattered during their quest for salvation? Jones closed his eyes, much as he did when he was a boy, shutting out the world as if it was not really there.

Much later, looking back, Jones could not remember with certainty all that happened. A deep cloud engulfed him, a fog that seeped into his mind and memory, obscuring his thoughts. The shadows of the two dead men overwhelmed him, suffocated him, concealed him within a mantle of solitude. They shrouded him within a darkened tent, staked by the fingers of a bony hand, spitting secrets in their native tongue, tracing sacred symbols in the sand, singing every song that could be sung. Those were the only clear memories Jones would have. He could not remember if Pickett spoke to him, or appeared angry, or struck him. He could only remember that he found himself standing unsteadily, with the Bulldog somehow in his hand. He suffered through a momentary haze of disorientation, unsure whether he was meant to shoot Pickett, or Pickett first and then himself. He thought he could remember sitting down on the floor, propping himself against the bed frame next to Pickett. He spoke, but could not remember whether he spoke to himself or spoke aloud. “Mister, you are the whore. More, much more than Merope could ever be.” In time, he could not be sure he spoke at all.

Later, he thought he could remember standing somewhere within the radiant arc of a full moon, the sheen of its brilliance shining upon his face, and that maybe, just maybe, he was in front of a small white clapboard house with a square sign hanging silently in front. With a turn of his head, a nod of his neck and a twist of his wrist he was suddenly inside, kneeling outside a room enshrined within the very heart of the house. He could hear prayers coming from within the room, low sibilant plaints broken by deep sighs of pain and rapture, hope and resignation. His throat and chest began to burn and his vision clouded as he entered the room, believing he would find a miracle, hoping to see Daniel standing in glory in the midst of leaping flames, but finding a solid wall of black instead. He could not see whether Merope and her lover were hiding in the blank recesses of the room. It was possible they were lying somewhere in the corners, ready to be found, since anything might come true in the dark. He could not remember, though, if they were there, or whether they were gone before he entered. Did he shoot them dead with the British Bulldog gun that was in his hand? He remembered seeing an explosive streak that rent the darkness, or it might have been a shooting star that gave off a brief light before it died. Were they there, lovers entwined like serpents before a pagan altar, victims of a carnal sacrifice, or had they left beforehand after all, climbing a delicate, lucent latticework of moonlight to escape to some other place? His eyes had blinded, his ears had deafened, his mind had silenced, he was intoxicated by the fumes of forgotten hours. He did not know what happened.

In the days that followed there was much commotion and bustle. People came in and out of Pickett’s quarters, there was shouting and invective, silent prayer and invocation, and much grave talk in quiet monotones. Men, important men, came to speak to Jones, but only briefly. He answered their questions only briefly in turn. One day Pickett went on patrol, but curiously left Jones behind alone. By the time of his return, Jones had righted himself, like a ship limping intact out of a howling gale. Reading from Scriptures had helped, the Book of Isaiah especially. The fog of uncertainty had lifted, and his senses were restored. Upon his return Pickett seemed to understand immediately that Jones was now himself again, but asked no questions. They never spoke of Merope again, as if she had never existed. Her identity atomized into the haze of some unknown past, a ghost dissolving itself into the desert sands, shifting with the wind, piling high and thinning down, burying here and unveiling there, and all that had been Merope was resorbed into the cauldron of long lost time. Her name disappeared into the velvet softness of the forgotten, struck from the list of those who once held breath.

They left Texas, posted to Tennessee, then Mobile and Augusta. Pickett made powerful friends, men who sought him out and propped him up. He learned to dress like a gentleman and speak like a preacher, told palpable lies to gain election, and was sworn as Senator from Virginia.

One day a carriage arrived at the Richmond home, and a short, gray-haired, frail appearing negress shuffled out. Pickett had found Jones’ mother, for many years a domestic in the home of Thomas Montgomery Bell of Georgia, Speaker of the House of Representatives and for decades one of the most powerful and influential men in the country. God had placed her no more than five miles from Pickett’s home. She came to Jones with a vivid mind, a bad kidney, and a small woven cloth cross pinned neatly to her lapel, very much like the one Jones had retrieved from the time of his jungle passage so long ago. She proved to be a reservoir of reminiscences and wonderful teachings, so many that Jones almost felt reborn again as he soaked in her wealth of wisdom. He learned that she had lived much, learned much, and done much over the span of years. As was bound to be the case, his life changed over the next few years, and deepened, as he took on new duties and challenges. All the while he remained bound to his faith, which grew ever stronger. If there ever were any nagging doubts they slowly faded away.

He had no doubts this day, especially this day. On this day, Jones was ready to encounter his Lord, and expected that he would do so. His enemies were outside, surrounding the house he was in. For some reason they had not come crashing through windows and doors as yet, giving him time to read the Savior’s genealogy and allowing him to ponder over its meaning. As he closed his Bible he felt content. His legacy would not be a name added to a string of ancestors receding into a dimly lit past. He might not be remembered at all, and like Merope might simply evaporate into the delicate, unformed mist of human history, or melt into the icy freeze of hopes and prayers and longings that marked the pilgrimage of this life on Earth. But he would leave something behind, something without shape or form. Hope, maybe, or belief. Hope that one day all his people would be truly free, and belief that they would be given the power and strength to march on until then. Today he would play his last part, ending one journey and beginning the next. And soon, so very soon he would see the Face he had so long waited to see, and bask in His warmth.

He opened the small trap door in the floor of his basement room. Right next to it was a tangle of wires connected to a dark oblong metal box. It was called a detonator. When the moment came, all he had to do was close the switch on the box, as he had been shown to do by the Louisiana man with the twisting eyebrows. What happened next would follow in obedience to God’s plan for Robert Jones, and he was in full acceptance of that plan, knowing he would not see its fruition. All that mattered was that the enemy came close. Come, he thought. Come into my temple. Come pray with me. Jones bowed his head as the story of Samson came to mind.

At first, he thought of the ending, the part of the story when Samson brought the house of the Philistines crashing down upon them. He wanted to believe he was like Samson, set aside for special service to the Lord from the day of his birth, and spoke the holy verse he had memorized with silent voice:

For he shall be a Nazirite to God from the womb

And he shall begin to save Israel from the hand of the

Philistines

After a moment’s contemplation, he remembered an earlier part of Samson’s story. It told that Samson went to the city of Gaza one night to lie with a prostitute. Long ago, when preacher Nabuchadnezzer’s wife first read the story to him, Jones did not understand what a prostitute was all about, and she would not explain it to him. Over time he learned, and now at the close of his life he understood what it meant even more deeply. A service rendered for a fee. Whether hateful or pleasurable, in the hot glare of noon or the cold depth of night, willing, reluctant, knowing, ignorant, angry, serene, deliberate, uncaring. None of that mattered. It was a simple barter, a service of body for a payment of...what?. A twinge of sadness and a stirring of anger came over Jones. I’ve been a prostitute all these years, he thought. I’ve been a prostitute to Pickett this long time, for every time I bent my knee, for every word that went unsaid, for every act in which I acquiesced. I didn’t mind. I told myself I had to, because I was helping my people, that because of me things would be better. That was my payment. Those were my dues. I paid willingly, even though through tears.

There was a crash of broken glass, and loud thuds came from the floor above. Jones climbed halfway down into the confined crawl space beneath the trap door. The time had come at last. They were coming to destroy him, and with his death the nation would rejoice, and the people in their pride would glory in their ignorance and arrogance, and cross their legs in comfort on their settees, and forget once more all those in bondage, and order tea and fried ice cream to be served. But, their armor was sure to grow thin and their ardor for killing was sure to grow weary, and they would learn to their regret, just as Pharaoh did, that the ways of the Lord are ever righteous. Jones’ death would buy just enough time for justice to be meted out.

An acrid smell reached his nostrils and his eyes, and he began to tear up and cough almost immediately. A burning gurgle erupted from his throat as he became blinded. He felt faint, and understood that he would be unconscious in seconds. His foot slipped and he fell further into the pit beneath the floor, but he kept the detonator securely in his grasp with his finger on the switch. Just before he toggled it on, Jones imagined his death. As he closed his eyes he could see it all, just as if it had already happened. It would be like the wedding feast he had never had; there would be no celebrants, no singing and no wine. It would be a small affair, and intimate.

Subscribe now

Chapter 26

Jona wanted the escape. He didn’t know what it would feel like, but he didn’t care and he wanted to try it at least once. He watched carefully as Mick slumped back against the bulkhead with a languorous nod of his head, using his pagri as a cushion against the cold metal. Without shifting, he offered the pipe in Jona’s general direction, waving it through a dense screen of smoke, and Jona accepted without hesitation. The bowl was hot. Its fumes curled up towards his nostrils, as if seeking him, knowing just where to find him, to touch him in just the right way. As he inhaled he wondered what might happen. Would he hallucinate? Would his brain conjure images of flying sheep or talking pigs? Or would he settle into a state of torporous dreamery? Would he walk along the embankment of a canal on Mars, illuminated by a mulberry sky, or swim through Neptune’s undersea vastness, gamboling among yellow reefs in the company of dolphins? What he really hoped for was release from all consciousness. A deep sleep would be best, withdrawn from any thought or image. An unblemished sleep, free of any feeling or remembrance. An empty sleep, void of any content or connection. A sleep that would bring him to the very margin of annihilation, to the very end of the endless ribbon that coiled around and around inside his mind. A sleep that would bring him to the beginning.

He took a deep, inhaling breath. Pale smoke penetrated his mouth and lungs, saturating the tissues of his body, perfusing his brain with a sudden rush. And then he took another, savoring the soporific effect, and again, and yet once again.

Slowly, like a hungry lion prowling in every crevice of his mind, visions chased him, clawing at him.

Sights and sounds spun round, harpies of the past both real and invented. Dark, indefinite colors oozed from a congested palette of anger, fear, self-loathing and remorse. And the darkest hue, and most vague of all: deep longing. Collisions of fright and desire bounced back and forth in a montage that blurred imperceptibly into a dreamy uncertainty. He took a photograph of the moment, just as it was, with himself in it. With glacial precision he examined it carefully, appreciating every curve and shadow. Then he photographed the very same moment once again. Were the pictures the same or did that moment look different? The harder he studied them, the more blurry they became, the more uncertain around the edges, the more indefinite the subject. He looked harder, first through a magnifying glass, then a microscope, then a telescope strong enough to see to the edges of the galaxy. No matter how hard he tried to see, the pictures faded further and further, until they blended into identical images of nothing at all, and right before his own eyes Jona disappeared and was gone forever.

A steady drumbeat began to pound in the background, a martial rhythm propelled by the tramp of sandled feet and iron-shod horses. Jona materialized again, mounted on the back of a bull elephant, the sword of Al-Rashid in his hand, a talwar at his belt and the armor of Roland on his chest. He surveyed the great host that surrounded him, master of everything within his view. He was sworn, he was praised, he stood before the multitudes whose banners were unfurled, greater than Xerxes, wiser than Solon, stronger than Gilgamesh. Marielle was by his side, her newly golden hair tinged with red, breathing deeply in his ear as she hugged his hand close to both her breasts. The scientists and great men stood and bowed in the darkness as he walked by, the name of Lord Jona was on the lips of everyone who cheered, and history itself roared his story. It was a glorious, wonderful panorama, painted with pigments and pastels on a vast canvas, an unknown Caravaggio brought to life. It was picture perfect.

Slowly, a subdued note twirled down from the sky above, no weightier than a piece of spinning tinsel, darkening the landscape. Then came a pause, then the music started again, then a longer pause, an elegant fermata without precise beginning or end, then it blared again. Duke Ellington’s band began to play, trombone and trumpet and saxophone fusing into Bach’s Toccata in D, and as the music played the crowds dispersed with sullen blasphemies and hateful backward looks. Soon, only Marielle was left, but she too slowly melted in his arms, leaving only a sorry river of lament flowing through his heart. A great void, a loneliness without description overcame him, crushing him, and he ceased to breathe. From the corner of his mind Jona saw Elfieda and Alex, but they did not seem to see him. They ran away together, laughing, naked as the day of their birth, and when he followed he found them bathing in a lake and making love for all the world to see. Jona watched also, squinting as if peering into a Petri dish, feeling both the boil of envy and the thrill of craving fill the emptiness within him. He wanted to watch them more closely, to see every intimate detail, and hear every sound and sample every smell, and wanted very much to be a part of Alex and of Elfieda. But the closer he came to them the further away they seemed, growing smaller and smaller until they were nothing more than eighth, then sixteenth, then thirty second notes, vibrating motes, tiny tittles marking the place where they had passed. Suddenly, his vision blackened, like a movie reel spinning round its last coil, and mercifully the picture came to an end.

Jona continued to inhale, partly aware and partly unconscious and unknowing, breathing in the divine fumes that floated towards him, elevating him. He wanted more.

A new picture appeared, bright and glossy, one laden with blood and anguish, pierced with piteous shrieks and cries, and rived by the pleas of innocence uttered by the guilty. And Jona’s face was there, in the center of the photograph, with tears streaming from both eyes, pouring into a flood of waters that floated him, spinning like a top, down a cataract of sorrows. He spoke to the waters and they spoke to him, but in their own language. Jona could hear the words, just barely, erupting from the bubbling and streaming and eddying, and the words grabbed at him, pinching and pricking as if he were a great fish being pierced by barbs and hooks that dragged him downwards, ever downwards, as if all creation had turned inside from outside.

A parade of words marched by, step by step, cadence by cadence:

I was born and I was raised

I was told that I could find myself by hiding from the world,

So I embraced insanity by chasing the true word,

And what am I

I was a fool when I thought that I was wise,

It was the truth that chained me to these lies

There was a memory that turned into right now

We had a love we lost

I never quite knew how

Look at me

Why do I turn both left and right

Am I afraid of someone coming in the night

What do I fear

And is it near

Hiding in plain sight

And then there is that other thing, that thing,

The words I dare not ever say, that thing so old and yet so new,

That thing I can or cannot do

So here am I but incomplete,

I’m like a blind man tapping sadly, sadly down an empty street,

and like a newborn I can hear but I cannot speak,

So HEAR, Oh Jona, hear the words proclaimed

Here, right on this spot

About who you are and who you’re not:

So easily are you lashed to frenzy,

So quickly are you blandished,

So singular in your beliefs,

So common in your practice,

So lofty in your prayers,

So vulgar in your actions,

So desirous of love,

So drawn away to hatred,

So sensual in desire

So timid in your lust

So racked by pain

So moved by ecstasy,

So vast in your pride

So shallow in your vanity,

Oh, Jona, how you thirsted after pain!

Oh, Jona, how you ached to lick your heart’s last drop!

Oh, Jona, how you lie there all alone

Content while time is dropping like a stone

Until there’s nothing more to see or hear

And you are here, you are here,

Yet somehow absent, lost, completely gone with not a trace,

Your hazy picture marked by just an empty space...

Slowly, Jona’s eyes fluttered closed, the pipe dropped from his hands, he felt a deep release and for the first time in such a long time he slipped into a solemn peace.

In the past week Andrews had come to hate boats more than ever. He had come to hate ocean voyages even more. And he had come to hate Murphy much, much more. He hated Murphy because he was crude, because he was a drunk, because he was a bully, because he made no pretense of interest in their assignment, and most of all because he was making every effort to sabotage Andrews’ relationship with Lieb. The plan from the beginning had been to have Andrews forge a bond with Jona, create a sense of friendship, and earn the man’s trust, a plan that both agents had agreed to. A plan, in fact, that had been proposed by Murphy himself. Since the three had reunited, though, the older agent had done everything possible to undermine Andrews. It began over dinner the first night after they were together. Andrews described how they had been able to find Jones with the help of a Russian official at the Interior Ministry. He didn’t reveal Duranty’s assistance. It had taken time, and money, and considerable effort, even at the risk of some personal danger, he explained, to track down Lieb.

“Don’t believe that bullshit, doc,” Murphy had snorted. “We didn’t do nothin’ but wait at our hotel. Our greenbacks did all the talking. Sounds like you went through hell, my good little doc, but there was nothing dangerous in what we did, except that we had to use the hotel’s shitcans at our own risk.”

But there had been danger. Murphy was just too much of an ass to tell the truth. Of course, it was also possible that Murphy had been too drunk to remember anything that happened. As foreigners in Moscow, they were allowed to purchase as much vodka as they wanted, for nothing more than pennies a bottle, and Murphy had taken full advantage. That turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Having that much liquor available in a town where ordinary citizens were on a strict quota made the agents instantly popular. Using American dollars sprinkled liberally with vouchers for vodka, Duranty arranged a meeting with a functionary at the OGPU; someone, he told them, who could begin to untangle the web of threads that would lead to Lieb and his friends. Of course, the meeting had to be under wraps since both Andrews and Murphy were in Russia under dubious authority. The meeting was to be at a tram station on the “A” line. Their instructions were to get off at the Danilov stop and wait there. The agents’ foreign clothes would identify them to their contact, someone named Bogdonovich, who would approach them at the right moment. It seemed straightforward enough, but at the last moment Murphy refused to go.

“Lieb can go to hell as far as I’m concerned.” Murphy was very drunk, or hungover, or alternating between both, lying inert on his bed, and refusing to budge. “He screwed us royally. That includes you too, bub. Your happy little career kissing the FBI’s ass has gone down the toilet, you can bet on that. I’m not liftin’ a finger to find him, and neither should you. He took off on his own, now he can find his way back on his own, so please convey my sincerest best wishes. And P.S., he can go fuck himself. Make sure you tell him.”

Andrews tried to reason with him. “But they’re expecting us both. If you don’t come our contact might become spooked and the whole deal will be off.”

Murphy crossed his arms and rolled away from Andrews. “Tough shit. I ain’t going.”

“If you don’t get up right now, I will put this in a report to Nanny.” Andrews had to hold himself back from grabbing Murphy by the neck. They weren’t likely to get another chance like this; it seemed like their only hope to draw a bead on Lieb’s whereabouts. “You’re either on this mission or you’re not.”

Murphy snored in response, unmoving.

Andrews went alone, regretting that he was unarmed every time a passenger stared quizzically in his direction. Unexpectedly, the tram ride proved to be a pleasant surprise, one of the few good moments so far in Moscow, offering broad views of the wide boulevards circling the center of the city. Murphy was right about one thing. The mission had turned into a nightmare since Berlin, and he could feel his career come crashing down around him. Word had obviously gotten back to Washington about their abject failure to control Lieb, and now all communication with his contacts had been severed. There had been no further telegrams, no long-distance phone calls, no summons to the Swedish embassy to pick up cable messages. He was completely in the dark about what Washington wanted done, so unless he heard to the contrary, he was still determined to find Jona Lieb and get him somehow to Atlanta.

Looking out the tram window he could see the thick red walls of the Kremlin in the distance. Moscow was a strange city, an exotic place populated by people who were inscrutable in demeanor and very abrupt, and often rude, in their behavior. The architecture, the climate, the stores, the way people dressed, everything about the city was stifling, and he couldn’t wait to get as far away as possible. If he could only get the information leading to Lieb that he needed, that was exactly what he intended to do. The gentle rock of the tram lulled him into a brief demi-daydream. He wondered what it would be like to be a Russian Commissar, one of Stalin’s henchmen, being driven in a ZIL limousine down the middle of Red Square. He wondered what it felt like to fire orders to anyone within shouting distance, and to know that the orders would be followed with alacrity. He wondered how someone with that kind of power lived day to day. Like a king, for sure. Like the Tsars must have lived. The best food, the most beautiful women, the finest dachas were all there for the having, for anyone with the guts and discipline to make it that far.

His drowse slowly dissolved into a bright blue space humming with cicadas and the buzz of bumble bees. Fragrant roses and jasmine lined the edges of an arbor. Murphy was sitting at a wicker table, wearing a straw boater and a white linen suit, happy as a clam. Andrews knew that in his dream he was in Mobile, in Alabama, watching his mother serve Murphy and some other, unidentified men whose features were lost in the murmuring summer shadows of a time long gone. She was serving them daiquiris, and they were all very drunk. Murphy wrenched the glass from her hand, then clutched at her waist, pulling her towards him, and she resisted, but he pulled her much harder, smothering her, suffocating her, choking her so that she couldn’t protest, or scream, or even breathe...

The loud ring of the tram’s bell snapped him out of his reverie. It was not his stop, but a dozen or so passengers filed out and an equal number filed in. Several gave Andrews a hard stare. One, a middle-aged woman wearing a red and white polka dot kerchief, came to a full stop to bend down and examine him carefully before taking her seat. An enormous purple mole at the corner of her mouth seemed to come within inches of his face. The stares were the same ones he had endured for as long as he could remember, the careful, scrutinizing gazes that attempted to measure him, quantify him, identify him, all within the scope of a few seconds. His mother had called it the auctioneer’s stare. It was one of the very few things he could remember her telling him as a boy.

“First thing is about white people, they’s all want to know whether you’re white yourself. It don’t matter whether you blue or red or yellow, they don’ care and they’ll sort that out later as they pleases. They just want to know, right off, is you from a white tribe. It’s an automatic thing, they don’t even think about it, like decidin’ whether they lookin’ at a cow or a pig. Johnnie, God has granted you a great gift. You looks pretty white. Your hair is straight and combs kinda nice, your nose is good, your lips are real fine, you got everything you need to pass, and so that’s exactly what you’re gonna do. Grow up and pass. And then make some money so all of us can eat decent.”

Andrews shook his head as he thought about those words. It was all about the money. Money bought decent food, clothing, a car. With more money, a house. Real money, white man money. But with even more, much more, there came power, a concept beyond his mother’s ability to understand. And power he was grimly determined to achieve, and then he would be able to deal with misanthropes like Murphy. A thought suddenly flashed through him, rapidly, like the flick of a serpent’s tongue. Is she alive? Is ma still alive I wonder? It didn’t matter terribly much; she had been dead to him for many years in any case. He almost never thought about her and felt no guilt about it. Andrews rejected the concept of guilt. Still, it was fair to say that he wouldn’t be where he was today if it wasn’t for his mother’s courage. She was the one who sent them safely north, him and his sister.

He remembered some of what happened, though he was young at the time, maybe five years old, or six at most. His sister had told him stories about it too, enough to make it seem as if it all had happened yesterday. Their little family had been shipped from Mobile to Chattanooga, where his mother was contracted out to a lumber mill. She was bitter about it, saying she was dealt out because her age did not suit their owner’s satisfaction any longer. The work was hard, and crippling accidents among the workers on the line were common, especially when fatigue set in. He could still see her face as she came home one night, trudging in from a long day at the factory, sobbing that they were working her to death. She was tired to exhaustion, her back was locked up, and she said she wouldn’t be able to make it much longer. There was no recourse, though. They lived in ramshackle prefabricated cabins packed closely together in a shallow dale next to a briskly running stream, not a quarter mile from the plant. The creek’s near edge was as far as they could go. Men on horseback rode up and down the far bank day and night, their dogs behind them, armed and ready to shoot. It was said the only open road out of the narrow valley led right back up to the factory, and everyone seemed to believe that was true. A cemetery was situated at the top of the hill not far from the factory gates, with a section set apart for the workers who died on the job, a grim reminder of the ultimate fate they all faced, workers and their children alike.

They were allowed church services by the Company pastor, who was white of course. One Sunday the preacher approached his mother after services were over. His mother was not overly religious most times, but she usually put on a big show of whooping and hollering during any prayer saying, and that particular morning she knelt and shook and writhed, calling out for mercy and salvation. Andrews was repulsed by the mental image of her silly gyrations. Whether she truly felt a holy fit come over her or not, that day she impressed the preacher, who was newly come to that particular flock. He pulled her apart from the others, held her hands in his, spoke earnestly to her for several minutes, and she spoke to him as well. At the end, he pinned a simple cross made of cloth on her collar, blessed her, and dismissed her with a pat on her head. In later years, Andrews’ sister would soften the story of their escape by saying their mama seemed at peace from that moment on.

A soft scratching at the door came just a few nights later. Little Johnnie was awakened by the noise, one of the few clear memories he had of that night. His sister remembered crying, but her mouth was quickly muffled by their mother, and both children were then rapidly whisked away from their decrepit hovel. Were there two men? Four? Did their mother have a chance to give them a final embrace or parting kiss? Were there any last words, perhaps a promise sworn that the chain would never be broken? All memories of those last moments together were lost forever, entombed in the past. The children were carried in the dead and dark of a moonless night to the cemetery at the top of the hill. Andrews had only a vague recollection of what happened then, but his sister remembered vividly, and had told the story often. ‘We were buried alive, Johnnie! We were interred in a tomb! And we was rose out of it on the third day!’

They were hidden in the burial vault of a rich family named Jones. The interior was capacious, but almost pitch black even before their only candle died out. A thin stream of light fanned in through a small vent in the dome. There were three large coffins pushed into a corner and two small ones were stacked on the wall above them, silent witnesses to the ordeal of the living. Andrews and his sister were visited only once while they were entombed, given fresh clothes, blankets and hot food, and warned repeatedly to remain silent at all times. His sister was in a continuous state of terror, but he slept soundly through a good portion of their time in the underground sanctuary. No sounds could be heard from the world outside, and though they hoped to see their mother at any moment, she never came. They were taken out a few nights later, when the moon was just a thinly cut crescent, a sliver of ice suspended low on the horizon. Well before the dawning came, they were hidden in the basement of a lonely whitewashed house perched on a mountain ledge overlooking their little valley. They were moved the next night, and again the next. Andrews had no direct recollections of those days. All he knew were the stories told by Augusta, recreated in his own mind to form imagined memories, the sallow ghosts of events long dissipated within the hollows of time.

He did remember the final part of his journey, down the river and over the Notch. How could he forget? That memory simmered within him, bubbling up from time to time, usually unexpected and uninvited.

They were taken out of a barn loft in broad daylight on the fifth or sixth day of their escape from the tomb. After their many days in darkness the sun shone so bright and hot that it was blinding, but Johnnie was eager to see everything. A broad brown river ran sluggishly past them, flowing due north. A crude landing made of unfinished logs jutted out a few feet past the shoreline, partially obscuring a wooden barge lashed down with dozens of barrels. There were three men on the pier. Andrews imagined they were all white, but the only one he could clearly recall was Mr. Clark, which was either his last name or his first, as the men with him simply called him Clark. He had a round puffy face framed by irregular patches of ferocious gray beard, and his clothes smelled of fried fatback and tobacco. Whenever he spoke the others moved quickly, and he too moved quickly, with herky jerky movements that made it seem as if he were locking and loosening every one of his joints with every motion he made. The two children were carried onto the barge, where Clark inspected one of the barrels very carefully. Andrews remembered that it seemed enormous, but of course he was only a child. The wooden cask was constructed cleverly, in such a way that its bottom half was hollow. The upper half was filled with molasses, so that anyone prying open the lid would see only the syrupy dark fluid filling the top compartment. The entire barrel could be lifted by two strong men. With Johnnie and his sister squatting or sitting down, it would form a perfect hiding space when it was positioned over them.

Johnnie refused to follow instructions. He began to sob in fear, crying that he would not sit in the dark again, and ran around the deck in tears until he was caught and subdued by one of the men. Mr. Clarke then lifted him up by his arms, and examined him as carefully as he had examined the barrel. ‘He’s alright’, he had said. ‘He can pass. Just hide the girl. We’ll sit him down next to us.’ He poked Johnnie sharply on the chest.’You my brother Hezekiah’s son, understand? My nephew Tolbert if anyone asks. Otherwise keep your mouth shut.’ After that stern admonition he ordered everyone to gather in a circle holding hands. Clark removed his hat and lowered his head in submission. ‘Now let us pray,’ he intoned, ‘That God may give us strength:

Fight my enemies, Lord!

Attack my attackers!

Shield me and help me.

Aim your spear at everyone

who hunts me down,

but promise to save me.’

Andrews shook his head disgustedly at the memory. The claptrap of nonsense that Clark called a prayer was still lodged within him, a thorn in his throat, still remembered in its entirety, choking him with fury at its absurd appeal. It was not God who saved them. It was the night, and the forest, and the rain. And luck.

The three men poled the barge away from the pier and pushed downstream. Johnnie sat, leaning against the barrel hiding his sister, but not daring to say a word to her. She in turn stayed silent. The shallow river was called the Obey, and in some spots was hardly a river at all, nothing but a creek with steep sides lined by thick shrouds of dense shrubbery, stands of swamp oak, hickory and lonesome beech. But the Obey served their purpose, streaming slowly but surely north and northwest, propelling the barge steadily with its sluggish flow. When the sun was high they stopped in a small cove formed by some fallen timber. A narrow shoreline of sand and pebbles, lined by tall river rushes, gave them space to stretch their legs. Augusta was allowed outside the barrel just long enough to gobble down some food and to relieve herself. Johnnie prowled up and down the muddy riverbank, picking his way through blooming honey locusts and wild jasmine, darting here and there to gather up a few dozen sweet tasting rough rockshells. The river was a dark green, coated with the thick, slimy accretions of its hundred mile journey. All seemed quiet.

The soldiers emerged from the tree line abruptly, in a silent surge of gray clad motion. Johnnie was startled at first but was reassured when he saw Mr. Clark sipping his coffee calmly, as if the soldiers’ sudden appearance was quite expected, nothing more than the arrival of some old friends. One of them seemed to be in charge. He spoke very roughly to Mr. Clark, and made a big show of examining papers, flipping them back and forth, and shouting questions. A few of the men boarded the barge, stomped on the deck forcefully with hobnailed boots as if squashing roaches, and poked at the barrels with the muzzles of their guns. At a shouted command from their leader they opened the top of a cask at random. Johnnie could hear one of the soldiers call out a report: ‘Molasses!’

The commander did not seem completely satisfied. He strode onto the barge himself, surveyed it with arms akimbo, kicked a few of the barrels, and had more harsh words for Mr. Clark, who answered in a pleading voice. ‘Lieutenant, I can’t help it if Celina is near the Kentucky line. I’ve got a delivery to make, ain’t I?’

Eventually, the officer formed up his squad to retreat into their hidden forest redoubt. At the last moment, he cast a long look in Johnnie’s direction, wrinkled his brow as if puzzled, and called him over with a barking command. First, he had Johnnie stand at attention, which Johnnie did with a proud arch to his back. Then, he unceremoniously ran his fingers through Johnnie’s hair, felt the skin of his cheeks, pinched his nose, and examined his teeth. He searched Johnnie’s face earnestly with a look that Andrews would come to know well in the future. Finally, he commandeered the bucket of oysters still clenched in Johnnie’s hand. ‘Who’s the kid?’

Mr. Clark said something in return that Andrews could not remember. He could only recall - no, feel - his own anger at the theft of the rockshells he had worked so hard to find. In future years others had tried to take from him, to steal what was his, but he never allowed it again. And he was grimly determined not to allow either Murphy or Lieb to rob him of the glittering opportunity, now achingly within his reach, to advance himself.

As the barge continued its unhurried journey downstream, a slow pelting rain began. The day was cool, and soon a thick mist blanketed the water, obscuring the river completely. The flatboat floated silently, suspended in the fog, sightless and soundless. Soon the sky darkened, and Mr. Clark and the other men became obscured as well, becoming blackened phantasms wielding long wooden wands that magically propelled them across unknown waters. Johnnie thought they were sailing to heaven.

‘Walker’s bend! Look sharp!’ Mr. Clark hissed the words as if they were passing the gates of hell. Slowly, the men poled the barge to a bumpy halt under the enormous branching arch of an elm tree. One of the men jumped off and disappeared into the fog. Splashing noises receded into the darkness as he disappeared, and many minutes later announced his return long before he could be seen. Johnnie stood attentively, absorbing everything. The man reappeared, pointing ahead of them. ‘The creek is right there alright. Don’t see no one around.’

Mr. Clark did not hesitate. ‘Let’s go!’

Augusta was quickly snatched out from her hiding place, frightened but dry, and both children were herded ashore. The rain was falling harder, and the elm tree gave no protection from the steady beat of raindrops coming down. Very quickly they were soaked to the bone. Mr. Clark seemed to be nothing more than a dim form muffled by the darkness, but his voice was clear and steady when he spoke. ‘The land of milk and honey is not far from here, not more than four miles. We will go along the creek for a few miles, and then cross over a mountain and through a notch to the other side. Patrols are everywhere, and only God can tell what will become of us, but if He who rules over all will vouchsafe a safe passage, you will be free by morning.’

And they set off, the two children with Mr. Clark and one of the men. The third man was left behind with the barge. The first part of their march was only a dim memory to Andrews. The rain fell in heavy bursts intermittently, and he could only remember the heavy sway of sodden boughs above their heads and the whine of wind through branches. All was pitch black. They followed the course of a narrow stream for an interminable time, picking their way carefully over rocks and fallen tree branches. Soon they began to climb, he could remember, as they followed the creek closer to its source. Little Johnnie began to tire and whimpered with fatigue. Mr. Clark told him to hush, hefted him up onto his shoulders, and they pushed on.

Finally, an enormous rock loomed before them, gleaming so pearly white that it almost shone despite the gloom. Mr. Clark waved them to a halt, set Johnnie down on the ground and embraced both children, pointing ahead into the unknown dark. ‘There it be.’ He whispered the words so softly that they almost went unheard. ‘Straight ahead is No Man’s Land, over that little ridge right there. We’re gonna follow up and through the notch and down the other side, and there be Kentucky. God has blessed us with fine weather, but there are patrols all about, and dogs, and mines, and wire everywhere. It may be that our next greeting will be in paradise, so prepare yourselves to meet the Lord.’ Mr. Clark kneeled down with painful slowness and recited a prayer. Johnnie could not hear the words, they were lost among the sounds of dripping rain, sighing branches, and gurgling water, worthless words that were lost as surely as if never said, dispersed into an uncaring universe.

There was no trail. A primeval forest carpeted the mountainside, keeping them to a crawling pace as they zig zagged their way up the slope. Mr. Clark signaled them to stop from time to time so that he could swivel his head from side to side, listening and looking carefully before moving on, and once he had them pause and crouch down for a few moments while the squeal of wild pigs cleaved through the sounds of the downpour. Thick drops of rain poured down on them in drenching bursts, as the wind gently fluttered the massive tree branches roofed overhead. It was a perfect night for escape.

They came to a clearing. Even in the darkness the contours of the landscape ahead could be made out. It looked as if a tornado had collided with the mountain, cutting a sharp swath through the trees a hundred yards wide across their path, stretching left and right as far as could be seen. A gigantic cannon ball careening through the forest could not have created a straighter furrow of open ground, leaving fallen tree trunks scattered along the edge of the field like toppled bowling pins. Johnnie could see a metallic fence running along the length of the field, but it was different from any he had ever seen, with ribbons of steel coiled thickly against wooden posts set into the ground ten or fifteen feet apart. And beyond the curling wire was a wide ditch with a black and unseen bottom, and beyond the ditch another steel wired fence. Without thinking he tugged on Mr. Clark’s sleeve. ‘What do we do now?’

Andrews could still recall how the man grinned at him with gaping mouth. ‘Just watch, boy.’ The children were instructed to lie still while he and his friend raced to the barbed wire fence. They both retrieved what looked like oversized scissors from their packs, and within minutes they had cleared a narrow space, wide enough to allow one person at a time to pass. They scurried back to the timber line. Mr. Clark spent some time inspecting some of the fallen trees, each one neatly chopped down when the open field was cleared. He pointed to one decisively, a cedar sapling with peeling brown trunk and but a few branches. The men dragged the tree to the opening in the fence, then pushed it far enough to span the ditch. It was so dark that the far end of the trunk was lost in the mist, but Johnnie could see what they were doing and jumped up and down with glee. They had made a bridge. A bridge to freedom.

Noise erupted. Initially, with the first splash of sound, little Johnnie did not understand what was happening. They had just cleared the second fence line and were headed for the trees across the field when he heard a dog barking. The sound didn’t travel well through the saturated air, but he heard it distinctly, making him stop. Mr. Clark also turned around to look, and then Johnnie heard another sound, also very clearly. An eery whizz streaked through the falling raindrops like a bolt of electricity, touching Mr. Clark in his chest and knocking him over just as if he were one of the pines that were chopped down and left to rot along the tree line. Johnnie bent over to stare at him, uncomprehending. Mr. Clark lay slightly on his shoulder, arms at his side as if locked in place. He looked at Johnnie from the corner of his eyes, and his jaw worked up and down frantically, without making a sound. Abruptly, all movement stopped. Johnnie was grabbed by the other man roughly, raised up by the shirt collar, and then everything became motion and fury and deafening din as a fusillade exploded from the forest behind them.

As they ran, an eruption of explosions flashed from a dense clump of trees just ahead of them as well, giving the appearance of startled fireflies snapping on and off in the darkness, and angry scraps of dirt began to spray round their feet. It seemed to Johnnie that they were being shot at from the woods ahead. He tried to stop and turn, but the man held on to him grimly, practically lifting him off the ground as he raced forward. Augusta kept running just ahead of them, shouting words that made no sense, screaming piercing shrieks in the deadfall of surrounding night. Soon, voices could be heard coming from the trees ahead. ‘Run!’ they said. Hurry!’ they shouted. ‘Come to the side of the Lord!’ they urged. Then, tripping and gasping, they fell into the tangled thickness of the woods. Foreign hands grasped them and held them. Overcome, Johnnie began to cry, feeling at last what his mother had wanted him to feel. Free. At last, free.

Much later, during the memorial service for Mr. Clark, the heroic leader was lauded as a Christian man who died for what he believed in. Looking back, Andrews was never able to understand that. After all, it would have been more admirable to live for what he believed in. And what was it he believed in, anyway? How would he explain himself if he could come back, if he had the chance? It seemed stupid, almost incomprehensible, to lose everything just to save two children, when there were millions left behind. It was a calculus that did not make sense. He didn’t live long enough to get money, or fame, or even gratitude for his effort. He got nothing. Even now, Andrews did not credit Mr. Clark with anything that was particularly honorable, noble, or generous. The man had made his choices in life, and like anyone else, had paid for his decisions, nothing more or less. The most important thing, and the lesson to be learned, was that he lost. Anyway, there was nothing noble about helping to free a shackled slave. Not at all. It was expected. It was owed.

During the service there was much howling and crying, many shouts of mourning, and calls and prayers. At the end, a stout, ruddy faced woman was introduced to Johnny as Mr. Clark’s widow. She was weeping heavily, and a plain white handkerchief daubed at the tears streaming from her eyes. ‘Are you the boy? Are you the boy what was saved? Don’t you have nothin’ to say to me?’ she sobbed with a deep heave. ‘My husband died to save you. Don’t you have nothin’ to say?’

Andrews shook himself, blinked, and turned to stare out the tram window while he roused himself to full wakefulness. The tram wheels whirred beneath his feet with a faint vibration, then shuddered as the tram came to its next stop. The wailing question from so long ago bounced back and forth within his mind, desperate to be answered. He had answered then the only way he knew. It was the most honest answer he could give, maybe the most honest answer he had ever given. ‘No,’ he had said. ‘No, I ain’t got nothin’ to say. Hungry, that’s all.’

The Danilov tram stop opened onto a small green park across from an enormous walled enclosure, appearing much like a medieval fortress. Inside, Andrews could see what seemed to be some kind of church, or perhaps a monastery. Several ancient gold onion-shaped domes and a tall spire jutted defiantly up above an otherwise drab cityscape. The square outside was teeming with passersby, some idling and some walking purposefully. A small squad of soldiers in great brown overcoats, their rifles held haphazardly, stood aimlessly near the gates set in the great walls of the compound. They were talking among themselves and didn’t appear particularly observant to the bustle around them. Everyone seemed to be dressed for deepest winter, even though bright sunshine streamed down through an azure sky. Andrews grabbed at the lapels of his suit jacket reflexively, feeling out of place and decidedly alone. He seethed with resentment at Murphy and his drunken apathy. He should have been there, at his side. Now, exposed as he was, there was nowhere to hide and no foreseeable help if the meeting went sour. Even worse, there might be no meeting at all.

Someone approached. Andrews tried to act naturally by walking slowly along the edge of grass bordering the street curb. He came to a stop beneath a tree, its naked branches not yet responsive to the earliest strokes of spring and offering no shade or privacy. A woman strode up, stopped brazenly before him, and inspected his face. She was in a loose-fitting brown uniform with rectangular lapel insignia, green with red piping. An enormous bronzed red star was stitched above her left breast pocket, proclaiming her importance to the common public. Without hesitation she prodded Andrews in the chest with her forefinger. “You are the American?”

“Andrews. Bogdonovich?”

She did not answer immediately. Her eyes flitted over his face, then his chest and feet. Abruptly, she grabbed his shoulder and hissed into his ear. “Kto vy raboteyete?”

Andrews was startled by her intensity, but the words meant nothing to him. He grinned in response. “American.”

She grinned back. “Yes. American,” Still smiling, she moved very close to Andrews. He could feel her fingers touching the buckle of his belt, almost fondling, then slide up his shirt over his abdomen, and then over his chest. The American stood stock still, alarmed and uncomprehending. Abruptly, she tore open the right side of his suit jacket and stood back. She leaned close to read the tailor’s label. “Gray and Lampel, New York,” she murmured half aloud. Quickly, she took a few steps backwards, retrieved a small soft-bound book from her pocket, and thumbed through it furiously. She came to a page that she scanned with her finger, stopped, and addressed Andrews sharply. “Nice suit. Where did you get the suit?”

In a flash, Andrews understood. “My tailor, for years. Gray and Lampel. Madison Avenue. Address in the 500’s, don’t remember exactly.”

The Russian gave Andrews a searching look and put her reference book away. “I believe you are American, as you say. At first I took you for Romanian.” She sniggered. “Maybe gypsy, eh?”

Andrews understood that was his cue to snigger and laugh in return. He did, then extended his hand. “John Andrews.”

“Yes, I know. I am Bogdonovich Nestorina. You had some questions? Come with me.”

They marched in silence side by side for a few hundred yards. Bogdonovich pointed to a bench and sat. People streamed by at a continuous pace, including a troop of school children herded along by their teacher. An old man sat on the bench next to them, smoking at a leisurely pace. Andrews sat down uncomfortably. “Is this really a good place to talk?”

Bogdonovich adjusted her beret, tucking in any stray wisps of hair. A pair of green chevrons flashed on the sleeve of her tunic. “There are no secret meetings in the People’s Republic, Mr. Andrews. That is something that happens only in your American movies. Any attempt at secrecy is a sure way to be exposed. Tell me your business.” Her English was crisp and carefully enunciated.

He did, speaking quickly. He told her everything already recounted to Duranty, quite sure she had already been briefed thoroughly by the Englishman. She in turn listened attentively and without interruption, stone faced and with barely a blink. At the end, she remained inscrutable, staring into space as if waiting for a cosmic relay to transmit her next instructions. At last, she stood up briskly. “Good. Now come.”

Andrews did not hide his confusion. “What do you mean? Come where?”

“You come now. Tell my superior everything. Make a report. Then we will see.”

“No, wait...I thought this was a direct deal with you. You understand, don’t you? Your help for some American dollars. That was the deal we set.”

Bogdonovich merely grinned and raised her hand high as if hailing a cab. In seconds a long black sedan pulled up before them. She jerked her thumb towards the car. “No more American movies, Mr. Andrews. Get in.”

As the car roared off Andrews collapsed onto the thickly cushioned leather seat. The automobile was a French made Talbot. Very expensive. A snippet from Duranty rang in his ears: Always remember that the Soviet secret services are like the Mafia. Just without honor.

“Tell me, Mr. Andrews, where is your associate, Mr. Murphy? We were expecting both of you.”

“Yeah, well right now he’s indisposed, if you know what I mean.” Andrews mimed swigging from a bottle.

The Russian agent seemed surprised. After a moment she reached over to pat Andrews on the shoulder, giving a half smile in his direction. “Good agents are so hard to find. Our organization appreciates true professionals.”

Damn right, Andrews thought. I am a true professional. Murphy can go to hell, I’m on my own from now on.

As they rolled north along a broad, almost empty boulevard, a long pale building appeared on their right. Andrews recognized the edifice, and understood where they were going with certainty. It was the Polytechnic Museum on Novaya Square, one of the public places where Duranty had insisted they meet after their first encounter at his apartment. As usual, he had behaved like a secretive little bureaucrat overwrought with his own sense of importance, yet had nothing meaningful to tell them. A half mile further on there would be another building, set in another square, a place called Lublyanka. Andrews knew about Lublyanka, but only as the mythical seat of the Soviet secret police, a stopping point for those on their way to execution. Or, if they were lucky, to a work gang. Duranty had told them a popular joke making the rounds in Moscow.

Question: What is the tallest building in Moscow?

Answer: Lublyanka. You can see both heaven and Siberia from there.

For those unfortunates who were incarcerated inside the building, within its walls could also be seen a certain courtyard where a firing squad kept permanent residence. For many, their last view of this world was a brown brick wall and a final, obliterating blindfold.

The building faced a broad paved square of concrete and macadam, completely barren in appearance, with no traffic coming or going. It was as if several acres of ground had been sterilized, creating an enormous isolation ward in the middle of a great metropolis. They entered by a door in the rear and Andrews was ushered along soft green and brown corridors. The only sounds were the sharp clicks of their heels on brisk parquet floors. There was no elevator. They climbed three flights of polished stairs, entered a brightly lit hallway lined with closed oaken doors, and stopped halfway down its length. Bogdonovich gave a shallow grin, knocked on a door marked ‘8’, motioned Andrews to stay, and entered quickly. There was no sound from within. Short minutes later, she swung the door open with a flourish.

“Come in, John Andrews!” A heavyset man in an oversized suit waived from within. “Welcome.”

The room was drab gray, the walls pitted and dented, but a colorful bouquet of roses and violets dominated the desk. Andrews slouched in, shook an offered hand, and squared his stance.

“Sit, please, and be at ease.” The man leaned forward on clasped hands, looking much like a doctor about to offer a prognosis. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, John Andrews. May I call you John?” His English was excellent but accented, a mixture of New York and Glasgow.

“And you are...?”

“Feel free to call me Billy, or Will if you prefer. Welcome to Russia, John. You’ve been here a little while now.” He glanced quickly at a paper on his desk. “Twelve days. Pity you didn’t come here right off, we could have had a grand time together.”

“Billy...” Andrews tried to feed into the conversation without trying to seem abrupt. “We need help...”

“I know, John, I know. Don’t worry, I can help.” He paused for a heartbeat. “I noticed you said ‘we’ a moment ago. Too bad about Mr. Murphy. It’s sad to see people unravel in that way.”

“Well. He’s under the weather right now. Still need your assistance though.”

“That’s the spirit! Carry on until the mission is accomplished no matter the obstacles! In this building we admire that, as I’m sure you can appreciate. And it seems that right now Mr. Murphy is more of an obstacle than a help.”

“Uh-huh.” Andrews decided to tread carefully. “Right now I need all the help I can get. I need to find Lieb.”

“Of course.” Billy began to drum his fingers on the desk, as if waiting for an overdue order to arrive.

There was no clock in the room and Andrews dared not look at his watch. After what seemed like an interminable time he relented. “O.K. What do you want in return for your help?” He could not help a sarcastic laugh. “Nobody gets something for nothing, I know that real well.”

Billy retrieved a pocket watch from his jacket, checked it, and held up the palm of his hand. “Wait, John. Can you wait just three minutes more?”

Andrews said nothing. He sat silently, waiting for whatever surprise his host had in store. For some reason, a vision of his mother appeared to him, smiling and full of life. He willed the image down, away from him, as if pushing a large object into a box barely too small. Only the vestigial trace of her upcurved smile remained, a bridge spanning from one epoch of his life to another. He squinted with ferocious intensity. This was the wrong moment to entertain any thoughts of the past. He needed to concentrate on the here and now. He rejected any possibility that he did not have complete control over his own thoughts and actions. Without realizing it, he slammed his fist upon the desk before him, as if to frighten demon memories away. Just as he did, a thunderous, rolling crash swept through the air with a palpable vibration. Astonished, Andrews rocked back in his seat.

Billy checked his watch again. “Sorry about that John, I was about to warn you. They were a minute early today for some reason. The firing squad, I mean.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “So many laggards, so many enemies of the state, so many obstacles in our way. Really very sad, actually. Look, John, do you believe in ghosts? You know what I mean. Spirits of the dead?”

Andrews shook his head. How many people had just been shot? He was suddenly very tired. “Of course not.”

“Neither did I, until I started my work here. Now I do believe in them, completely. They are everywhere in this building, John. They are right here, right now. And they are lamenting. It’s curious, you see. They are not lamenting that they have lost their lives, like the poor souls who just lost theirs a moment ago. No, no, not that exactly. They are lamenting what they didn’t do while they were here. They whisper about it constantly. I can hear the whispers now. So many opportunities lost, so many possibilities gone forever. That’s what gives me strength now, John. The endless chances that lay ahead. Aren’t you intrigued by that? Don’t you hear those voices too? Inside you?”

Andrews shifted in his seat uncomfortably. Somehow, the stocky Russian had touched a nerve. A sensation of unease shivered through him. “I’m just an agent on a mission, that’s all.”

“No, John. You are much more than that, my friend.” He ruffled some papers on his desk, reading carefully. “A street kid from Baltimore with a Magna Cum Laude from Princeton.” He looked up quickly with a smile. “Please don’t be offended by this, John. Surely you, of all people, can understand that it’s our job to know these things? An odd thing, though. We couldn’t find a birth certificate in Baltimore. Or anywhere, for that matter. In your country that usually means only one thing. Sorry. I should say in your adopted country.”

Andrews sank back even further into his chair, exhausted. “I need to find Lieb.”

“I can help.”

“Alright.”

“Good. I’m glad we have an understanding. The possibilities are endless, John, and I’ll be there with you every step of the way, especially when you get back to Washington. O.K.?”

“O.K.”

Billy leaned over his desk, hands clasped again. “Would you like us to deal with Mr. Murphy? It occurs to me that he might be here illegally. We also have moral codes about drunkenness and so forth. No more obstacles?”

The room blurred for just a moment, turning slightly red. Andrews shook his head, and as he did, he caught sight of something in the corner, propped against the wall. It was a bulky console phonograph. “You like music?”

Billy jumped out of his chair, genuinely excited. “Yes I do! Would you like me to play something?”

Andrews nodded assent and the burly Russian immediately wound the cabinet’s handle furiously. With great care he placed a record on the turntable and took a few steps back, crossing his arms in satisfaction. Abruptly, the room was filled with an eerie wailing sound, a musical shrieking that raised the hairs on the nape of his neck. “What the hell is it?”

“The Banks of Loch Lomond. I fell in love with bagpipes during my time in Scotland. That, and the taste of Lagavulin. Or, I should say, the smell of it. I admit it’s eclectic, John, but the Scots and the Russians have the same thing in common; we both cry through our music. Each note sheds a tear for us. One day I hope I can make you understand. It’s a weakness of mine, I hope you don’t mind my confiding in you. The world is not as straightforward as one might think. There are many ups and downs ahead, but may I say I’m really glad to see you’re with us now. I am proud to stand at your side from this day on. Meantime, we will find Jona Lieb M.D., and you will get the credit. All the credit in the world.”

That had been almost two weeks earlier. Lieb certainly understood that it was Andrews who had made the effort to track him down. Apparently, some high ranking Russian official had briefed the transient fugitive after they left Istanbul, emphasizing Andrew’s role in tracking Lieb. The problem was that Lieb didn’t seem to care. Murphy wasn’t helpful of course, but Lieb had sunk into a deep-seated indifference that made him unresponsive to any of Andrews’ techniques of engagement. He had agreed to carry on to New Orleans and Atlanta, but only because he didn’t seem to have the energy or interest to do anything else. Andrews had recently learned that Lieb was smoking opium provided by one of the ship’s hands, a laskar with the odd name of Mick. There was nothing he could do about it, though, unless he could find some additional supply to stoke Lieb’s reliance on opium. And, in turn, reliance on him as someone who could be counted on during Jona’s moments of need. Right now, though, Andrews did not have access to opium and Lieb was impervious to any corrective intervention. In the end, it didn’t really matter. The only thing Lieb had to do was go through the motions, appear at the right moments, and say the right things to the right people. Andrews would then be free. They would all be free.

The ship’s horn blew three successive blasts, then three more, then three more, loud enough to wake the dead. New Orleans was nearby. Andrews ran up to the deck just as the sun began to break through the early morning mists. He wasn’t able to make out the shore clearly, but straight ahead an enormous overhang slowly emerged from the fog. Neither end of it could be seen, but he knew it was a bridge, a metal span connecting one side of the Mississippi to the other. A pilot boat appeared suddenly at the ship’s side, nuzzling close. The approaching docks were not yet visible, but sounds came to Andrews through the hazy mist. The cranking squeal of cranes, the bark of sputtering engines, and soon the sounds of men’s voices were heard, some shouting, some laughing, some singing snatches of song that blended deeply into the fog. Dock workers, he thought. Andrews was back in the South, back where he had started, but no longer the little Johnnie who had fled so long ago. He had wondered how he might feel when he returned, and was pleased to find he felt nothing at all. The pilot boat erupted with three whistles of its own, and then a long, sustained, high pitched, almost painful shriek.

The sound brought back the memory of the bagpipe recording played by Billy, plaintive keening notes from far away weaving in and out among the dawning sounds of New Orleans, weirding music from the past awakening the new day. Andrews knew that he had sold himself cheaply to the Russians, but time would tell how much he would ultimately get back in return. They wanted information, especially the kind that would be available to him once he joined the FBI. In turn, he would get money, and they would facilitate his advancement, courtesy of other turncoats in the organization. It was a desperate business, he knew, but no challenge was too great. John Andrews contemplated the emerging skyline of New Orleans as it hove into view. This place is a shit hole, he thought. But it’s a stepping stone, and I don’t mind stepping in shit on my way up. I’ll just buy a new pair of shoes when I get there, and throw these away. Throw everything away.

Subscribe now

Chapter 27

Madeline felt fidgety. She squirmed in her chair as she rubbed her shoulder, trying to massage relief into her arm. Stabbing waves of pain, some like ice cold pinpricks and others like searing hot flames, fanned up and down and back and forth from her shoulder to her wrist. It was curious that the pain came and went without reason. It was curious that she felt any pain at all, since she could not remember injuring her arm in any way. Perhaps it happened during her therapy sleep, and Dr. Kotmeyer had forgotten to mention it to her. Of course, he was such a kind and caring soul, he might not have wanted to bother her with any unnecessary details about what happened while she was asleep. Naturally, she was in no mood to complain, now that she was doing so much better.

She had been awakened several days before, the previous Wednesday or Thursday, or Saturday at the latest. She remembered nothing from her deep sleep, not even how long she had been kept unconscious. She had no memory of it, none. It was all gone, that whole time, like a scrap of paper thrown into a wastebasket and forgotten. All she knew was that Dr. Kotmeyer had been by her side every moment, attending to her every need. He was a wonderful doctor. No, he was a miracle worker. The fires within her were subsided, the anger had dwindled, and the visions, all the awful visions, had ebbed as surely as a tide receding into a bottomless ocean. All because of Dr. Kotmeyer. Everything was wonderful, except for the pain pricking at her arm.

She had asked him about it, but his answer was very difficult to follow. Something about nerves, and sensations, and thresholds, and other dense matters that only a brilliant man, as he was, could talk about, expounding as easily as a bird chirping about the daybreak. After all, he dealt with the human mind, and nothing could be more difficult to comprehend. Only a genius, someone as sophisticated as the brain itself, could treat the problems that Maddy had suffered with for so many years. She realized how deep and knowledgeable he was after a conversation they had shortly after she had awakened. It was about her father. He had come to visit her, her father had. She recognized him, of course, but was shocked at his appearance. His eyes were sunken, his hair was flaccid and oily and his skin pale. She mentioned her concern later to Dr. Kotmeyer, who said that her father had the weight of the world upon his shoulders, and that his duties were aging him quickly. “Anyway,” he. said, “You should reconcile yourself to the fact he is older now. No one lives forever, you know,”

What a strange thing that was to say! Maddy had been alive all her life, and had never died. Dr. Kotmeyer, nurse Bessie, even the thin black woman who cleaned her room every day, they had all lived all their lives, hadn’t they? They were all living all the time, weren’t they? When Dr Kotmeyer said things like that, it was not complicated to understand how complicated everything was. But yesterday he had brought her wonderful news.

“Your father is coming back to Atlanta next week, and he would like to see you then.”

“That’s wonderful, Doctor. And I would like to see him too. You know I love him so.”

“This time around he would like to meet you outside of this place, somewhere else, an environment that is not so…medicinal.”

“Oh, that’s a wonderful idea. That would make me very happy.”

“His message says that he is coming to town to make a speech, and he would like you by his side.”

Madeline squealed with giddiness. “That would be a joy! I love speeches!”

Dr. Kotmeyer nodded his head with an air of astute insight. “I think you’re ready for that next step back to normalcy, Madeline.”

Madeline had clapped her hands gleefully, suppressing the urge to hug Dr. Kotmeyer. “Thank you, thank you, Doctor. You’ve made me so happy!”

That had happened the day before, and Madeline could not wait for Dr. Kotmeyer’s next visit. She wanted to thank him, but she also simply enjoyed seeing him and being near him. He made his rounds every morning, and he seemed happy when he came to see her that particular morning. That made Maddy glad. He worked so hard, it was nice to see him relaxed for a change, and she wanted so much to please him for all he had done for her. He smiled when he greeted her, but she could tell that he was also attending to medical business as he began his questions.

“Well, Madeline, how are you feeling today?”

Her mind raced as she answered. “In the usual way.”

That didn’t seem to be the right answer. He squinted at her with his good eye. “What do you mean by that?”

“Just as a normal person would. I feel through my skin, through the nerves in my skin. I think that’s what you taught me, though I might be wrong. But you’re the doctor. You can explain much better.”

“Yes, yes, through your skin and so forth. But that’s not what I mean. How does your mood feel today?” His happy appearance transformed abruptly into a glower.

This time, Maddy did not allow herself to feel hurried. After some careful thought, she answered gravely. “My mood feels mostly through my sentiments, I believe. Sometimes through my passions and beliefs.” She thought that was a very good and comprehensive response, under the circumstances.

Dr. Kotmeyer’s face creased into a thousand crinkles, and his good arm and hand flailed against his knees for a few moments. He took a deep breath before continuing. “No, that’s not it at all. I’m trying to understand what’s going on inside that head of yours. What are your sentiments feeling like today?”

That, she thought, was an even more difficult question. A sentiment was not an easy thing to tackle, after all. “Why, I’m not sure, if you must know. I can ask, but I don’t always get an answer back right away. Sometimes my sentiments are hard to reach. Maybe in a day or so. I’ll be sure to let you know.”

For a moment, it seemed that Dr. Kotmeyer was going to jump out of his chair. He tugged at his bow tie nervously and glared at the nurse standing nearby. “Madeline, you understand I’m trying to help you?”

“Thank you, doctor. It makes me feel so happy to hear you say that. I am really very grateful.” The words gushed out of her spontaneously, and she instantly felt a bit embarrassed by them.

“Well then, please explain. How can you not be in touch with your own feelings? Alright, I mean your own sentiments?”

Madeline felt a ringing in her ear, a noise that sounded briefly, very briefly, like the rush of wind over a desolate and deserted moor. Her forearm began to pulse with a deadening pain, as if something were trying to erupt out of her, and she began to rub at it. “But Dr. Kotmeyer, I think that’s the problem. They’re not my sentiments after all.”

“What can you possibly mean by that?”

“Aren’t they your sentiments? Your feelings?” Maddy found herself whispering. “Didn’t you plant them in me, deep inside, while I was asleep? New feelings? Better feelings? To make me feel well? Now I have to come face to face with them, and make them mine, don’t you think?”

Dr. Kotmeyer propped his fist under his chin, staring at Madeline intently. She thought he looked sad somehow, with his false eye drifting off to one side, as if it were asleep, or staring into some other, imaginary world. She wanted to say something to comfort him, but after a brief moment she thought better of it, deciding instead to interrogate her sentiments, since that was something he obviously wanted her to do. With luck, she might connect with at least one of her feelings and report back to him about how it was managing that day. She was sure he would be happy to hear about it.

Eventually, he spoke to her, in the kindest possible way, because he was a very, very kind man. “Madeline, what is it that you’re feeling or not feeling today that you did or didn’t feel before?”

A very deep question like that deserved an honest answer. “I really don’t know for sure. But I am not seeing the times to come anymore, for one thing.”

“And that makes you feel better?”

“Oh, very much so. The future was always frightening. I am much better off with just the now, the right now.”

Dr. Kotmeyer adjusted his glasses to eye Maddy more closely. “Do you wish you could see anything in your future right now?”

“Not really.” Maddy hesitated noticeably. “Maybe just one thing, maybe.”

“Does it have to do with finding a companion? Someone you can love and who can love you in turn?” Dr. Kotmeyer smiled with encouragement.

“Oh, no. Not that at all.” Maddie shrugged her shoulders dismissively, then swiveled her head rapidly left and right, giving the impression that she was looking for an exit from the room. “No. I just wish I could have a chance to see when the moment is going to come. You know what I mean? The big moment. The moment when it’s too late to turn back, you know? When all the bridges are burnt, and nothing can return to how it was, and then nothing is left but the moment that’s going to happen, and then what’s going to happen after that, and after that, and we’ll never be able to go back to how it was before, no matter how much we want to or how hard we try. I wish I could see when that exact moment is going to come.”

“So you can try to stop it?”

Madeline laughed, a great horse laugh and giggle that gradually petered out. Dr. Kotmeyer at times could be very funny. He had a wonderful personality, really. “Why should I try to stop it? I want to see the moment, enjoy it, and then watch this entire shitpile that we call our world come tumbling down, and it will, you know, and I’ll be laughing every second. And by the way, everyone can then go straight to goddamn hell, and they certainly will, the nurses with their starched dresses, and the awful white coated orderlies with their grimy pants, and the little black servant girls with their urine stained aprons. And after that the phony generals, and the crooked cops, and the puffed up politicians, and the goddamn tycoons, and....you get it. Everyone, and everything. Gone, gone to ruins, crashed into a hole in the ground, waiting to be discovered by some archeologist one day, digging through the damn dirt. Not you, of course, Dr. Kotmeyer. You’ll be with me, and we’ll both be laughing our asses off, won’t we.” Madeline began to laugh again, this time louder.

The nurse turned towards the medication tray, reaching for a syringe, but Kotmeyer grasped her wrist to stop her. He moved his lips as if trying to say something, but no sounds came out. He toyed with the fringe of tallis that fell below the edge of his vest, continuing to mouth words without a sound, looking like he was praying silently. Eventually, he arose, very slowly and almost painfully, and noiselessly, leaning heavily on his cane. The only sound to be heard was a slow and steady shuffle as he left the room without looking back.

Madeline smiled as he left. It was good to see him so active; it was undoubtedly good for his health to move regularly. She had been worrying about how sedentary he seemed to be. In reality, she worried about every aspect of his well being. His diet, his sleeping habits, even his bowel pattern were all important to her. She made a vow to find out more about those matters, so that she could monitor Dr. Kotmeyer with the care and attention he deserved. It was also good to see her nasty nurse leave the room, trailing after the doctor like the rabid little she-bitch that she was.

Feeling very content, Maddy lay back on her bed, drinking in her surroundings. The room was brightly lit and airy, matching her spirits. There were no windows, but gold striped wallpaper lined the walls in a faint mimicry of sunbeams streaming down from above. A beautiful bouquet of deep burgundy roses mixed with white peonies, much admired, was on display at her bedside. The note pinned to one of the stems was from her father, which was odd, since she was fairly certain it was Dr. Kotmeyer who must have sent the flowers. He was considerate in that way, the very paragon of a sensitive soul. She reached for the vase, wanting to hold it, but pain bubbled up abruptly, searing towards her forearm with exquisite linearity, as if the lancinating sting was drawn by a plumb line. She began to rub her arm ferociously, kneading the flesh down to the bone. Suddenly, she noticed something remarkable, something she had never seen before. Her arm began turning different colors, ranging from pale ivory to maroon red. She watched, entranced by the varicolored exhibition. It was not a rash or a mottling. The skin of her arm seemed to blend from one hue to another in its entirety, as if it were a neon sign flashing slowly through the colors of the rainbow.

As she watched, the pain subsided, but her arm continued to flush in different colors. Orange, emerald, yellow, purple and lavender each had their turn. And, as each color effloresced, a different emotion tapped at her, very lightly at first, but more intensely with the blush of each new tint. She tolerated red, linked with fear, and mauve, which made her feel fatigued. But sapphire flared with a deep emptiness, a fathomless hollow that breathed with shallow whispers of despair. Maddy rubbed her arm even harder, willing the flesh to come off, but the colors kept revolving, one by one. Terrified, she tore at the small card on her vase of flowers and removed the pin hidden among the stems.

It was a hat pin, three inches long and tapering to a fine needle point. One of the voices coming from her arm and sounding in her head told her what to do. Slowly, very slowly, she inserted the pin into her forearm, pushing further and further until the forest green discoloration of her arm began to fade. She removed the pin, but reintroduced it when brilliant orange began to appear, this time pushing the needle far enough to tent the skin on the opposite side of her forearm. It did not occur to her that she felt no pain. The colors vanished, fleeing like the evening star before the dawn, and with them the rustling that resonated from her arm to her brain subsided. A thin rivulet of blood appeared, streaming over her knuckles and hand, dripping drop by drop onto the clean white linen of her hospital bed. She didn’t mind. She thought she could think clearly again, and almost as soon as she thought so, an idea came to her. It was a crazy idea, and she knew it right away, but she thought it was worth a try.

She began to scarify the skin of her wrist, stroking the pin back and forth with greater and greater force. Soon, much more blood began to pour out as she dug and scraped the needle deeper and deeper, and then she saw the spit-spit-spit of bright red blood as it erupted in tune with the beat-beat-beat of her heart, and that made her glad. When small bits of tissue began to emerge from the open wound she smiled triumphantly. She thought that surely this would work. “Can you feel it?” She cried out the words with heartfelt glee. “Dr. Kotmeyer, can you feel it? Can you feel the sentiment?” She was sure he did. He must. He would feel what she was feeling, wouldn’t he? He was very sensitive, after all, and would want to join Maddy in the joy that was spewing over her. She was very sure that he would feel the luxuriant and velvety throb that she was feeling, at the same moment and in the same way, a feeling they could share, and talk about, and remember fondly the next time they were alone together.

She brought her wrist to her mouth and licked off a drop or two of blood, just a little bit, not too much, then murmured a few words to herself, feeling very satisfied. “When you come tomorrow,” she heard herself say, “Let’s have a party.”

Pickett was impatient. “Well, Davidson, what do you think?”

Davidson stared back stolidly for a moment, pushing the folder back across the desk firmly. “Garbage. Tripe. Against everything we stand for.”

“What the hell! What’s wrong with it?”

It was Davidson’s turn to be irritated. “Did you read any of the material I sent you?”

“Not one bit. Look, in case you hadn’t noticed, my plate’s been kinda full, ya know?”

Donald Davidson was an educated man and usually had a world of patience. Not this time, though. He arose from his chair with authority, leaned his hands on Pickett’s desk, and lowered his voice to assume it’s most professorial tone. “You’re painting a picture without a vision. What is your vision for the country, not just now, but in ten, twenty, even fifty years from now?”

“Dammit, that’s exactly what the speech is about. What we are. What we want to be. That is what I’m tryin’ to say.”

“No sir. Your speech is about what you want the government to be. What about us? What do you want us to be? And our children, and their children?”

Both men lapsed into silence. Davidson retrieved the folder, opened it, and studied it carefully. “This is some sort of simultaneous philippic against the status quo and a manifesto for our future?”

“I guess. A legacy, you might say.”

“You know what our brethren up north are saying about us, of course. They revile us for our provincialism, our backwardness, our system of labor. Even for our belief in God. Looks to me like you agree.”

“I could shoot you where you sit for that insult.” Pickett tented his fingers expectantly.

“In all honesty it’s hard to see otherwise. You extol the virtues of industrialization, the factory, cityscapes of broad avenues and sky-scraping towers, as you put it. Nothing about rustic back roads, the bonds of family and community, or unshakeable faith in the Creator.”

“You’re right. It ain’t about moonlight and magnolias, that’s for sure. It’s about bringin’ us into the twentieth century, just a few years later than everyone else.”

“But how we got here is important. Our traditions, our history. Our culture.”

“”Screw culture. I got a country to run.”

“Mr. President, you ever see anyone with amnesia? They’re lost, aren’t they? They may have suffered the greatest of degradations in the most remote of backwoods hollows, but they’re still better off with their memory than without it. We in the South are not a scrap heap of geography. We are a living, breathing entity, with memories and connections to our past, a noble creature trying to survive in a hostile world. Don’t destroy us.”

“You talk like we’re some kind of animal. That’s very poetic, comin’ from a poet. Well, I am tryin’ to tame the animal, not destroy it.”

“No. You’re trying to corner it. And if you do, anything might happen.”

Pickett rose to his feet and began to pace back and forth. He turned abruptly to face Davidson. “You remember the Scopes trial?”

“Of course. Before you say anything further, the trial was not about scientific truth succumbing to ignorant fundamentalism. It was about the rights of any community to believe as they think is proper. What could be wrong with that? Surely, we are not all cut from the same cloth?”

“It was an embarrassment, and you know it. And slavery is an embarrassment. Need to move on with the times, and believe me, the world is watching.”

Davidson lapsed into silence. Pickett stared at him, waiting, expecting. Almost casually, Davidson reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a sheet of yellow foolscap. “I want to read something to you.” Then he went on:

I’ve known rivers

I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and

The flow of human blood in human veins

My soul has grown deep like the rivers

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young

I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep

I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it

I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln

went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy

bosom turn all golden in the sunset

I’ve known rivers

Ancient, dusky rivers

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

Pickett breathed deeply. “That was powerful. Yours?”

“No, of course not.” Davidson shook his head sadly, his mouth set in a grim straight line. “Not mine. That was written by a black boy, claims to be a poet. Up North… Don’t you see?”

“Frankly, I don’t see shit. Look, Davidson, I asked you for help with my speech, not poetry, not philosophy.”

“If you do what you say you want to do, in five or ten years there will be a hundred like him down here right in our backyard, then a thousand.” He tapped at the sheet of paper with a bony finger. “A thousand of him, and nothing can remain the same ever again. Not sure it can remain the same with just one, with just him. It will all become a tunnel with no exit. Is that what you want?”

“Davidson, you are wrong. We’re in the tunnel right now, trapped, with no way out. I refuse to accept that. Whether it’s desert, jungle, mountains, I’ve learned there’s always a way out. There’s got to be a way we can shake loose these chains and I’m going to find it.”

“Then you will be responsible.”

Pickett gave a great grin, creasing his cheeks ferociously. Very slowly, he unwrapped a cigar and lit up. After a few puffs he began blowing smoke rings, enjoying himself enormously. Almost as an afterthought he turned towards Davidson and puffed one in his direction. If anything, his smile grew wider. “Well, that’s the thing, my friend...” He blew an enormous ring that wafted with great deliberation towards the ceiling. “It’s well known. I don’t have a responsible bone in my body.”

Later, when alone, when the lights were low and the shades pulled down, Pickett felt some regret about his meeting with Davidson. He had wanted help in polishing up the words he had written so laboriously over the past weeks, words that would liberate his people from an unendurable thralldom. Instead, he hadn’t been able to stop himself from puffing up with the arrogant pride of hyperbole, the same reaction he had every time the going got tough, or talk got heated, or emotions became too deep to ignore. Well, that’s the way he was, and he was not about to change now.

He tried reading the first page of his speech, but gave up after a few moments, overcome by a sense of fatigue. He was also groggy from the four or five shots of whiskey that had found their way into him. A decanter of whiskey sat on his desk contentedly, either half finished or half full. He tossed the entire folder onto the desk, next to his empty glass. It seemed inert as it lay there, a clean white rectangle superimposed on lustrous mahogany, but he sensed the power within those pages. There was a primal energy there, a smoldering fire ready to erupt and rend thread from thread, friend from friend, past from present. It was peculiar, he thought, that a few written words might change everything that had come before, and lead to a new beginning. A new birth.

The words made him think instantly of Jones. Poor, deluded Jones. How often he had talked about being reborn, and urged Pickett to take up the cross, as he called it, and to believe. It was all bullshit, of course. George Pickett had no illusions about himself. He had broken up inside his own skin many times, collapsed into ruins and then reconstructed himself once again. He had come back from the brink more than once and never succumbed, and over time he had determined to survive one more hour, one more mile, one more turn of the track. He would subdue the baying hounds of history, he would make his mark, and nothing would be left the same. There would be a new start if he had anything to say about it, without any breast beating or confessionals. Alright, then. A new birth.

Not that Jones was completely crazy. He was wily enough, and understood something important about Pickett. They never talked about it, ‘course, but it was out there, in the open, for both of them to see. Hell, for anyone to see, if they cared to look closely enough. George Pickett had never been for anything except himself, and the solemn truth was that he was nothing but an empty casing, as empty as a discarded shell. Beneath all the bravado, and the charmer’s smile, and the gallant hair, there was nothing. He was a seventy year old man with an empty home and a vacant heart. His daughter was insane, he had no true friends, not even Barkley, and the days to come were sure to be mere shadows of the days gone by. And so he had taken up the great cause of the day, this day, convincing himself that it was necessary and noble, a bold stroke that would make his name indelible. And, in a way, it was all because of Jones.

Two shafts of light beamed across the darkened room, streaming through narrow spaces between the shades and windows. Pickett watched, mesmerized by the turmoil of tumbling motes rigidly confined within the parallel rays that played across his desk. My God, he thought. Just like Kentucky. If there is a God, he would let me forget. His mind began to whirl with memories, churning, tumbling like the violent twists of purple and gold that swirled within the violet clouds of a prairie storm. He wanted to pretend the storm was still far off, crouching ominously on a distant horizon, but the deluge came upon him quickly, uninvited, drenching him with sadness, and regret, and reproach.

Memories of Kentucky poured over him like suffocating rain, buffeting him with aching reminders of that day. The worst thing was, none of it needed to happen. It was his pride, his irrational vainglory, that had driven him to act as he did. If it were not for Jones, whose daily presence was a constant reminder of what had happened, the same vanity would have erased the memory from his mind. Pickett poured three fingers worth of amber fluid into his glass and downed half of it in one great swallow. The drink numbed him somewhat but allowed more thoughts to pierce through the cloudy veil of memory, like fingers jabbing at him in the darkness. The truth was, it was Jones and Pea Ridge that had opened the floodgates of shame and regret, pushing him over the edge and brought him to the road he was on now. After Pea Ridge, he could not put Kentucky away.

Looking back, Pickett could recall that he never wanted to go to Pea Ridge. He was urged by friends and supporters to attend the solemn remembrance ceremonies for the sixtieth anniversary of the lost and forlorn battle, and to allow his voice to be heard before a crowd. It would be his first foray into public speaking, the first finger-in-the-wind moment, the first time the hero of the Chihuahuan war would expose himself to the scrutiny of ordinary citizens. It was supposed to be watermelon easy, and to an extent, it was. He was greeted like a hero, feted by local veterans’ associations, and handled by the press as if he were a head of state. All in all, not bad for a recently demobilized chicken colonel. And the speech was not bad. It had been written by a committee of his handlers and fell easily from his lips. A tent was set up on the battlefield grounds, adjacent to the cemetery, and although it was a raw early March morning, a considerable crowd had gathered, as much to hear the army band play as to hear the patriotic speeches. Pickett recited the usual paean to the glorious dead, praised their sacrifice, and repeated the necessary nostrums about the indebtedness of the living, and so on and so forth. At the end he gave a big grin, and the crowd went wild. His agent said it went swell, but if his life depended on it Pickett could not repeat a single word of what he had said. Taking several nips right afterwards made things all the better.

That night he was obliged to attend a reception and Grand Ball put on by the DOC in the town of Rogers, about twenty minutes away by automobile. Jones had helped dress him, and like the other servants was left behind in lodgings in the small hamlet just outside the military park. Pickett remembered it as a blustery and cold evening, overcast, with just the barest shiver of frosty mist obscuring the countryside. He was cold when he arrived at the cotillion, and very shortly after began to feel colder still. The hall was drafty and somewhat dank, and the affair was the kind he hated; formal, stuffy, and worst of all, dry. After an interminable time shaking the hands of strangers he would never meet again, he ducked out to the back veranda to light a cigar. Without realizing it, he began mumbling to himself, telling himself he would be better off as a corporal in a company of colored troops than preening with the lickspittles clawing at him inside the ballroom. Icy darts of cold penetrated his skin, and he began to shiver.

“Cold night, sir.” A dark form emerged from the far end of the porch, hand to his forehead in salute.

Pickett, taken by surprise, whirled towards the man defensively. In a flash, though, he could see the collar tabs of a major in the Confederate States Army, 11th Arkansas regiment. A good outfit. Not elite, though. “Cold enough, Major. Wish we could warm it up some.”

Without hesitation the major reached into his coat and withdrew a silver flask, shining almost unnaturally bright as he extended it towards Pickett. “You would honor me, sir.”

“Don’t mind.” Pickett tried not to guzzle as he took a long swig. It was rye, and it burned pleasantly going down. “It is indeed honorable for gentlemen to share liquor, Major. What’s your name?”

There was just a moment’s hesitation. “Lincoln, sir.” Then, with an upward lift of the chin, “Thaddeus Lincoln, Ashley County. Prettiest county in Arkansas, sir.”

Pickett smiled. The fellow had just the kind of defiant spirit he would want to see in a regular army man. “Any relation?”

“No sir.” He paused before forging ahead. “But...but people say your father was a friend of... uhmm...you know.”

“People say?”

Lincoln gave a flustered cough. “I apologize, sir. No disrespect intended. I would like you to know that I’ve read everything I could find about you. Colonel Pickett, you have been my idol since I was a boy. Cuba, Nicaragua, Texas, Mexico. I’ve read all your adventures. You are a hero, sir, my hero, and why the army did not recognize your achievements I have never understood. Many others feel the same way.”

Pickett allowed his cigar to glow to a deeply embered red before taking a long inhale. The army. It had been his life, his sustenance for forty years, and then one day he had been told to get out as unceremoniously as a nameless John thrown out of a hooker’s bed. It was the business in Kentucky the previous year that had put the last nail in his coffin. Now it was done, it couldn’t be helped, and no amount of apology could change it. “So you want to know about my father and old Abe? It’s true, most of it. Some of it, at least. My father was down and out before the war, stationed in Illinois. Lincoln was a lawyer, some said a well to do lawyer. Some money was loaned, and some advice given. That was the tall and short of it. I guess my father owed him some, and that’s the way it stayed. Always felt obliged to him. Sorta friends, I think. Our family has no regrets in remembering his generosity.”

“And that’s why your father was the one chosen when the time came to apprehend him.”

“Don’t really know about that. Wasn’t much of an arrest, now, was it? Father just walked into the man’s office together with a few of the boys and informed Lincoln he was a prisoner. You might think that the president, no matter how much of a tyrant and how big a gorilla, would flee if he could, but he never tried, almost as if the world had ended for him. He was sitting, they say his feet was propped up on his desk, deserted and alone, the last government man in Washington. My father always said that old man Lincoln looked as if he were in a trance, twitchin’ pretty still. The only thing he did was to point at a big chestnut tree out on the lawn, he pointed and then he said ‘That’s a hanging tree, ain’t it?’ Of course, he was never given that satisfaction.”

The major appeared thoughtful. “Still, the way he ended up was pretty rough.”

“I guess.” Pickett chortled softly. “But I been crazy a time or two myself. Ain’t we all?”

Both men laughed, with the easy laugh of comfortable security, the kind of laugh that defined the difference between power and weakness, permanence and frailty, sympathy and pity. For both of them at that moment, the world lay substantially at their feet, a landscape they could peruse at their leisure.

A grey painted car came out of the dark, screaming up the driveway, careening to an abrupt halt in front of Pickett and Lincoln in a spray of dirt and pebbles. A sergeant in a long gray coat jumped out and saluted the major. “Sir,” he shouted. “Captain Longwood sends his compliments and wants you to know there has been an abduction, up in Pea Ridge. He requests you come to battalion HQ right away.”

Pickett had served along the frontier long enough to understand exactly what the message meant. Every month or two small bands of irregulars from the north infiltrated the southern lines. Generally, they engaged in some sort of mayhem, either by defacing public buildings, breaking up railroad tracks, or ransacking private property. Every once in a while, they abducted blacks from the locality, brought them north, and released them with great displays of moral fervor, usually with New York Times or Chicago Tribune reporters in miraculous attendance. In most cases nothing could be done to stop them, unless a patrol literally blundered into them. The border could not be defended in its entirety, that was simply impossible. Patrols, dogs, listening posts, airplanes, barbed wire and wide trenches could only do so much to stop intruders. Of course, that worked both ways. Newly minted CSA Rangers traditionally crossed No Man’s Land into the north, a rite of passage that required them to scrawl a message to their opposite numbers, preferably on the side of a tank, or car, or barracks. It was something young bucks did for fun, as a show of bravery, perhaps, or defiance, or disdain. Young second lieutenant Pickett had done the same himself, once, eons ago, when life meant nothing more than an early morning’s yawn.

Major Lincoln snapped a salute to the sergeant and turned towards Pickett. “Sorry, Colonel. Got to go.”

Pickett casually flicked away the stub of his cigar. “Take me with you, Major.”

Lincoln almost tripped over himself as he stooped down to enter the car. “I can’t do that, sir. You have no authority here.”

“I’m still a colonel in the regular army.” It was a blatant lie, something Lincoln was sure to know was untrue. “Besides, Pea Ridge is where I left my man. He might be one of the victims, and he’s my property. I have just as much vested right to deal with this as you do.”

The young major could hardly be expected to make a wise decision under the circumstances. He acquiesced, and by the time they arrived at headquarters Pickett was barking orders as if he were the battalion commander. The situation was both hopeless and chaotic based on the briefing they received. A pack of venomous rascals, between five and eight in number, had entered the village, broken some windows, vandalized a few shops, and then swooped down upon Legler’s hotel. They demanded whiskey from old man Legler, then made their escape with several servants in tow. On their way in or out, it wasn’t clear, they had defaced some of the monuments at the cemetery.

Pickett was stunned at the scope of the raid. “Wait just a goldarned second. How many slaves were taken from that hotel?”

The sergeant answered meekly, averting his eyes. “All of four of them, sir.”

The report staggered Pickett. He could feel his face flush with hot anger, a pounding wave of unreasoning fury that spilled over any and all boundaries. The self-serving bastards had robbed him! Jones had cost him a pretty penny, and was worth even more now. Besides, he had given good service, and now he had been stolen by northern terrorists. A long litany of grievance, animosity, and an almost feudal hatred flamed within him, making his chest heave in anger. Pickett was not about to allow Jones to simply evaporate into the thin night air. His eyes flared, seizing hold of the major in a grip of fury. “What kinda shit ass outfit you runnin’ here? Where are your mobile troops? Shooting craps in the cemetery instead of shooting infiltrators?”

Lincoln stiffened up and glared back. “Sir, I have five hundred men to patrol forty miles of border. They can’t be everywhere. And for the record, sir, I demand you retract your statement, which offends my personal honor. My troops are first rate, and will not be slandered by anyone.”

Before either man could say another word the sergeant clicked his heels and saluted the Major. “What are your orders, sir?” He bellowed the words in a tone loud enough to shake both men from their confrontation.

Lincoln seemed relieved by the interruption. Pickett veered his gaze away from the major, some of his rage momentarily diffused. He stroked his forehead then growled an apology that sounded like a pre-dawn barrage of rockets. “My regrets Major, I was overwrought. I mean no disrespect to Arkansans or to your troops, who have a reputation of ferocity unequaled in the army. Now, get on the radio. Get dogs up to the cemetery. Set them on the scent where the monuments were trashed. C’mon, get some men and let’s get up there pronto. We’re going to kick some tail tonight.”

Lincoln smiled back. “Geronimo!”

The national cemetery was laid out just north of Little Sugar creek, along the base of a ridge, carved out of thickets of scrub oak, clumps of dwarf pine and scattered ash. White crosses gleamed in orderly rows radiating from a central plaza that was dominated by a monumental granite statue looming over the battlefield, a martial figure symbolizing the glory of the valorous dead. Pickett knew it to represent Nike, the winged goddess of victory, arm upraised and sword in hand, pointing defiantly north. As he got closer, he could see, despite the gloom of night, that the sword was broken off at the haft. It now seemed that Nike was scowling angrily, mouth open and eyes glaring, pointing impotently in the direction of the enemy and demanding retribution.

At the base of the statue a squad of soldiers was clustered together near the debris of the fractured sword. Two of them were holding the leashes of harnessed coonhounds. The men saluted and one of them held up a pair of torn leather gloves. “Sir! These were left behind! My hounds have taken up the scent for sure.”

Pickett felt an immediate surge of satisfaction. “Major, tell your men to start tracking these bastards. Shoot on sight. We can always ask questions later. Or not.”

Without another word, the dogs were kept leashed but given free rein and the group set off at a steady pace. It didn’t take long for the baying bark of dogs on the scent to pierce the night air, but as they maneuvered into the darkness of surrounding forest the trackers quieted, and soon there were no sounds except for the crackling snap of boots on broken twigs. Before long the dogs stopped weaving to and fro and, panting loudly, aligned themselves like arrows. They headed due north, heaving strongly against their harness stays, pulling their handlers through rough brush and undergrowth without hesitation.

The small squad of six men moved along a short line no longer than twenty yards wide, guardedly, stooped cautiously forward, rifles at the ready. Lincoln and Pickett followed warily a few yards back. In those days officers were issued southern-made reproductions of the 1911 framed Colt. Lincoln carried his held downwards and to the side as he walked. Pickett preferred the Belgian 1910 model .38 Browning he had purchased in the back room of a bar back in New Orleans a few years before, and rarely went anywhere without it. It was semi-automatic, light, very accurate to one hundred feet, and besides, it was the type gun used to assassinate Archduke Franz Ferdinand. He made a point of buying it on the black market as soon as he could, purchasing it with the last Federal greenbacks in his possession. In his opinion, there could be no better endorsement for a weapon than its use in a famous murder.

He kept it holstered under his shoulder, using both his arms to pry away low lying branches as they trudged steadily, gradually climbing upwards through an undulating declivity at the eastern edge of Pea Ridge. After no more than a mile Pickett felt his heart racing and his head pounding with fatigue. He was no longer the young guacho of the west Texas plains, but pride, anger and simple stubbornness kept him from falling behind the others. Mainly, he wanted Jones back. He told himself it was the principle of the thing, a principle worked out over many battlefields and sanctified by the dead bodies of many young men. The sanguinary conclusion drawn from history was straightforward. He was entitled to the ownership of his own property, and Jones was without question his property.

That some men could own other men was a part of the human condition, something as old as mankind, and it was simply the case that some men were better than others. Hell, some blacks were unquestionably better than others. It got confusing sometimes, for sure. He had known men like old Rufus, and others like him, and a few Indians as well, who were better soldiers than some of the bloated, boastful trash that made its way into the regular army. There were too many mama’s boys from good families and long bloodlines, too many who treated their time in the army as if it were a stop at the outhouse on their way to the drawing room. He had never found skin color to determine courage on the field of battle, and he knew for a fact that everybody’s entrails looked exactly alike.

Still, servitude in its basest and most primitive form was how the system worked, and what the government decreed to be the law of the land. And, if he believed all the Bible thumpers, that’s what God decreed as well. It was not about right or wrong, or justice, not even about the human heart. It was about order. System. Form. Shake it up, change it, and chaos comes. Up becomes down, left turns to right, and then there’s no need to bother asking about the righteous soul, or truth, or humanity, because life then becomes nothing more than a nightmare of random pain and sorrow. Pickett had survived skirmishes by squads, engagements by regiments, and wars by great armies. He had lived through ghastly scenes of death piled upon death, and was sworn to prevent that kind of horror from spreading to his people and his country. And so he would find Jones, return him to his proper and orderly place, and punish the perpetrators of this crime. Their punishment might prove to be harsh, but it would be necessary in order to maintain the decreed order of things. Pickett had lived through his own measure of cruelest sorrow, the kind that had finally scoured out every last atom of emotion from within him. He had loved one woman in his life, loved with his entire being, and later in life lusted after another with an uncontrollable fire of the flesh. In between had been a pale flower who lasted less than a year before expiring from lack of niceties. All were gone from this world, and both time and liquor had conspired to erase them from his mind. He had virtually nothing else left except a pretentious pride, an all-encompassing armor that protected him from any wound.

That’s why he had fought Willy Adair.

The dogs slowed suddenly, sniffing at the ground frantically. One of them began to bark furiously, a high pitched, urgent bay that sent shivers through Pickett. One of the men pointed at a small, innocuous clearing that opened up immediately ahead. By the weak light of cold, thin night air it seemed to be a patch of dried out grass and dandelion. “Careful here,” he warned. “Sink hole. They’re all over in these parts.”

Pickett nodded grimly, skirting the edge of the sink hole with the other men as the dogs took up their chase once more. Can’t sink no further than I already am, he thought. Willy told me that once, but I guess he was wrong then. Still had a ways more down to go.

William Adair had been his last friend. His last true friend, anyway. He was grandson to the legendary Cherokee general and chief, William Smith Adair. The grandfather had been a loyal son of his nation and a friend to the fledgling Confederate state. The Cherokee had many reasons to cast their fate in with the south, none more compelling than the belief that the Confederacy could give them the kind of autonomy the North would never abide. William Smith Adair had proven to be a courageous and resourceful general, stinging Federal forces with repeated raids and lightning incursions that neutralized the enemy’s superiority in numbers. He had fought on the very field that Pickett was now walking, Pea Ridge. Willy followed in his grandfather’s footsteps by joining the army. By the time he reported to Pickett he was already an accomplished leader of men, an expert horseman, and sound tactician. What made the man, though, was that he had balls of steel when it came to poker, and the stomach of a leviathan when it came to drinking. He came to Pickett as a squadron Captain and soon became his friend and confidante.

Pickett was with a superb outfit at the time, Third VaCav, stationed at Big Stone Gap. In just a few months he was due to receive his brigadier’s stars, finally, and would leave that desolate corner of the frontier forever. His new command assignment could be anywhere, but the hero of Juarez was sure to be given a plum posting. Maybe back to Texas. Even better, Havana, where the cigars were rich, the rum was potent, and the women were plentiful. Wherever he was sent, he was determined to take Willy with him. They patrolled together, drank together, cussed together, and on the rare occasions when opportunity offered, whored together. In an informal way, Pickett developed a sense of ownership over the young man’s career, almost as if Willy were an adoptive son. He saw to it that Captain Adair was given every opportunity to shine in the execution of his assignments, and duly noted each accomplishment in detail, together with a suitable endorsement in the young man’s service record. Willy seemed appreciative, though moody at times, almost as if chafing to accomplish more and greater exploits. Pickett figured he needed either a wife or a slave to even his keel.

Life on the Appalachian border was severe in the winter, intolerable in the summer, and spring hovered uncertainly between the two. It was the fall, the somber time of transition that sparkled most of all. Life still buzzed, but, unconsciously aware of what was to come, was beginning its downward roll into the dark funnel of winter. Colors of yellow and red limning the silhouettes of forested cliffs erupted against the sparkling azure of mountain skies. Groves of oak, sycamore, and hickory, still fully fleshed from the bounty of summer, stood as silent witness to the passage of the seasons. The slow, eternal tempo of the earth’s mysterious journey through the universe was registered from every sunlit summit to every hidden, dark, and mysterious dingle and dale. It was in that season, in late September, that Pickett and Adair had their falling out.

They were taking a leisurely ride, ostensibly to inspect some of the outlying vedettes that stood guard along the border. The day was ebbing but was still glorious, and warm, and as they rode slowly and carefully through thickets of solid oak and flimsy laurel, both men reminisced about their past. Pickett told story after story about battles won and lost, desperate and deadly encounters, and heroic deeds, mostly by men long dead. Pickett had told the stories before, many times, but took no heed of his past repetitions.

Adair listened attentively at first, but as one yarn spun into another, he began to chuckle, loudly enough for Pickett to hear. “You are enamored of glory, Colonel,” he said. “Nowadays, we don’t know what glory is.”

“It’s the only thing we leave behind, Captain. The only thing. The footprint that is etched on the ground, the thing people will see, and scratch their heads about one day, and ask, ‘Did he really do that?’ Everything else means nothing. The politics of the day, all the bullcrap we squabble over, the problems that drain down to the ones who follow us...All that shit means nothing to me, for the simple reason I won’t be here. Only glory remains, my own personal mark you might say, kinda like pissing my name in the snow. Everything else dies.”

Willy didn’t respond right away. They trotted at a slow pace, weaving along a tortuous forest path of reddened brown and yellowed green, soaked in the diffused light of the day’s last glow. After a short while he reigned his horse to a stop under a tall, arrow straight poplar and pointed to the heavy green branches that radiated out from it’s trunk like spokes on a wheel. “Can’t agree. See this tree here, it never dies. I guess my people believe it’s sacred for that reason. We never really die either. Our ghosts live on, that’s what we believe. They’re walking this forest right now and right here, my father and my grandfather too, just the same way we do.”

Pickett was about to respond with a burst of sarcastic profanity when a sudden movement among some bushes not twenty yards away caught his eye. A dimly seen form darted out, running directly away from them, disappearing into a dense thicket of laurel and holly. Pickett swept his hat off his head and waved it in the air. “Well, that ain’t no goddamn ghost! Come on!”

Both horsemen launched themselves in pursuit. Within moments they found themselves entangled among dense overhanging vines and thickly grown low lying brambles. The going was slow. The horses whinnied and snorted in protest, but after great effort they broke into a small, moss covered clearing. Simultaneously, both men pointed to the top of an enormous spruce tree that rose up, towering like a massive cathedral over the clearing. A stock still form, the wraith from the bushes, clung to one of the topmost branches. It was a girl.

She was chocolate black, thin, dressed in denim overalls and blue work shirt, and wearing boots thick and sturdy enough to climb the Rockies. She did not move a muscle, even when Picket called out to her. “The jig is up! Come down outta that tree right now!” He waited a few seconds, but the girl seemed to curl up even tighter, clutching the tree branch like a life preserver.

He called again. “Y’all come on, I ain’t gonna tell y’again. Believe me, I will shoot you in your curly little head if you don’t!” Pickett withdrew his Browning from its holster and brandished it in the air.

“Colonel, don’t!” Willy raised his hand in a cautionary gesture.

Pickett ignored him, spurring his horse closer to the tree. “I said now!”

The girl did not respond. Instead, she began to make moaning noises, quavering sounds that were muffled by the dense greenery surrounding her makeshift nest. For a moment Pickett was fooled into thinking the sounds were coming from the tree itself, as if the tree were speaking to him, giving report on the uninvited squatter perched near its summit. Then, with a start, he realized the girl was singing. He couldn’t make out every word at first, but as he strained to listen the words became clearer, and the young girl’s voice became more vibrant and alive as the words spilled out from her niche on high:

Ef I had wings like Noah’s dove,

I’d fly up da river to the man I love.

Fare thee well, O Honey, fare thee well.

I’se got a man, an’ he’s long and tall,

Moves his body like a cannonball.

Fare thee well, O Honey, fare thee well.

One o’ these days, an’ it won’t be long,

Call my name an’ I’ll be gone.

Fare thee well, O Honey, fare thee well…

The words again became muted, burrowing themselves into the sighing wind, and the fraying motion of tree against sky, and the slow waving of wooden limbs that wrestled one with the other to find escape. Just as suddenly again, her voice emerged from its secret hiding place:

Ef I had listened to what my mama said,

I’d be at home in my mama’s bed.

Fare thee well, O Honey, fare thee well.

Pickett sat quietly on his horse, mesmerized by the singing of the song. When she finished, and nothing further was heard other than the wind-swept ruffle of leaves and soft grinding creak of swaying boughs, he shook himself as if awakening from a deep sleep. For no reason, or for reasons known only to the dark spirits of the forest, or the demons of the jungle, or the furies that swept the desert wastes, he felt a raging frenzy fill him, an angry red cowl that descended upon him, clothing him completely, erasing any conscious thought or purpose. “Come down now!“ he screamed. A heartbeat passed, then two, then three at most, and when there was no answer he fired his gun almost without aiming, hoping to destroy whatever it was that had beckoned him with its call.

A small bundle of blue jeans fell quietly from the tree, making no sound as it plummeted into a dense clump of dying serviceberry twigs. The gunshot sound disappeared quickly, borne off by a gentle mountain breeze, and then everything returned to how it had been, without a disturbance of sky or earth to mark what had just occurred.

Adair turned ashen as he dismounted and knelt to examine the body. “Colonel, she looks barely fifteen.” He gave Pickett an accusatory stare. “Seems like a harsh thing, sir, very harsh, to kill a girl that young for no particular reason.”

“Just oiling the machine, Willy, that’s all. Just oiling the perpetual machine.”

“It’s not right.”

Pickett heaved a sigh, breathing out some of the demons that possessed him. But not all. “Are you questioning me, Captain?”

“I am, sir. I am questioning you. I am questioning this whole damn thing, in fact, and I have been for longer than I care to say. It’s not right to be doing what we’re doing, Colonel, killing people wanting to escape to a better life, or capturing them just to send them back to whatever hell they’re trying to leave. That shouldn’t be the job of a soldier, sir. There’s no glory in that.”

Pickett felt the old familiar feeling rise within him, a blend of anger, and cruelty, and a primitive pride of place. It was the reward he felt with each moan and gasp of the enemy on the field of battle, a reward he felt with every petty savagery he doled out to those who came within his orbit. And the feeling was quickened because it was Willy who challenged him, the son of a bitch he had thought was his friend. He leveled his pistol in Adair’s direction. “Captain, consider yourself under arrest. Return to base and confine yourself to your quarters until further orders.”

Willy scowled with a look of both disbelief and hatred. “What about her?”

“Leave the remains. They will be taken care of by and by.”

Later that day, Pickett had the dead girl’s body strung up from the same spruce where she had sought refuge. He directed that a placard be hung from her neck, writing out the words himself. It read:

Do not take this

Slave body down.

Ever.

One of the soldiers tied a handwritten note to her boot, a lampoon that made Pickett smile when he read it the next day. It read:

Chnge of policy can be requested of Col Pickett, Cmmding.

Application fee 1/5 of Tnssee bourbon or 10 Cohibas.

Pickett liked it. The way the note was attached, it swung slowly back and forth at eye level for a man on a horse, dangling as it did. He read it again a second time, stroking his chin thoughtfully. The extemporaneous humor reflected good morale. It was good, he concluded. Real good.

He waited two days to call Willy into his office. He figured that was enough punishment and allowed the excitable young man adequate time to calm down. It was understandable that Willy might be questioning their mission. Any young man might question authority from time to time; it was a common phase of maturation. Soon enough, Adair would see the necessity of what Pickett had done, and if needed, he would do the same himself one day. Pickett had an unopened bottle of Old Grand Dad, spirited in across the border from Kentucky, sitting on his desk, and he intended to bury the hatchet by downing a few with Willy. It was late in the afternoon, a time when the sun set high over the western mountains, lingering along their rocky rims only briefly before making its final descent. Pickett had pulled the shades as a precaution. There was no need to let the enlisted men see him drinking, and drink heavily was what he intended to do. He’d already had three or four or more shots before Willy arrived, leaving him neither quite sober nor quite drunk as yet.

He grinned a bit when Adair first came in, stiff and formal, saluting as if he were on a Presidential review. “Well, Captain,” he said with mock severity. “I hope you’re ready to accept your punishment.” Pickett waited a beat or two, then pointed to the bottle with a broad smile.

He was already reaching for their glasses when Adair gave a curtly edged response. “Colonel, sir, I am requesting a transfer to another duty.”

Pickett almost tipped over the bottle of bourbon, completely shocked. “What’re you talkin’ about? Transfer where?”

“Frankly, colonel, anywhere.”

Pickett at that time was aging, but his mind was still strong, slowed only slightly because of the liquor in his blood. The bourbon bubbling through his brain kicked in, creating a dull image of Adair superimposed on many another from the past, some who had insulted or demeaned him, others who had simply tested him. Some had died, and some had escaped, but none had vanished from the angry reservoir of his memory. With great deliberation he arose to his full height and calmly drew his revolver, placing it casually on his desk. He didn’t really have to think through what he was about to say; he had said words just like them, or very close, other times in the past, words meant to give clarity, and end any uncertainty about what needed to be done next. “Not surprised to hear that, coming from a yellow assed redskin like yourself.”

Willy appeared staggered, but only briefly. He understood, as well, what needed to be done. Both men were now locked into an intricate ballet, a pax de deux, a formal and rigid dance that could only have one denouement. “Sir. My honor requires satisfaction for those remarks. Unfortunately, we are constrained by the disparity in our rank. An immediate apology from you will have to do.”

“Bullshit!” Pickett felt bitter gorge rising into his throat. “You worthless piece of shit, you traitor, the only thing coming to you is a bullet right through your smarmy, self righteous eyes. A request like that could torpedo the general’s star that’s comin’ to me, and that ain’t gonna happen. You will pay for your insubordination, either on a field of honor or at the dock of a court martial.” He paused to take a deep breath, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Kentucky is over there, right over the line. Tomorrow morning. Take your uniform off. Revolvers at forty paces. We each bring one man. We’ll need two to carry your useless, sorry sack of shit back to base. Now dismissed.”

Adair saluted smartly, wheeled sharply, and marched out of the room. Just before leaving, though, he snapped a glance backwards. Pickett saw the look, settled back into his chair, and unwrapped a cigar. He understood Willy all too well. The young man had been raised to believe in the noble and the true, and, well... in glory. He dreamt of great deeds and lasting fame. Willy wanted everything George Pickett had wanted as a young man, maybe even more. For Pickett, though, somewhere along the way those dreams had turned into whiskey-fed fantasies. He took a few puffs gingerly, watching the smoke drift slowly towards the ceiling. Noble Willie, he thought. You think you are better than me, Wiilie, you sanctimonious bastard, standing high above all the turds that dot the landscape. But that’s not how this world works, believe me. You know what they say, my friend? Cineri gloria sera venit. With a rapid motion of arm and wrist he snaked another shot. Fame comes too late to the dead.

Predestination was not something Pickett could believe in. Anyone who had marched through a battlefield strewn with the dead and dying, anyone who had stood tall while the bullets flew past with their demon-shrill cry, anyone who had measured their span of life in the seconds it took to point a weapon and take one step forward, anyone at all who faced immediate extermination understood that life came and went on a whim, unplanned, and without much consequence no matter how the roulette wheel might spin. Even so, George Pickett had a clear vision of what was destined to happen when he and Willie next met.

The small party of five horsemen trotted slowly through dell and glen, up and down vine riven paths, and skirted lonely hollows that harbored solitary shacks. Pickett had brought Jones along maybe because he knew that Jones detested horse riding, or maybe because he knew Jones would be repelled by what he was going to witness. Or, maybe to help with a dead body. Despite the fall of leaves the foliage was still quite dense, but crossing the frontier was no more difficult than pointing their horses northward, a simple matter of working along the crest of a narrow ridge. It was a cloudy day, the morning was hazy, and they had no warning before they erupted into an oblong, clover-covered pasture dotted with dying columbine. Pickett halted and pointed ahead. He said one terse word. “Kentucky.” As if on cue, two grey-white shafts of light flashed downwards through the overhanging branches of a royal oak, as straight as two tall pines. Pickett waved at them, then attempted to grasp and crush one with his fist, but the beam of light merely darted around his hand and forearm, mocking him.

It was said that a crucifixion was a workman-like event, without the aura of any particular cosmic significance or importance beyond the simple mechanics at hand. The participants had the requisite technical skills, all the necessary steps and procedures were well known, and everyone involved knew their role in completing the task. A duel was no different, and generally ended the same way: someone died. The seconds conferred briefly but intensely, exchanged very serious and important comments in low pitched, urgent voices, marked out the ground to be trodden, then conferred again. Each antagonist was approached with an offer to defer the contest if only he would confess his wrongdoing, or acknowledge his waywardness, or offer a reparatory apology. The contestants of course refused all such solicitudes, preferring to examine their weapons studiously for clogging, or dirt, or any other potential malfunction that might dictate the difference between survival and annihilation, exoneration and humiliation. The entirety of the performance was scripted, an elaborate rendition designed to make the outcome, whether life or death, appear to be an almost ancillary afterthought.

Jones observed quietly from beneath a peeling birch tree, his mouth twitching from time to time as if he were trying to form the words he wanted to say. Finally, and with a groan of effort and some agitation, he approached Pickett. “Mister, don’t do this. You’re comin’ along in this life, and in the not too far off you will have to answer for what you do. The Lord Himself once spoke to his angels, and said, ‘That is enough! Do not kill any more people.’ I beg you, mister, stop what you’re doing. You gotta value your own soul.”

Pickett remembered those words very well, and could remember his answer to Jones equally well. He used an expression he had learned as a boy, in Latin. Even as a boy, with the stars and the moon still ahead of him, waiting to be captured and used as marbles in the game of life, the words had touched him with the imprint of a deep truth. As time went on and he survived everyday torments and triumphs, the phrase came to capture everything he felt about himself, and what he felt about the meaning of life itself. He snarled out the words and laughed when he saw the confusion in Jones’s face. “Do you hear that, Jones? I do not care. Now shut your trap before I stuff it with dirt.” Pickett began humming a tune, a little ditty he had composed long ago in remembrance of the ancient phrase, then sang it softly:

Non fui, fui, non sum, non curo.

Softly he sang it, true, but just loud enough for anyone nearby to hear.

As custom dictated, the duelists said nothing to one another as they met in the middle of the field. Willy bowed courteously. Pickett ignored him. Back to back, they began their measured march of twenty paces each. Pickett closed his eyes, sure of the outcome, thinking of nothing at all. When he turned to face his adversary, he stood very still, smiled his fabulous smile, and kept his head erect. Willy took very careful and patient aim, and fired. The shot went wildly to the right, kicking up a clod of earth yards away. An exaggerated, deliberate miss. Adair holstered his gun and crossed his arms, almost as if waiting for the teacher to grade his performance. Pickett took a slow lick of his palm, drew his Browning up, grinned again, and proceeded to shoot.

The bullet struck Willy in the lower chest, just below the left nipple. His breathing was agonal by the time Pickett knelt by his side, but his eyes remained focused, without the frantic rolling and darting and searching that was common for many before the light of life evaporated forever. Pickett felt the jubilant bloodlust swell within him, exulting in the death of the man who had so recently been his friend. He leaned close to hear Willy’s last gasping words.

“You’ll be going to white man’s hell, Colonel. For your white man sins. All of you...down. Down to hell.”

And Pickett had simply laughed, and flashed his brilliant teeth. “No, Willy. I ain’t goin’ to hell. And neither are you. None of us will. Not to hell, son, and not to heaven either. I’m sorta gonna dissolve when the time comes, just like you’re doin’ right now.”

As he scuffled in the darkness of thickets and brambles along the base of Pea Ridge, Pickett both remembered Willy and simultaneously tried to put his memory away. There was no point in reliving what had happened or dwelling on the pain in the young man’s face as he expired. Willy had his beliefs, and Pickett had his own, and the two had gone their separate ways with finality. It did bother him, though, but only from time to time, to remember what Willy had said about going to hell. Well, first of all, there was no hell. But even if there was, Pickett had no reason to believe he deserved punishment for anything he had done in his life. He was a soldier, and was serving his country, and that was all that needed to be said, or believed. He would lay his own life low if he needed to and would lay low anyone else if he needed to. A soldier’s life had always been that way, from ancient times onwards. There was comfort in that. The same thoughts revolved in his mind, over and over, burying themselves deeply within him as he stumbled through low lying thickets. He leaned abruptly towards Lincoln. “Major, how about another snort?” He hissed the words, hoping the enlisted men would not hear.

Lincoln began to reach into his overcoat when the tracker dogs suddenly leapt forward in a frenzy, clawing and pawing through fallen leaves and branches. Then, just as suddenly, both dogs stopped. One of them came to a point, standing rigidly still, directing his snout towards a large hazelberry bush. Upon closer inspection, the bush appeared to be canted at an odd angle. One of the men pushed it over, and a small crevice among some large boulders was revealed. It was a cave entrance.

Lincoln approached the cave, crouched carefully, and called out firmly. “C’mon out, the game is over!” When there was no answer, he shouted out more forcefully. “I’ll give you ten seconds. We have grenades and a flame thrower!”

A rustle, and then a mumbling, inarticulate response was heard, floating into the night air from the hidden creatures in the cave. The stolen slaves stumbled out first, Jones third in line. As he emerged he looked around quickly and strode purposefully to Pickett. His face was rigid, a mask hiding any clue to what he might be feeling. When he spoke, though, it was through lips that barely parted, as if the words were ejected somehow from deep within his body, without the need for tongue or throat.

“Hello Mister.”

“Hello Jones. You almost made it.”

“I’m a pretty old dog. Not particularly lookin’ for a new kennel.” He pointed towards the cave. “What’r you gonna do with them?”

The northern terrorists had emerged. There were six of them. They were very young and very old. The youngest was a boy of thirteen or fourteen, the acne on his face clearly visible in the glare of the electric torches. The oldest had pure white hair cascading out the back of his hat and almost to his waist. They stood as prisoners always stood, in various postures of defiance, and fear, disbelief and confusion. Pickett would soon dispel any confusion.

“Major!” He spoke with the sharp bark of command. “Round this bunch up. They are obviously spies, don’tcha think? And they’re outta uniform. Round them up, I say, and show them some southern justice. Ain’t that right, boys?”

The men yipped and hooted, poking at the prisoners with the muzzles of their guns. Major Lincoln remained unmoving, an uncertain look on his face. He turned his back to his men, facing Pickett, and spoke softly. “Colonel, what do you mean?”

Pickett snorted in disgust. “I mean string ‘em all up.”

“Colonel, I think that’s a crime. It’s against military convention.”

“Alright, alright. In that case just shoot’m. Begin with that geezer with the white hair. Form up your men.” Without waiting for a response he turned to the squad sergeant and pointed at the prisoners imperiously.

“Colonel!” Lincoln had a note of desperation, almost a plea in his voice rather than a command. “They should be tried! They deserve that much justice at least.”

Pickett drew his Browning smoothly and pointed it at the sergeant. He spoke very evenly, making no attempt to raise his voice. “We are the only justice to be had. Sergeant, shoot the one with the long tail of hair. I can see that he is attempting to escape. Stop him.”

The sergeant snapped a salute and without hesitation leveled his carbine at the old man, who dutifully removed his hat, placed it over his chest, and attempted to come to attention.

“Wait.”

At first, Pickett wasn’t sure who had spoken. He glanced briefly at the major, and then at the men of the squad, who were also looking around apprehensively.

It was Jones. He strode purposefully to interpose himself between the sergeant and the elderly prisoner. “Wait,” he repeated, drawing out the word so that it seemed to stretch with a pensive echo, like a long sad song about forlorn yesterdays. “Wait,” he said. “Shoot me instead. Have mercy on him. If you must kill, then kill me.” He raised his arms straight up in a gesture of obeisance, and raised his gaze to the sky above.

It was said so simply that it appeared quite natural, almost to be expected, an ordinary act of bargaining at the butcher shop or leather goods stall. Pickett could scarcely believe what he was seeing. He swung his pistol towards Jones. “Outta the way, right now.”

Jones said nothing, merely rolling his eyes heavenwards.

“I mean it Jones. Y’ ain’t immune to the law.”

Jones remained motionless. The old man behind him sank to his knees, but remained calm.

Pickett felt a tidal wave of thoughts rush through his mind, a thousand sounds and images from times past, of dead men and happy faces, of death rattles and loud laughs, and fleetingly, of soft breath, warm upon his neck. He stepped back, maybe for the first time in his life, and lowered his gun.

“Glory be to God!” It was Jones, exclaiming loudly as he clasped his hands in jubilation.

Pickett turned away without a word, grimly retracing his steps down the hill as Lincoln had his men formed up the slaves and the prisoners. Glory be to God, he thought as he trampled carefully through the underbrush. That’s how Jones sees the world, that’s all he needs to explain everything. Glory be to God. For the briefest moment, he had a vision of God pissing His own name in the snow, nonchalantly and without a care in the world, engraving his identity for eternity.

The events at Pea Ridge had all transpired a decade ago, in some ways a lifetime ago, a time as long gone as his childhood days. Now he was president of a country collapsing from within, and he was tormented with the uncertainty of how to make things right and create order out of chaos. Just like in the army, the human race had its different ranks, each with different duties. Whites and blacks. Catholic and Baptist. Italian and Irish, men and women. All in their own pecking order. That kind of thinking made sense to him, and made the world seem orderly. In the end, though, it did not matter what he thought. It was only important what the rest of the world thought. If Japanese and French and British thought the opposite, then he would play along to save the CSA from simply splintering apart.

Abruptly, he grasped the Manila envelope on his desk, retrieved it, and read the note Davidson had written, clipped to the top of his speech:

The modern world is changing, invading, destroying

Everywhere we look we can see the signs, like the droppings of a

forest beast:

Abstract art.

Interpretive dance.

Jazz.

Central banks

Conglomerates

Homosexualism

Atonal music

International Industrialists

Atheists

The invaders are a danger to us, as surely as any army crossing the

Ohio, and must be repelled.

Pickett read the list carefully. God, but don’t he sound like Jones, he thought. He had reassured Davidson that he would carefully consider his note. Of course, he barely meant it. We’re not repelling them, friend. Hell, we’re inviting them in. Don’t care if it’s right or wrong, don’t care what history will say or who all is hurtin’ or hootin’. It’s got to be done and I’m the one to do it. Without hesitation he flipped the typewritten pages of his speech to the last one, and scrawled his signature. He reached for his liquor, sniffing before downing it. For the briefest moment he could see, almost feel, a girl in blue denim falling quietly from the sky. Had to be done, he thought, and I was the one to do it. As usual, he was quite content that he was nothing more than an empty vessel, with no scruples to speak of.

Subscribe now

Chapter 22

“Jona, I have idea.”

That’s how it began.

The three friends were brooding silently in Elfieda’s hotel cubicle. It was cold in the room, made to feel even colder by the streaks of sleeting rain that brushed past the only window. Jona stared outside vacantly, with no thoughts of any kind, and no desire to move from where he stood. Elfieda and Alex lay on the bed, stretched out side by side. Elfieda was on her back, with eyes closed. Alex was on his stomach, head cradled in his arms, an unlit cigarette propped in his mouth. He grunted as he reached for matches.

“It’s crazy idea. If you’re interested, I vill tell you.”

Jona did not answer. He leaned against the freezing window, seeing nothing but the condensation of his breath on the glass pane. He held his breath every few moments, just to watch the vaporous layer recede rapidly, then breathed out deeply again to watch the misty residue expand, creating a thin patina of cooling carbon dioxide and oxygen, a chimerous reflection of his life. It, like so many other things, would disappear forever the instant he moved on. It seemed like ages that they were caged in the small hotel room, and Jona had ceased to care about anything. He was vaguely hungry, and the stubble of beard on his chin and neck caused a chaffing sensation. He was aware of nothing else. Emptiness enveloped him. Marielle was gone away, taken to somewhere in Siberia, exiled to some ghoulish prison camp. He was in Moscow with false identity papers, just as likely to be swept up as she had been. There was no way to get to her, and there was no way home, at least no easy way home. Somewhere in the back of his mind some other thoughts pricked at him, but they faded away without much effort, leaving his mind completely blank.

“Jona, you hear?”

He said nothing, but gestured for a smoke.

Alex swung his legs around, rearing up on the bed. Elfieda also sat up, rubbing her forehead as if awakening from a bad dream. The single naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling continued to flicker, as it had all day, giving both of them the appearance of uncoordinated, herky-jerky movements. Alex offered an almost empty pack of Fatima cigarettes.

“Look, ve must make a plan. You go back home or not.”

Jona lit up and took a deep drag. The room immediately became permeated with a smell of bitter, rotting, smoky incense. He cast a quick look in the direction of Alex. “What do you mean? Stay here?” He returned his gaze to the opaque gray outside the window. “No.”

“Alright, then vhat? Go to the Swiss embassy?”

Jona felt a surge of anger race through him with electric intensity. “I don’t know, Alex. Why don’t you tell me. You too, Elfieda. Why don’t you both tell me? You’re the ones who got me into this back in Berlin. It’s OK for you two, you’re like two little peas in a pod, aren’t you.”

“Jona, leave Elfieda alone. I tell you one time only. No more warnings.” Alex stood to his full height. In the confines of the small room he loomed over Jona with monstrous immensity.

Thoughts began to click into Jona’s head, at first disjointed but then organizing faster and faster, snowballing into an avalanche of images and words. Marielle. His father. Lenny, for some absurd reason. Andrews. Koehler. Marielle. He hung his head, taking another deep pull on his cigarette. “Sorry Alex, Elfieda. It’s really tough...” In another place, in another time, Jona would have started to cry, and he almost did. Elfieda rushed to embrace him as he heaved a sigh.

“We’ve all felt what you’re feeling now, darling.”

“Alright, both of you.” Alex swung his arms over their shoulders, then spun Jona around. “Stay here. Go home. Time to speak. “

“I’m not sure I have a home, Alex.”

“Good first step. Honesty. Adventure now over, right?”

Jona sucked deeply on the cigarette, inhaling it as if it were nourishment. “Yes. Maybe. I guess so. I don’t know.” He looked at Alex quizzically. “What’s your crazy idea?”

“No. First tell me. Adventure over?”

“Fuck yourself. What’s your idea?”

Alex sat back on the bed, smoking quietly. He snapped a glance at Elfieda. “Tell him.”

“Darling.” She tugged at Jona’s waist with both hands. “Alex and I are returning to Germany.”

“That’s insane!” Jona was staggered. “Germany! They’ll find you! They’ll arrest you! They’ll, they’ll...” He caught himself. “But why? You love it here. This is your home now.”

“Because that is where we are needed, Jona. In the viper’s nest, right in the center. We cannot just run away from what is happening.”

Jona sat down next to Alex, his head hanging low. “It’s so dangerous for you both.”

Elfieda continued quite calmly. “We still have many friends there. And we will have each other. Jona, listen to me my darling.” Her voice hummed, striking a perfect pitch of serenity. “There is one more thing. Alex and I are going to marry. As soon as we can. It is our pledge to love each other, friend to friend and lover to lover, until the end.”

A long silence ensued. Jona puffed quietly, numbed and without any show of emotion. A long black shadow passed through him, piercing right into him, obscuring any feelings of anger, or regret, or longing. For the briefest second he had a vision of Elfieda’s pale blond hair swaying back and forth right before his eyes, dancing to the slow tempo of his beating heart, but that memory dissolved rapidly into thin forgetfulness, leaving only emptiness. It occurred to him that he was feeling despair, but that thought also evaporated quickly, a meaningless description of an uncaring sentiment. Elfieda grasped his arm and rested her head on his shoulder.

“You can come vit us, Jona. Maybe Berlin is funny now, ve have some laughs together. You find a girl there. Vhat you think?” Alex knew the answer before he asked.

Though his hip was throbbing and a burning sting was shooting down his leg, Jona struggled to his feet to face Alex. “That’s not all, is it? What did you mean before when you said you had an idea?” he demanded.

Alex snapped his eyes towards Elfieda, who nodded her head. He sighed deeply. “I have a friend, Jona. A comrade from the var, like a brother. Not far from here, just outside Moscow, in place called Fili. He has airplane there. Many airplanes. He can fly them in Russia. He can fly them anyvhere he vants to, whenever he vants to.”

“Elfieda, Have you ever met this fellow?”

“Jurgens? No. Alex has told me about him. Alex saved Jurgens’ life. Did he tell you?.”

“Ah yes. Saved his life. And isn’t that just like Alex.”

They were strolling through the Hermitage gardens, soaking in the few slanting rays of sunlight that beamed down through unhappy slate gray skies. Elfieda held Jona’s hand tightly, as if he were a mischievous boy primed to run away at any moment.

Alex had left that morning, catching a bus to the Moscow suburb of Fili. Before leaving he had explained to Jona about his friend Jurgens, a Fokker pilot during the war who was shot down by the French. Jurgens managed to crash land his plane, but in the middle of No Man’s Land, somewhat closer to the French lines than to the German. It was obvious to soldiers on both sides that he was injured, bleeding badly, and could not extricate himself from the cockpit. Alex made his move when the poilus, who initially raked the downed Fokker with rifle fire, abruptly stopped shooting. He was able to snake his way two hundred yards to the downed pilot and carry him back to safety.

Jona could not fathom that kind of bravery. “What made you do it?” he had asked when he first heard the story.

“It vas the end, Jona. The end of the var. The Kaiser vas just abdicated. Ve all knew it vas going to be over soon, maybe even that day. As it happened, it vas the next day. I thought the inferno should not be fed anymore. No more meat into the cauldron, not that close to the end.”

“Yes, but I’m sure the enemy didn’t necessarily feel the same way.”

“But they did. Most did. The French boys stopped firing vhen they saw me running to the plane. I could hear some of them cheering. I could also hear the officers screaming out their orders, probably to shoot me. Nobody did, though. I ran to the plane and back until my guts burst, but really I didn’t haff to. Could have valked. The killing vas over. Jurgens lived. That vas good enough for me.”

“And he’s a Kozy now, living in Moscow?”

Alex laughed with that particular laugh he had, more laced with brittle sarcasm than joy. “No. Not Kozy, not close. Might be Nazi now, I don’t know. Still a pilot, working at Junkers plant in Fili.”

“Wait, I’m confused. Isn’t Junkers a German company, an aviation firm? What are they doing in Moscow? Russia and Germany...They hate each other, right?”

Alex laughed again, more gently this time. “Sure, Jona, sure. Hate each other, sure. But after the var, everybody else hate them both even more. Russia for having the Bolshies. And Germany for having the Germans. So, only possible friend is each other. Germans agree to set up plant in Russia for development of airplane types. Remember, peace treaty ending the var said no more air force allowed for Germany. Germans cheat on peace treaty, and Russians share in research. Good for both. Junkers company gone now, whole base taken over by Russians. Jurgens was at Lipetsk first, Russian air base, training with the Luftwaffe. I met him there in 1924, very happy, flying Fokker 13’s, living the dream of testing new airplanes. Then transferred to Fili, stayed behind to run whole operation for the Soviets. He’s in charge now. Everything. Rich man.”

Jona was staggered by the irreality of what he heard, almost as if a mischievous sprite had entered the room and sat down casually next to both of them to join in the conversation. “The Luftwaffe training at a Russian air base? Sharing research? Testing new models? It seems impossible, doesn’t it?”

Alex answered concisely. “No. Not really. Everything possible. You’ll see.” He left for Fili a short while later with a smile and a wave.

As he walked in the park with Elfieda late that afternoon, Jona wondered what Alex would learn from Jurgens. “Don’t worry,” he said with more confidence than he felt. “He’ll find a safe way back to Germany for both of you. His friend will help.”

“I’m not worried, we’ll be fine.” Elfieda gave Jona a searching look and grasped his hand more strongly. “And you? What about you, Jona? You will be fine?”

“Don’t know. I have to dig down, try to find something I can do, something I can understand, something I can live for, some purpose in all this shit.”

They were just passing the Hermitage theater as a crowd of children came running out its doors, whooping and shouting, herded together by pale faced and leather lunged teachers. The day was shutting down rapidly as the oval stump of sun receded behind a low-lying bank of purple clouds that obscured everything that lay beyond.

Elfieda watched the children as they spilled out into the street, then stopped, turning Jona towards her to look into his eyes, squinting, as if peering towards a far horizon. “If you find her, will you be happy?”

Lieb shrugged. “Marielle? Don’t know.”

“Do you truly love her? It’s important for me to know this one thing, Jona.”

“Yes…. Elfieda?”

“Darling, what is it?” She stroked the knuckles of his hand twice, three times, then stopped and pulled on his hand. “What’s worrying you?”

Jona stopped mid stride. “Tell me. Can love just leave or does it always stay? Even if the other person is gone, does it linger. I’ve been thinking that it might be like a modest perfume, maybe like rosewater, always there.”

They resumed walking in silence. Elfieda abruptly stopped, turning to grasp Jona by both shoulders. “With time, anything can wash away. Rosewater. Love. Even sin. Anything.”

“But the memory stays, right? Forever?” Jona seemed frantic. “This is important. I need to know this. Does it last forever?”

“What you need to know right now is whether you still love Marielle. Do you feel it, do you feel it in your heart ?”

He gave Elfieda a sharp shove, wrenching himself away from her. Jona could feel his face contorting, disfiguring with rage, and hear the blood pounding in his ears. His words roared in a tornado of sudden rage, spawned by some hateful wound draining from deep inside himself. “Why don’t you just go to hell! All of you, just go to hell! How am I supposed to feel anything about anything? You ask me ‘How do you feel, Jona,’ and ‘Are you happy, Jona, are you in love, Jona, is everything good, Jona?’ Well guess what, I have no goddamn idea. Not about anything anymore.” He sat down on a nearby bench and buried his head in his hands. Soft sniveling sounds shook out from his quivering head and shoulders, erupting as short, guttural invocations to uncaring gods.

Elfieda sat down next to him, embracing his neck. She tried to cover his face so that passersby would not see his grief, but people stopped and stared. “Darling, darling,” she moaned into his ear. Her voice heaved with the pain she felt for him. “Patience, the hurt cannot last. It ends for all of us, I promise. You are not the only one whose mind and soul have come undone. I once walked the same road you’re on now, believe me. Nothing can erase the stain of sorrow in your heart, Jona, but I’ll be by your side tomorrow and together we can make a brave new start. So come, darling. Come. Come now. Come and bind your wounds to mine.”

They walked back to the hotel arm in arm. Jona limped heavily all the way there, in horrendous agony with every step. He swayed against Elfieda, clutching her. Without warning, he blurted out the first thought that came to him. “Do you really think sin can be dissipated?”

“What are you asking, darling?”

“You said sin can be washed away. You said it.”

She glanced at him, fearful that he was becoming incoherent and clasped him even more tightly. “I don’t actually know…Your question is so odd, I don’t know how to answer.”

They lapsed into silence, but Jona appeared mor and more agitated. Elfieda stopped, pulled on his arm and turned to face him. “What is it, Jona. Why are you so upset?. Speak to me.”

“You and Alex are getting married. Right?”

“Yes, darling. I explained it to you. We love each other.”

Jona took a deep breath, then another, as if he were trying to recover from a race that was hopelessly lost. “Then, if I also loved you, would that be a sin?” He turned his head away. “Because I would sin for love. Over and over, if I could.”

Elfieda said nothing, turned and began shepherding him back to her hotel. In the room, she guided him onto the bed and patiently helped undress him completely, carefully extricating his legs from his trousers to avoid stretching his hips and causing him pain. She disappeared briefly, to return with a towel soaked in hot water that she draped over his forehead. Then she undressed herself and lay down upon him, breast to breast, and kissed his face. The room first whirled and then steadied, centering on the small space between their eyes, filled only by the quiet breath that flowed from one to the other. Jona shivered, and Elfieda held him all the more tightly, holding him with her arms as tightly as if she were holding the past to herself, not willing to let it part from her. Jona thought of Alex, and felt guilt wash over him, almost as if he were committing an awful transgression against an awesome law, an ancient law, a commandment that should never be broken. He felt the stabbing sensation of sin pierce straight through to his heart. But if this was sin, he could not stop; it was a cup he was eager to drink. And so he lay with Elfieda, deep into the night, holding with desperation, unspeaking, aching for her kiss, wondering if everything was nothing more than this, and sinning, sinning, sinning…sinning while in silent bliss.

Later, deep in sleep, his father came to him. Not as he was at the end, but as a young man, with sparkling eyes, cleft chin, and dimpled creases on his cheeks when his mouth spread wide in smile. It was Jona’s first year away at school, he was no more than eleven. They walked along the Deerfield River, clambering nimbly over every angular, moss covered boulder with easy alacrity, laughing at how marvelous it was to make their own path, a trail for just the two of them along the densely thicketed shoreline. His father clambered to the top of an enormous rock that stood at a turn in the roaring stream, a craggy boulder with the power to bend the river to its will, subduing the rushing waters enough to curve them around itself. He grinned at Jona as he spoke. “Do you truly love her, Jona? I need to know this one thing.”

“First, you tell me something dad. Do you truly love her? You know who. I’ve got to know this one thing, too.”

“I will tell you if you tell me whether you believe in sin. You were so worried about it just now.”

“It doesn’t matter. Even if there is something called sin, it can be washed away.”

His father grinned and pointed at the boulder they were standing on. “This rock has been here for a thousand years and the river has not washed it away. Sin and love are no different. They stay.”

The scene dissolved just as he was about to climb up the rock, receding into the hidden chamber of mock truths and primal fears that are the sphere of dreams. A city street then appeared in his vision, expanding rapidly. Jona found himself sitting next to Koehler. They were at Cafe Blue Sky, in Berlin. It was in the afternoon, before their opera engagement, and they were sitting at an outdoor table with all the bustle of the city surrounding them. Jona was drinking blue tea and Koehler was cradling a blue espresso cup while smoking his pipe.

Koehler grinned at Lieb. “You look as eager as Leander climbing up to Hero’s room, Herr Doktor. Have you fallen in love?”

Jona was feeling giddy with the excitement of the day. “Tell me, Professor, do you believe in love?”

“Silly boy. Of course. Love animates everything. The cosmos moves to the rhythm of love.”

“It’s just that I’m not sure what it is. How will I know it? Of course, I’ve read about it, and talked to others. But what if I can’t tell when the moment comes?”

“Oh, you mean like the problem posed by form and sensation.”

“No idea what you mean. Please explain, Professor.”

A clock ticked in the corner of Jona’s mind, a soft but insistent tick-tock. In his sleep he knew that when the moving hands touched the coming hour a bell would chime and he would awaken and everything he already knew about the world’s great questions would come spilling out into his awareness, a deluge that would drown out the story playing out in his dream, and the gentle pretense he was acting out. But in his dreamy state an unseen master of ceremonies, a creative maestro, hovered in the background and decreed that Koehler was to continue his part in the dream a bit longer before dissolving back into the inchoate slime of Jona’s unformed thoughts.

“The question is about whether we can ever really know anything without experiencing it first. Imagine a man blind from birth. Give him a ball and a cube to play with every day. Let him explore both objects as much as he wishes and instruct him carefully about which is the ball and which the cube. Then imagine his sight is restored. Place the ball and the cube on a table a few feet away and ask him if he could identify each one properly just by looking at them. Could he?”

Jona was now sitting high atop the rock by the river, overlooking the surrounding forest. Koehler was sitting next to him, puffing on his pipe patiently. “No, professor. No. The knowledge must be transferred from the hands to the eyes in order to know which is which.”

“So the eyes can only know when they are first informed by the hands? And the hands informed by what the eyes can show?”

“Correct.”

Koehler was persistent. “But if the man is instructed, taught once again with words while actually looking at the two objects, if they are carefully described, could he not identify each one?”

“No.” In his dream, Jona was surprised to find that it was now his father speaking. Koehler had disappeared. “No.” He turned his cavernous eyes towards Jona. “No. The senses must first be satisfied. Nothing else is real.” He poked a finger into Jona’s chest, straight into his heart, leaving nothing but a neat, small hole to show for it. “Nothing else is real.”

“So, love is not real?”

His father laughed, a great bellow, his mouth gargantuan. “We were talking about sin.”

Jona opened his mouth but could not speak. Smoke enveloped him, the fumes from Koehler’s pipe, twining around his body, pressing against him, pushing, tightening like the coil of a vine, then relaxing, then tightening again to the slow beat of his heart, tick-tick-ticking.

A tinny clock alarm rang. Elfieda reached over Jona’s chest to click it off. She turned into him and caressed his cheek. “Up, darling. Alex will be back soon.”

Lieb turned his head away, unable to look into her face. When he spoke, it was with a low croaking voice, brittle as ice. “I just don’t know, Elfieda, I can’t be sure.”

“About what, darling?”

“About what you asked me yesterday. About Marielle, whether I love her. Or whether I only want her.” Jona stifled a sob welling up. “Or whether I’m pretending about everything or imagining it all. I just don’t know.”

“Jona, dearest, you’d better decide quickly. Alex is making arrangements right now with Jurgens. We talked it over, and we decided that before we return to Germany we’re going to help you. We’re going to find her, Jona. We’re going to find Marielle, the three of us.”

Vnukovo airport looked deserted. The trip from Fili was not long, just over an hour, but the cold night air had seized them within minutes of taking their seats in the back of the lorry being driven by Jurgens. Alex sat between Jona and Elfieda, hugging them both tightly, but to no avail. By the time the truck stopped at the airport entrance, Jona was shaking uncontrollably.

It was just after four, of a desolate and foul looking morning when they pulled up to the small, brightly lit red guardhouse controlling the main gate. Floodlights covered the area, and receded at regular intervals left and right, giving shape to the general outline of the airport. The runway lights were off, leaving a void as black as middle earth in the near distance, and the vague outlines of support buildings, warehouses, and hangers floated as black silhouettes in the far distance. All except one, a tall hangar that reflected a shining light as brightly as a Roman temple.

Jurgens and Alex entered the guardhouse, spending a maddening amount of time inside before scurrying out just as the main gate began to roll open. Alex gave a thumbs up sign as he sprang onto the bed of the truck with Jona and Elfieda.

“I told you,” he shouted triumphantly. “Jurgens runs this place like it’s his home. He goes back and forth between the production factory in Fili and here every day. Run everything, does everything. Maybe even distribute the bread.”

When they met Jurgens the day before, he had seemed cold and detached, even with Alex. Elfieda was worried that Jurgens would abandon them, but Alex remained unruffled. He assured them that the German aviator had agreed to help them wholeheartedly and had begun to draw up flight plans that same day. Alex and Elfieda had used the last three days purchasing coats, sweaters, boots, dry food, and miscellaneous camping gear. They had spent almost the last of their money navigating Moscow’s intricate backstreet black market, terrified of being caught in the process.

It all became exceedingly real to Jona when they pulled up to a concrete apron fronting the brightly lit hangar. An airplane of gigantic proportions, the largest he had ever seen, had come alive with a deafening thrum of its four engines. The force of the prop blast caused the truck to tremor, as if the hot breath of a monstrous dragon was flaming down upon them.

Jurgens jumped out of the cab and motioned them into the hangar. They gathered around a table covered by a map of Russia. Jona could see lines drawn on the map, marked in ink, radiating from Vnukovo eastward across the Russian land mass. Jurgens appeared ebullient. His taciturn expression of the day before was transformed by a wide, even smile. He shouted some words at them, too quickly for Jona to follow over the roar of the engines.

Alex translated. “He say this is special flight, maybe make vorld record.” He waited as Jurgens spoke further, and then pointed at the airplane. “He is saying this is specially modified JU K51. Right now civilian plane for transport and mail but one day will be perfect bomber that Germany and maybe also Russia will buy. Who knows, maybe Japan too.” They watched as Jurgens animatedly drew his finger across the map. Alex became rock still as his gaze travelled along the lines drawn across the face of Russia.

“Darling, what is it?” Elfieda clutched his arm.

Goldstein mumbled a few words to her, then glanced at Jona. He raised his voice to be heard above the relentless throb of engine noise. “He can take us very close to vhere ve vant to go, very close. There is small airstrip nearby the prison camp, outside town of Alexandrovskoye, very close to the island. One problem, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Runway seven hundred meters long.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Plane needs eleven hundred to take off.”

Elfieda fell asleep, looking drugged, almost as soon as they were airborne. Jona felt drawn as tight as a wire, shifting restlessly, trying to find a comfortable position that would alleviate the lancing pain in his hip and leg. They were seated on long metal benches that ran the length of the cabin fuselage, facing inward. Dim lights overhead provided feeble illumination. Jona sat alone, opposite his friends, but when Jurgens announced that they were at their cruising altitude of one thousand meters he crossed over to sit with Alex.

The burly German smiled wickedly. “Are you sick of sitting in your own shit yet?”

“Yes. Yes. No.” Jona hesitated. “May-”

Alex cut him off. “I know, I know. Maybe!”

They both chuckled for a moment. Without thinking, Jona grasped Alex’s hand. “I need to tell you something.”

Alex shook him off roughly. “Tell me nothing. All vill be O.K. Jurgens flies us there, three thousand kilometers, drops us off. Land six, seven, kilometers from island. Nazino island, in middle of river Ob. Whole Island is KZ, lightly defended, maybe by old men, the kind vith beards and thick glasses, and also aunties vith aprons and big asses. Ve have gear, food, guns. Ve go there, find Marielle, take her out. Jurgens fly to Tomsk, nine hundred kilometers away, refuel and resupply. Come back in three days just like Jesus. Brings chocolates and cologne. Pick us up, fly back to Vnukovo. Russians kiss his fanny vhen he announce historic flight vith new time record, three thousand kilometers in twelve hours twenty minutes, done by Soviet aircraft. The Brits will pay attention, I guarantee. Then next day fly us to Lublyanka, some shit-hole in Slovenia I think. Ve cross to Austria at Graz. Vill need a car or a donkey, but ve vill find. From there everything good.” He snapped his fingers. “Today Monday. Sunday vill be in Berlin.”

Silence overcame them, succumbing only to the grumbling drone of the engines. Jona rubbed his forehead with both hands. “I’m afraid,” he said simply.

“Told you before. Everyone live vith fear.”

“Alex, I need to know something. Why are you doing this? This whole thing is insane. You could be somewhere safe. Why?”

Goldstein reached over to pat Jona on the head. His eyes were made luminous by the reflection of a dull light directly overhead. “Sometimes you are so stupid, amazes me.” He nodded his chin towards Elfieda. “She love you. How, vhen, vhere, I don’t know. Why, really don’t know. Vants you happy. Vants you in love also. Something like that. If she vants, then I vant too. Nothing else important to me.”

Lieb collapsed backwards on the metal bench, feeling helpless. “But the two of you are getting married. I don’t understand.”

“O.K., Jona, O.K. not to understand. You haven’t lived enough, haven’t seen enough to understand.” Alex placed a massive hand on Jona’s shoulder and began to squeeze, squeezing his shoulder bone to the very brink of pain, so that Jona cringed, and only then released his grip. His lips twitched in half snarl, half sneer, half smile. “You felt that, yes? No, you haven’t felt enough. I love her to death. And she me, to death. Everything else just hot breath on cold morning, disappear in seconds.”

“We must be mad. Do you think we’re going to die?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. But not today, Herr Doktor.” And then Alex laughed, a laugh that filled the cabin and vibrated through the airplane’s metal frame, resonating louder than the engine noise, louder than any fear or doubt, louder than the trumpet blast of reason, and just for a brief moment, louder than the screams in Jona’s head.

Stillness. Suffocating, white stillness. Even the airplane’s revving engine noise was muffled by the icy carapace of snow that coated the ground, the trees, the very universe surrounding them. The trio of Alex, Elfieda and Jona stood silently, transfixed by the sight of the K-51 skimming past them, taking impossible aim at the end of the clearing that marked the runway’s edge. Elfieda squeezed Jona’s hand with crushing strength, willing the massive wings to lift off the ground. At the last possible instant, the plane’s nose rose up, barely clearing the dense mass of forest that possessed the earth in every direction. Jurgens did not turn around to fly back over the clearing, or waggle his wings, or acknowledge in any way the forlorn looking group that was left behind. The airplane receded rapidly into the far distance, disappearing in minutes into the thin haze of clouds above.

“Let’s go.” Alex broke the silence with abruptness. He adjusted the rifle slung crossways over his shoulders, strapped on his backpack, and pointed Jona towards the compact sled they had brought with them. The compass bound to his wrist flashed in the lucent, snow reflected light. “Dark in two hours, maybe less. Go four kilometers due south. I push sled, Jona you ride. Elfieda you follow by five meters, no closer. And no further.”

Jona climbed gratefully onto the low-slung sled, being cautious not to dislodge the canvas covered bundles carefully prepared and strapped down by Alex. The other two laced up their snowshoes, and the small expedition set out over the snowpack at a slow and steady pace. Only then, riding within their hushed bubble of snowy isolation, was Jona struck by the enormity of what they were doing. He glanced backwards at Alex, gliding forward stolidly, and then at Elfieda a few yards behind. Streams of misty breath billowed from both of them, dissipating rapidly in the frigid air. My God, he thought, I’m responsible for all this. They are here, risking their lives on account of me. And I’m risking my life with them. All because of someone I loved once, someone I haven’t seen or heard from in half a year. Marielle’s face floated before him, smiling as she often did, with lips somehow downturned as her brown eyes sparkled. Jona blinked, but she would not leave him.

After their first meeting, Jona had given no further thought to the impish girl with short curly red hair, ivory skin and confident lift of chin. But when they met again, he became entranced by her immediately, as if he was seeing her for the first time. He was at the Brigades. It was an ordinary Friday night, percolating with the usual smell of coffee and beer, drenched in the usual roiling squall of earnest, intense discussion. Jona was looking for somewhere to sit down when he felt two arms embrace him from behind. His first sensation was the weak but definite smell of lilac. His second was the touch of two breasts pressing into his back. When he turned around, there was Marielle, hair stringing down under her hat and over her forehead. Her lips moved, and in the shadow of the dimly lit hall assumed a vague and hidden shape, a chiaroscuro smile that highlighted the lustrous beam of her eyes. Then she reached up to kiss him lightly on the cheek and passed her hand around to gently touch the nape of his neck. Her touch was electric, shooting through him with a thrill that raced down his spine again and again.

They talked, they drank wine, they kissed. She told him about her classes at the New School, and the wondrous freedom that came with knowledge and understanding of the human condition. He told her about his work performing postmortems. She confessed that she was frightened of what the future would bring to humanity. He confided that he was ashamed of his many failures. She struck the table with her fist, decrying the unjust executions of Saccho and Vanzetti. He told her about his recent deposition in the murder case of an obese mafioso. She declaimed that all ownership was nothing more than theft, that the evil moneyed classes were exploiting ordinary workers, and that either a communist revolution or an anarchist implosion was needed to cleanse America of its many sins. He told her she had lovely hands, something he could scarcely believe he had the audacity to do.

Later, when they were alone, Jona had his first experience in touching a woman. Marielle gave freely, smiling her Cupid smile, offering the warm promise of more with each mischievous gaze into his eyes. From that day onwards she occupied his thoughts day and night. He daydreamed about her, imagining the two of them embraced in every possible way. In his fantasies he brought himself to the edge of intimacy with Marielle, but not beyond. He always stopped himself. He did not wish to imagine that far. He found himself burning to only be with her, like a fevered monk sacrificing everything of this world to seek a cloistered place of prayer.

He should never have said a word to his father. When Marielle asked him to escape to a new life together, he should have fled with her, hand in hand, just as if they were two lovers emerging from the suffocating depths of night into the radiance of a new day. He would have been king, and she would have been queen, and they would have ruled together over the realm of their own destiny. But he did. He did tell his father. He told him everything, in fact.

Jona had taken the train to Boston, meeting his father in a nondescript coffee shop on Boylston Street. He had been with Marielle the night before, the night she begged him to leave everything behind, and he was worried that the smell of her perfume permeated his clothing and would be noticed by his father. It was clear that Earnest Lieb was in a bad mood; he barely looked up from his eggs as Jona slid into a chair next to him.

“Well,” he barked, “Any luck in identifying neurotransmitters from your isolates?”

“No, dad. Still trying.”

“Adrenaline precursors? A logical target.”

“No.”

Lieb slapped his hand down on the table, hard. “Then you’re being sloppy in your preparation. I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times that careful setup and preparation are everything. You’re too lazy to do it properly.”

“Dad, I want to talk to you about something else....” And then Jona told him. About Marielle, and that he planned to marry her, and move away to a small town, possibly in Wisconsin, or Kansas, and open an office as a general practitioner, and leave the soot and toil of New York behind him.

Earnest Lieb had long before mastered the art of listening carefully, at least when he wanted to. At first he said nothing and simply stared with intense ferocity into Jona’s eyes. After a short while he averted his gaze and began to toy with his fork and knife. When Jona finished, his father said nothing, continuing to play with his utensils as the minutes dragged on. Finally, he looked up at Jona and pointed the knife in his direction. “See this? It’s a useful tool, isn’t it?”

“Sure, dad. Very useful.”

“It changed humankind. More than that, it changed the world after it was invented. The ordinary relation of man to his world was changed forever. All because of the knife.” He held it up to the light, examining the blade carefully.

Jona felt he had to say something. “Sure, dad. Everything changed.”

Lieb puffed out his chin, a sure sign that he was going to lecture Jona. “Now you answer this question, young man. Is the knife the most important human invention?”

After a few moments’ thought, Jona answered. “Yes, dad, I think possibly yes, it definitely could be.”

“No, son. Not the most important.”

“The wheel, then.”

“No.”

Jona hung his head in contemplation. He could feel his father’s eyes boring into him, challenging him. He knew he could never answer correctly. For the moment, Marielle drifted out of his mind. “Not sure.”

Earnest Lieb tapped the table with the knife. He tapped harder and harder, tap-tap-tapping as if impatient with the slow pace of time, tapping a secret code that would open an underground cavern filled with ancient wonders. He grinned as he tapped, or smirked, licking his lips to lap up stray wisps of egg yolk. His eyes, one brown and one gray, narrowed into slits. Even when he stopped, the sound of tapping reverberated in the air. He leaned forward, a sign that he was ready to share a small sliver of wisdom. “The leash, son. The leash.”

Jona jumped on the idea. “You’re right, dad. The leash! Domestication of livestock! Primitive man could farm more successfully. Population growth. Cities became possible. All because humans could leash animals.” Jona felt happy and excited to share the insight with his father.

Earnest Lieb threw his head back and began to laugh, a loud, deep cachinnating explosion that made him stand up and lean forward just to take a sucking breath before breaking out in more guffaws. He ignored the nervous glances that came from others sitting nearby. After a few moments he sat back down, still heaving with mirth. He leaned close again. “Leash animals? No, Jona. Not leashing animals. Leashing humans. Learning to leash other human beings, to govern others of your own kind, to bend them to the will of someone else, to your will, one by one, then by the dozens, the hundreds, the thousands. To control the most dangerous creature on the planet. That was the most important lesson learned by humankind, it’s greatest discovery.”

And then the roar of laughter returned, resounding like the staccato sound of clapping, or rapping on a door shut fast. Bundled up and crouching on a sled ten thousand miles from Boston, Jona could still hear the laughing as his father told him he was a fool to think about marriage, and about becoming husband to a wife. He rubbed his blanched cheeks to bring back circulation to his face and clenched his teeth grimly. I understood what you were saying, dad, he thought. Sometimes we become captive to an idea, or a feeling, or to someone else, and can’t escape. But what you didn’t understand is that sometimes we don’t want to escape. Jona shook his head, as if his father were standing right before him. And sometimes the leash binds the one holding it.

The temperature had been just above freezing when they first landed, but now began to drop precipitously. Jona could sense that he was losing feeling in his feet despite the double layer of woolen socks encased within his thick leather boots. They were traveling through moderately sparse woods, leaving a long scar of tracks in the pristine snow. The forest surrounding them was mixed fir and pine, with beech, cedar and aspen trees sprinkled irregularly in every direction. The trees cast long dark wakes in the snow as the light began to wane. Alex appeared to be tiring. He slowed to a crawl, stopped, then abruptly accelerated off to their left, with Elfieda struggling behind. Alex began to run faster and faster, and began to shout incoherently, maniacally, possessed by some newly arrived and unseen demon.

Then, abruptly, they burst into an oblong clearing. Jona shook his head in disbelief at what he saw. A pond lay directly before them, with misty wisps of steam rising gently from its surface. The snow line ended a foot or two from the water’s edge, revealing a narrow ribbon of bare earth covered by a low splash of green shrubs and brown moss climbing out of the rocky ground. Alex shrugged himself out of his gear and ran towards Elfieda, hugging her. “Hot springs!” He shouted with delirious joy. “Hot springs, can du believe it!”

Elfieda rushed to the verge of the pool, placed her finger in the water, then splashed at it like a child. “I’ve read about these! The water feels like a hot bath! Very hot. Come on, everyone get into the water! Alex! You, too, Jona!” Without another word she shook off boots, socks, and clothing, and plunged naked into the water.

Alex grasped Jona’s arm tightly, not letting him move. “Let her have her fun. It’s just below freezing right now, not too bad. Vhen she’s ready to get out she’ll need a fire. Ve vill all need a varm fire. And hot food. It will get much colder.”

It took them thirty minutes to cut down a reedy poplar, trim the branches, and start a fire well away from the tree line. Jona tried to help, but could do almost nothing of real assistance except light the tinder that Alex had packed carefully in a small steel can. Elfieda stayed in the pond the entire time, laughing at them as they worked.

“Come on you two, it’s marvelous in here. I can feel tiny fish nibbling at my skin, it feels delicious. What’s the matter, afraid of a little fish? Or are you afraid of a little girl?”

Finally, when they had the fire crackling and spitting furiously, Alex began to laugh at her as well. “Alright, I’m coming in before any bears come by. They’re hungry this time of year, just waking up. They like girlie meat, you know. Get ready, I like girlie meat too!”

He stripped quickly and lunged into the water. The two began to frolic together, two bathers in a pool, swimming in a strange, exotic kingdom where frost and heat cohabited like two comfortable lovers. They called Jona to come in, but he shook his head, refusing, contenting himself with minding the fire which now roared and flickered higher than his head. Both Alex and Elfieda sat low in the water, exposing only their heads, but Jona could tell that they were embracing tightly. He turned his gaze away, then turned his back towards them, not wishing to see any more. He froze in mid-motion.

A man was standing no more than ten feet away.

He stood in a shallow swale next to a nearby pine tree, dressed so cleverly in white that he blended completely into the slanting arches of snow laden branches. He held a rifle, swinging the muzzle languidly between Jona and his friends. Alex had left his gun on the ground next to the campfire. Without a moment’s thought Jona took a step in that direction.

“Stoyte!” The stranger’s weapon swung up sharply, steadied in the direction of Jona’s chest. “Ne dvegaytes!” The man glided smoothly towards the edge of the fire, motioning Jona to back off. He wore short skiis, also white, with the odd addition of fur at the tips. Without any effort he retrieved Alex’s rifle, slung it over his shoulder, sidled close to the fire, and turned a curious gaze towards Alex and Elfieda.

Alex was stock still, his face impassive. He remained hunched down, almost completely submerged, as if he were preparing to dive underwater and swim away. The Russian made a brief survey of the entire scene, pursing his lips, evaluating, calculating danger and subtracting advantage. After a few moments’ hesitation he finished summing up, and with his mental computations of greater threat and lesser threat completed, he carefully raised his rifle and aimed it at the head of Alex.

“Bitte! Bitte!” Elfieda broke the silence with a choking cry, croaking in German, then in her broken Russian. “Ne boytes’. My iz Germanii!”

The man paused, then lowered his rifle. “Vy nemtsy?”

“Da! Da! Ja!”

Alex pointed at Jona, jabbing his finger to get the man’s attention. “On amerikanets!”

Without explanation the stranger slung his rifle and took two long sliding strides towards Jona, fumbling with a canvas haversack he had at his side. He retrieved a thick, compact book, opened it, and ran his index finger along a line as he read. “Hello, I am a man from Russia. Hello, I am your friend. I am Evgenii. Hello, how are you?” He spoke the words surprisingly well, then left the page to speak directly to Jona without reading. Long plumes of vapored breath billowed from his mouth and nostrils as he enunciated carefully. “You are American? Talk.”

Jona was dumbfounded, and almost paralyzed by the shock of his encounter with the Russian. Elfieda called to him from the pond. “Darling, talk to him, please. Call him by his name.”

Lieb shook himself out of his stupor. “Yes. Yes I am. An American. It is nice to meet you, Evgenii. It’s surprising, really, to meet you like this, unexpectedly.” Jona paused briefly, and then blurted out, “Actually, you surprised the piss out of me. Where the hell did you come from?”

Evgenii smiled, shook off his glove, and extended his hand. “You are real American, I can tell. It is luck today for me.” He waived at Alex and Elfieda. “Vystupit’! Come out!” He opened his book again and read carefully. “I am Evgenii Simonaidovich. I am a student at University under arrest. I come to embassy to ask for asylum political. How can it be this way. Thank you for your assistance. Good day.”

Jona shook his head, not comprehending. He scrutinized the stranger’s appearance carefully. A dense beard obscured his face, but his earnest gray eyes revealed a youth in his early twenties. “I don’t understand. What are you saying?”

The young man smiled again, a wider grin this time, and tapped his book. “They want to kill me here. I want to go to America.”

Evgenni was proud of the fact that he had been arrested three times and escaped three times. With Elfieda’s help he explained that he had been an engineering student at the university in Omsk. It was his dream to build bridges and dams, sewer systems, and one day, perhaps, and by the will of God, municipal electrical grids. He had never been interested in politics, refused to participate in communist youth league activities, and jeered at any of his fellow students who joined KOMSOMOL. The local NKVD watched him closely, fed by information from classmates. They also watched him for another reason. He came from a family of Old Believers, and he adhered to the traditional beliefs and practices of the ancient Christian Popovtsy. There was nothing new in this. Old Believers had already been persecuted for generations untold, and it was no different under Stalin.

His first arrest was for nothing at all. He left the flat he shared with three other students to take a walk and smoke a cigarette. Two foul smelling men apprehended him at his door and threw him into the back of a car. When he asked why he was detained they merely laughed and said “Quota.” There was no trial. An official at the police station wrote his name down in a leather edged ledger before he was put in a truck with a few others and taken to a logging camp near Novosibirsk. He escaped easily in less than a week, walking out of the camp in the middle of the night, guided by the permanent dawn of early summer, with only an axe in his hand and the clothes on his back. He learned the vagrant’s lesson very quickly: Hide near tracks for long enough and a train is sure to come by. Even in Siberia.

Evgenii was naive enough to believe he could return to Omsk and hide in his Godfather’s house. He was picked up within a moth, beaten moderately, and after his name was entered in another, smaller ledger, he was sent to a camp even further away, outside of Krasnoyarsk. This facility was enclosed by barbed wire, and the prisoners were required to work at hard labor every day, mostly repairing railway tracks. The trains still came by, but now there was no way to hop aboard. The guards were sometimes brutal and drunk, and at all other times drunk and brutal. Beatings were a part of everyday life, and of everyday death. The winter passed and summer came again, and the horizon was again highlighted by deep auburn and azure pigments when the sun bowed low before swinging upwards again.

Once the roads opened, groups of women were brought into the camp from time to time, generally to the dining hall. This was an event that gathered almost all the guards, all eager to be with the women. Evgenii was never able to learn where they came from, the women. Some prisoners said they were treasonous Muscovites. Others stated with certainty that they were Tungus women, rounded up by the authorities in order to destroy the native Tungus tribes once and for all, and depopulate Siberia for the Russians. When the women were brought in, others came as well. Hunters, hermits, trappers, and mystics from the surrounding forests also flocked to the camp to join the guards, whether invited or not. First, they would drink, then drink and sing, then just drink again until sotted. Then, at some convenient point, raping would begin. Of course, it wasn’t really known whether the women were paid or not, but it very much sounded like rape. The prisoners could hear the women’s imprecations and prayers from across the camp, and ultimately their cries and screams. It was not unusual to find a body placed neatly at the doorstep of the dining hall the next morning, ready for burial. They were always fully clothed when laid out that way, as if they had dropped by for some bread and soup the night before, when their spirit left them unexpectedly. After observing a few of these nights, it became easy to plan an escape by digging under the perimeter fence. By this time, Evgenii knew the train schedule of the Trans-Siberian railway intimately well.

It took him a month to get to Ufa, where he had a cousin working a fishing boat on the Belaya River. Unfortunately, his cousin turned him in immediately to a local kopy and went to the extra effort of publicly denouncing him to the reporters of the town’s daily gazeta. This time he was beaten severely for days on end, and eventually underwent a formal trial. He was convicted, of course, and sentenced to ten years in prison in Sakhalin. The island of Sakhalin was at the very eastern fringe of the Soviet empire. It was so far to the east that the sun itself was barely awake in the morning as it arose from the sleepy waters of the Pacific. In Sakhalin Evgenii became just another zek, an inmate in a fortress prison overlooking a desolate, rock-strewn shore. It was impossible to escape, but it was very possible to simply walk out if someone should happen to leave the gate open. This proved to be a feasible option because the devoted comrades who operated the prison were also capitalists of the first order.

It was the following year, in summer once again, when his Godfather appeared at the prison gates to negotiate his release. He came with a sack of Gitanes and Gauloises Bleu in tow, with the promise of more once Evgenii was released. Apparently, this was how business was done on Sakhalin, as Evgenii was not the only one to vanish from the prison rolls that year. Later, he learned that the cigarettes were a gift from Bishop Theofractes, who was aware of Evgenii’s plight and who was himself in hiding with other Old Believers in the fastness of the snow swept taiga. Where he procured them, God could only know.

So here he was at last for more than a year now, safe in the middle of a desolate nowhere, far from prying eyes, hiding in an abandoned banya near the river, and plotting his escape to America. And now that he had encountered Jona and Alex and Elfieda, and understood who they were and what they were about, he offered to assist. He would bring them to Nazino Island, a place which he knew well and where he had hunted before the arrival of the prisoners, and would help them extricate Marielle. In return, they would help him escape Russia.

When the story was finished Evgenii pointed at Jona excitedly. “You help me, American. God brought you here to help me.”

They were sitting around the fire on springy fir branches, basking in the tongues of heat that flared from the flaming logs. Small cinder sparks floated upwards, dancing crazily in the semidark of endless evening. Evgenii had cut and crushed some tendril-thin currant branches that he was boiling to make tea, and the smell just now began to waft over them. Jona barely felt the touch of cold on his cheeks and nose, and felt relieved that the pain in his back and hip had gone dormant. He wanted to be kind to Evgenii, but even if the young Russian’s fantastic story was true, there was no way to offer help. “I’m sorry, my friend. I can’t help you.”

“Anyway, it was not God that brought us here.” Alex broke in with some vehemence. He was sitting the furthest away and was cradling his rifle closely. “You can believe anything you want. It was an airplane that brought us here.”

Evgenii began talking rapidly in response, almost laughing as he spoke. Elfieda translated for him. “Alex, he says that it was more than an airplane that transported us here, it was something else, something very near to our souls. He says it was God who moved us. Nobody would come to this place unless moved by God or Stalin, either one. Anyway, he saw our plane. That’s why he tracked us. He thought we were the police, maybe looking for him.” She waited as the Russian spoke further. “And he says that if he saw the plane, then the people on the island must have seen it as well. They are very hungry, and will be looking for us.”

Jona was astounded at what he heard. “Does he think they’re expecting us to bring food?”

Elfieda said a few words to Evgenii, who answered tersely. Elfieda remained quiet for a moment, and wrapped herself tightly within her own arms. She seemed to bob forward, almost as if in prayer, then spoke barely loud enough to be heard over the crackling of the fire. “No. Not looking to bring food. He says they will be looking for us. They will be looking for...us, Jona. It has become an island of cannibals.”

Jona slept long after the others awakened, and even then lay in a deep, torporous daze with eyes closed, lying quietly within the safety of his sleeping bag. The sounds of utensils clanking together, the bubbling of boiling water, and Elfieda’s low pitched murmurs blended into the vast silence of the taiga. He imagined himself as no more than a tiny speck lodged in a remote corner of an overwhelming canvas of white and green that compressed all of them into crushing insignificance. I don’t care, he thought. The time has come. The journey ends. We are going to find Marielle. He felt excitement. He couldn’t wait to go. He felt fear. He wanted to stay. He sat up abruptly, emerging from his rainproof cocoon with an uncontrollable shudder.

Elfieda approached, a barely formed silhouette drifting towards him in the murky gloaming of early morning. She held a small tin bowel in her hand, proffering it towards Jona. It smelled like stew. “Eat this. We will all need our strength today.”

Jona sniffed. “What is it?”

“Alex said you would ask. Our new friend is a trapper.” She pointed at the bowl. “Our potatoes and onions. His polecat and squirrel. Don’t make a face. Eat it.”

Evgenii insisted that they first disperse and cover up the campsite, using pine boughs to sweep the area. Eventually he seemed satisfied with the results, and indicated they should pack up. “River is four versts from here, where banya is. Island two versts from there. I have boat at banya. He pointed south and smiled at Jona. “Come. America this way!”

They reached the river as the sun approached its maximum height above the treetops. The Ob raced by at a rapid pace, raising green and brown wavelets that peaked with irregular crests at midstream, pushing tenuous lattice works of frazil ice forward at dizzying speeds. Ice borders flattened everything at the water’s edge, revealing the wide, irregular breadth of the river. A brown furred bear meandered lazily along the far side, barely curious about the new intruders. Evgenii skiied directly to a small boat that was clearly visible at the river’s edge, inverted and propped up against a house-sized boulder, and was soon joined by Alex.

After inspecting the boat, he led them up a short slope and back into the forest. The banya was a wooden shed made of rough hewn planks, partially sunken so that it blended silently into the surrounding timberland. Inside, it reeked of rotting fish, but once a fire was started the single roomed cabin warmed up nicely, and Jona was grateful to shed his coat. After putting a pot to boil for tea, Evgenii waived his arm for attention. He spoke once again through Elfieda. He explained the general layout of the camps on the island: one each for the male and female prisoners and a separate camp for the guards. The total number of prisoners couldn’t be more than a thousand. The guards did almost no guarding, content to randomly intimidate and humiliate individual inmates who crossed their paths. They spent most of their time drinking or whoring with women in exchange for food. They could not care less if someone escaped, since it was certain death in the surrounding ice bound wilderness without adequate food and clothing. The camp commandant was almost never there. It was said he spent most of his time with his mistress in the village of Nasino. If they approached the island early enough, they could tie up at the main dock, take a well marked path to the women’s quarters, and be out within one hour. Merely brandishing a weapon would be sufficient if they came across any difficulty. He didn’t think there would be any need for shooting. They would rest that night and leave very early the next day. Then, an airplane would appear by magic, and whisk them all away to America. Compared to his past ordeals, Evgenii thought it would be easy.

Jona’s sleep that night was deep and dreamless. The sky outside was vague gray when he closed his eyes, and opaque pewter when he awoke. The fire flickered dimly, loosing its energy stingily into the surrounding space, a direct challenge to the natural order that ruled the outside kingdom of cold. Two arms slipped around him, touching him lightly around his waist, bringing warmth where there had been numbing emptiness. It was Elfieda, clasping him closely from behind, just as Marielle had done so long before. They said nothing, laying together until weak beams of light slanted across their faces from the only window in the hut.

Others began to move, and the morning rustle began. Soon they were drinking tea and eating biscuits as calmly as if planning a morning’s nature walk. Alex and Evgenii left the banya carrying the oars they would need, and to prepare the boat. Elfieda joined them with a small package of food as Jona watched from the window.

After a short inspection Alex returned to the shed, where Jona was waiting with mounting anxiety. He cradled a rifle in one arm and had another slung over his shoulder. “I have talked vith the Russian. Ve are leaving you here. Need someone to vatch supplies.”

Jona began to shudder as he had the day before, unable to stop his extremities from tremoring violently. “Please, Alex, please. Please don’t leave me.” He began to whimper.

“Vhy? You safe here.”

“Please don’t leave me alone. I’m afraid.”

Alex twisted his lips as he sometimes did, giving a look that was both sad and pitiless, remorseful and inflexible. “Sorry, Jona. I am sergeant and you are private. Ve go. You stay.”

“I know why you’re leaving me. It’s because of this.” Lieb pointed at his legs, still convulsing uncontrollably.

“Does not matter vhy.”

“Can’t you leave Elfieda with me?”

Alex shook his head. “Need her to row. Coming upstream on way back.” His voice softened. “Island is right around bend in river.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Be there in thirty, forty five minutes. An hour at the very most. Evgenii take us to women’s camp. Find Marielle. Ve come back this afternoon. Vill not leave you. Promise. You have your pistol?”

Jona dumbly nodded assent.

Elfieda and Evgenii came up. The Russian was smiling from ear to ear. “Be happy, new friend. We go to Hollywood soon! Dooglas Fairbanks the junior, Irena Pickfor, martini sours! This is for you, help you pray for safety.” He fished a small wooden object out of his pocket and handed it to Jona.

It was a miniature icon made of wood, no more than three inches by two, slightly warped and heavily pitted at the edges. Jona stared at the image. The tempera had eroded in places, but the gaunt face of a sad appearing, wimple shrouded woman was clear. At her chest clung the partially obscured image of an infant. “I wouldn’t know what to do with this.”

Evgenii spoke to Elfieda who answered for him. “He says it will give you strength and comfort, Jona. You can keep it or not. As for me, darling, you know I will never abandon you. We won’t be long. Tonight, you will be with the girl you love.” She bent over and kissed him squarely on the lips, a kiss that blushed with warmth despite the cold, then turned away to join the others in the boat.

The boat was a simple kizhanka, nothing more than a sturdy, large sized rowboat. Jona stood at the shoreline to watch it disappear as the river currents carried it rapidly around a sharp turn several hundred yards away. He wanted desperately to climb to the top of a nearby boulder, so that he could see a longer length of the river as it twisted and bent on its onerous, frigid journey to the arctic. As it flowed north, the river engulfed the small island where Marielle was held captive. Jona wondered whether Marielle would understand when she was found by Alex and Elfieda. He imagined her smile when she realized he had come for her, that despite his infirmities he had braved thousands of miles of hardship and danger to be at her side. For you, Marielle, he thought. This was all for you. He repeated the words over and over, all for you, all for you, rubbing the icon as he did, imagining her face when they would meet. Without thinking, he raised the icon to his lips and kissed it, murmuring to himself. All for you Marielle. Finally, I understand what love is.

Jona returned to the hut and lay down, feeling exhausted and almost overcome with the exertions of the last two days. He fell on the bed, covered himself with blankets, and cowered underneath the rough wool until he could hardly catch his breath, pretending he was at the prow of the kizhanka, alert to the face and form of Marielle, ready in an instant to sweep her up and carry her to freedom. Even as he did so, a feeling tugged at him, dragging him downward with a sense of dread, submerging him under the weight of the unknown, and unknowable...

When he regained consciousness the light creeping through the window was again the dusky slate of evening time. He checked his watch, and checked again. Eleven hours since the others had left. Jona stumbled to his feet with a gnawing pain in his belly, dressed as quickly as he could, and made his way painfully down the snowy slope to the river’s edge. A light rainy sleet was falling, like the fine spray from a waterfall, gently stinging his face. Despite the burning in his leg and back, he crawled and pulled himself to the top of the boulder at the water’s edge and positioned himself looking north.

He could see nothing but the molten lead of the river, twisting left and right, overwhelmed by the vast armies of thickly settled trees spreading in every direction, like a dense dark fog obscuring everything lying below. As time passed the sleeting slackened, and the sky brightened. Finally, the sun’s dim crescent edge peered down at him over the canopy of trees. Jona began to shake spasmodically, uncontrollably. He realized abruptly that it was not eleven hours since his friends’ departure. It was now the next morning. A full day had gone by and they were still gone. He was alone, completely alone, in a place he did not know and could not comprehend, subject to everything and lord of nothing.

Jona stretched himself out on the top of the boulder, still gazing in the direction of Nazino. He wondered vaguely whether he was going to die where he lay. He was suddenly very thirsty, and felt the undeniable churn of hunger within him. A desperate yearning for a cigarette clawed at him. For a moment, he considered climbing down from his slag-like rock and going back to Evgenii’s banya, but the same brown bear he had seen the day before had meandered back, and though he was across the river he was now on his hind legs and sniffing in his direction.

For some reason, Jona remembered the feeling of serenity he felt in Moscow, and the hidden place within him that was both safe refuge and destination. It’s alright. It’s all going to be alright. The cosmos will be kind. In the end everything will be alright. Without meaning to, he retrieved the small icon from his pocket and studied it. A representation, he thought. A totem. Something meant to give good luck, meant to ensnare the stupid...or bring a sense of peace, even if it’s only a phony peace. Jona’s mind felt fatigued, his thoughts jumbling together. Abruptly, his thinking cleared like the sudden parting of waters. A leash. Right, dad? Another one of your secrets I’ve discovered, isn’t it. A loose end that I’ve finally connected. Jona laughed hysterically and began to rub the icon, rubbed furiously as he laughed, rubbed for the pure pleasure of it and laughed with a baying laugh, his very laughter invoking the sun and stars and moon. “Come on, icon!” He shouted into the wind, into the vastness of the forest, into the power of the river that swept everything before it. “Come on! Come on, sad lady! Come on, little baby! Come on! Bring me luck!”

The icon slipped from his hands and clattered down the face of the rock, falling into a crevice deep below him, lost from sight.

The boat appeared.

It turned the bend in the river as if on a shimmering cloud, a fata morgana driven by oars that from a distance looked like majestic wings beating in the air. Jona stood and waved his arms frantically, and saw that someone, probably Alex, was also waving. The more that Jona waved, the more Alex gestured, and soon he began to brandish his gun, pointing it repeatedly at Jona. Overwhelmed with joy, Jona turned to clamber down the rock.

The bear was before him. It was halfway up the boulder, not more than ten feet away. It had approached silently, but once Jona looked its way it first growled, then stood on its hind legs and let out an ear splitting roar. Even though it was standing well below him, its head rose higher than Jona, and spittle from its open jaws flicked onto Jona’s face. In senseless terror, he collapsed backwards and scrabbled to the very top of the rock, kicking violently with numbed legs and feet. He tried desperately to remember the few words that Evgenii had told them about encountering bears. Cower, he had told them, and keep cowering in submission no matter how they roar. Unless they start to eat you. If they start to eat you, run as fast as you can. Maybe you’ll be lucky.

There was nowhere to run. The bear approached, carrying with it a fetid odor and goblets of foul slobber dripping from its teeth. It loomed high over him as Jona scratched at bare rock in frenzied panic. An enormous, clawed paw obliterated the sky, hovered, and prepared to descend with crushing force.

The bear then swayed, rocked back and forth once or twice very gracefully, as if executing a precise pas de bourrée, then tumbled backwards. A split second later Jona heard the reverberating crack of a rifle shot. Alex loped across the icy river edge, his weapon still at the ready as he approached the bear carcass. “Jona, come down fast,” he shouted.

Jona’s heart was pounding as he descended. He could barely control his arms and legs as he climbed down. The bear was dead. The kizhanka had pulled up on shore. There was Alex. There was Elfieda. There was Evgenii. They were lifting a canvas-shrouded form out of the boat. A body, inert. The three hurried the body up the slope towards the banya. Lieb lagged far behind, overcome by pain piercing his left hip and thigh. His body was crushed. His mind was a chaotic mixture of apprehension and confusion. He could go no farther, and simply sat down on a rotting timber to recover.

No one came for him. The dwelling’s single window flared with garish yellow light, and pale puffs of smoke erupted from the chimney. There was no sound but for the swirling, flowing murmur arising from the river. The door opened at last and a form emerged. It was Elfieda. She rushed to his side and helped him up. “She’s alive, darling. But she’s...” The painful squeeze on his arm spoke louder than any words.

“Why didn’t you get me sooner?” Jona felt anger spewing upwards, erupting with all the frustration and fear he had pent inside. “I am a doctor, damn it! What’s her condition?”

“Darling, we wanted to clean her up a bit before you see her. You’ll understand.”

Despite the fire, the room was dark. Alex stood at the window, looking away from them and out at the river below. Evgenii was sitting on the floor to one side of the fireplace, his face impassive. A young woman was laid out on the rough stone paving that served as a hearth. Her breathing was labored and stertorous, a harsh cycle of inhalation and exhalation that varied irregularly. Jona knelt at her side. It was Marielle. She appeared ten years older than he remembered. Her lustrous red hair was matted down in thick clumps that whorled around bare patches of bald scalp. Deep fissuring excoriations were at the corners of her mouth, and her skin had taken on a leathery appearance. But it was Marielle.

A dark stain of blood seeped through the rabbit fur blanket covering her chest. He motioned to Elfieda to remove it.

She hesitated. “Please, Jona, don’t.”

“Remove it,” he barked.

He knelt at Marielle’s side as the covering was removed. Two large oval welts of angry red covered her upper chest. Fragments of muscle bundles and the pale white edges of rib cartilage protruded from the margins of the wounds, and blood oozed vigorously from a latticework of hundreds of small blood vessels in the exposed tissues. There could be no meaningful treatment that could be offered for the visceral exposure and steady blood loss she had suffered. Jona almost fell backwards in shock. He had never seen anything like these wounds. He could barely utter a word. Her breasts had been cut off.

“What happened?”

Elfieda knelt down next to Jona, embracing him with one arm. “We found her. But it wasn’t as we expected. She was not with the other women in the camp. We questioned them. They told us she had been taken that morning by a group of men, taken into a small wood nearby. We followed very carefully. Alex led the way. We could hear the men in the woods, but Marielle never made a sound. We thought maybe she was being raped. When we found them...” Elfieda broke down and began to cry, unable to continue. Alex and Evgenii remained motionless. Her sobbing continued for several minutes. The fitful flares of light from the fire lit her tears, transforming them into lucent pearls that adorned her face as they bled down the curve of her cheeks.

“What happened then?” Jona spun towards Alex. “Tell me, tell me everything. What happened then?”

Alex cast a weary look at Jona, as if burdened with an unbearable weight. “This vas a place vhere they eat human parts, obvious many times already. The men vere savages, they had no shame, like fiends. There vere some bodies on the ground, opened up, parts missing. Legs, arms, thighs, things from inside too...More horrible than anything I saw during the var. They had Marielle tied up on tree trunk. I could see red hair. They cut off breasts earlier in day, bleeding badly, she vas unconscious, maybe dead. Could not tell. I hear them talking, laughing. Breast meat a delicacy for them, I could hear them begging for it. There vere tventy, tventy five of them, at least ten vith guns.” He gave Jona a direct, piercing look. “Could do nothing my friend. It vas my decision. Gave order to hide and vait. Ve vaited. They cooked. Made stew from hell. They ate. Others came, alldrinking. Ve hid more. They leave in morning. Then ve take Marielle.”

Jona shook his head, torn between thanking Alex and cursing him. “You took so long. I was afraid.”

“Another thing, Jona. Important. I had to shoot a guard. He vas at the dock when ve arrived vith Marielle. Looking at boat. No choice.” Alex turned his gaze outwards once again, staring intently at the river. “Von more thing again. I think someone saw us, heard the shot. Maybe they following us.”

Evgenii spoke rapidly, his voice rising as he talked, appearing agitated. Elfieda explained. “He says it’s too bad Alex had to shoot the bear. Evgenii thinks they would have heard the shot, and know what direction to come in. Also, he says something else, Jona.” She glanced rapidly at Alex. “He says we should move out now, before they come. If they come this way we’ll be trapped here. He’s leaving on his own right now. He says it will be better if we split up.”

Jona struggled to his feet painfully, unable to bear weight on his left side. “I agree. Let’s get going. She may have a chance if we can get her some help.”

Alex put up a cautionary hand. “Jona, vait. The truth is that ve can’t take both you and Marielle. Only one sled. Elfieda and I have talked. Ve three - you, me, her - stay here vith Marielle, or ve leave her behind.” He hesitated briefly. “You decide.”

Jona crumpled to the floor once again, now in agony. A memory of Marielle came to him, smiling brightly. He felt her touch, felt her fingers as she stroked his cheek and her cool, cool lips as she kissed his neck. He could smell the citron fragrance in her hair. The vision departed as tears blurred the world around him. His mind spun as he tried to grasp onto something, anything that made sense.

Everything has a meaning. Everything has an explanation. Everything has a beginning. Everything has an end. The words cycled through him over and over, at greater and greater speed, until he felt his brain would explode. The picture of a zebra burst into his mind. As a boy, during his convalescence, he came across pictures of a lion killing a zebra, subduing the unfortunate prey by clamping its jaws around the zebra’s snout until it sank to the ground, paralyzed in surrender. The images were terrifying to Jona. His father explained, though, that nature and biology had not forsaken the victim, and that at the end the animal anesthetized itself in such a way that it felt no pain even as it was ripped apart. When Jona asked how that could be, his father answered that it was rapture. Before succumbing to the tearing of its flesh the animal was given to feel an ecstasy that transported it, like Charon’s boat, from mortal life over to immortal death. Jona imagined Marielle as her flesh was torn from her body by predators, slipping into an intoxicated trance of exaltation. In that moment he wanted to follow her, blend himself with the Marielle of his memory, and flee the awful pain in his heart.

“How can I leave her,” he sobbed, wiping away tears as they brimmed in a torrent. “How can I go on at all? Go where? Do what? Live on in this cruel, fucking cruel world. And why?”

Elfieda knelt down to embrace Jona. “Love is the only answer to cruelty, Jona. The only thing worth living for.”

He shrugged her off, coughing in agony. “Don’t touch me. I don’t want to feel anyone or anything. I loved her yesterday. I still do, but now sh’s…like this.”

Marielle gasped, an audible exhalation that seemed to emanate directly from her body, not her throat, a grunt that disgorged from a hidden cave deep within her. Jona threw himself down by her side, moaning. Her eyes were open, pupils constricted, oscillating back and forth in search of… What? The light of the fire? His face? Truth? Understanding? Her lips compressed and opened. Jona was sure she was saying his name, barely able to see through the tears falling like a waterfall. I love you. He couldn’t say the words but they ripped through his mind over and over. I love you…I love you…

“They’re here. They haff turned the bend.” Alex said the words calmly. “Douse the fire.”

Everyone turned to stare at Jona.

Alex spoke with a quiet hiss. “Jona. Go or stay?”

“What will they do to us?”

“Go or stay?”

“But what will happen if they find us?”

“Quick, not much time. Go? Stay?”

Jona’s thoughts blurred and he found himself unable to speak clearly. His vision narrowed down to a thin cone focused on Marielle’s face, down to every line and pore on her forehead and chin. She was barely recognizable, but it was her, the same girl who had once breathed a new life into his soul. He found himself mumbling. “Yes, I think so...No.”

Marielle stopped breathing.

Time stopped as well, or blurred, or weaved in and out, as if poking its head into the room from time to time, a dispassionate observer of a minor drama.

Marielle was dead, but then she was alive again, breathing. Evgenii said something, but then he was gone, leaving no trace behind. Elfieda was at his side, but then she was sitting in a far corner, head down and weeping. Alex was at the window, but then at the door, his hand on the latch. Time flew as the moments crawled.

“Jona,” Alex said softly. “It’s too late.”

The wind snapped again and again at the roof of the banya, a rhythmic beating that kept pace with Jona’s breathing. He imagined himself on skiis, racing gleefully away, laughing at his pursuers as he fled to parts unknown, to distant China, or Egypt or to the winding Amazon. He realized with a sense of defeat that he had refused to escape not so much because he loved Marielle, but because he had been too paralyzed to move.

The door burst open. Armed men poured into the hut, guns leveled, shouting commands in hoarse voices. Four, five, six, then eight men surrounded Jona and Alex and Elfieda, gesturing them to sit on the floor in the center of the room, a few feet away from Marielle. Ghostly gray light filtered in, casting smooth charcoal shadows on the walls. A wave of cold air drifted in from the outside. For a moment everything was silent and motionless, a perfect photoengraving cast in shades of dull steel.

A man sauntered in through the door. He was large, clad in a black greatcoat, wearing a tight fitting papakha that was dwarfed by his massive head. A long row of medals covered his chest, each one shining with a dull burnished sheen in the faint light captured within the darkened room. Striding with the air of someone in supreme control, he circled the little group sitting in a tight cluster on the floor, scrupulously examining each in turn as if searching out the freshest turnip at market. His examination of Marielle was brief; he merely jabbed at her inert form with the toe of his boot. He stopped abruptly in front of Jona, gazed at him thoughtfully, then lifted Jona’s chin roughly using one finger. Jona found himself staring at two blood streaked brown eyes that studied him intensely.

“Van holodno?” His voice was surprisingly high pitched, almost feminine.

Jona said nothing.

“Ve golodney?”

“I am an American. I don’t understand what you’re saying.” Jona hung his head and went on in a whisper. Tears continued to track over his cheeks. “Please don’t hurt me.”

The man straightened himself and made a peremptory gesture towards the open doorway. Another man scurried in, a gnome of a man with deeply ruddy cheeks and long leathery gullies lining his face. He ripped off his hat, revealing the white polish of a bald head. He also lifted Jona’s chin and scrutinized his features carefully. The gnome brought his own face very close to Jona, inches away. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words that drawled from his lips at first sounded foreign and unintelligible, and their meaning lagged behind the spoken sound, almost as if a time delay was needed for an invisible translator.

The small man talked with a sharp nasal twang, shaping his voice to sound pleasantly surprised, raising and lowering the pitch of his words, just as folks did back in his native Texas. “Well, well, well, if it ain’t Doctor Junius Lieb, son of the renowned Doctor Earnest Lieb, I do believe. It’s been some time and trouble finding you, sir.” He bent at the waist with a pretentious bow. “Your humble servant, sir, my name is Adalius Pecker, and may I say you and your accomplices here are in a heap, I would say in a very world, of trouble. And this gentleman here, the Comrade Commissar, is going to see that you pay dearly for your indiscretions, which are too many to enumerate at the moment. Isn’t that right, Comrade Commissar?”

The Commissar gave a thin grin, ignoring the gnome, and in labored, carefully enunciated English spoke to Jona. “I am Barzajian. You look like your father.”

Chapter 23

In his dream the night before, a woman came to him. She was soft, and spoke with tender words and loving caress. Promise Stone had been with women in the past, but not many and not in a very long time. So, he was glad to welcome this woman of his dreams and planned to hold her softly and make love to her roughly. But she removed her bonnet from her head, and shook out her black, black hair, and began to sing instead. In his dream the words at first made no sense, but slowly he caught on, and recognized a song he had heard quite often before. It was an old spiritual called You Can Have All Dis World But Give Me Jesus, one that he himself had sung a time or two, long ago. And when he recognized it, he clasped the woman’s throat and squeezed hard to make her stop, but she kept singing anyway, not stopping until he opened his eyes and let the dream slip away, returning sullenly to the nightly haunts where it was born.

That night he slept poorly, and almost let the dawn pass by unnoticed, insensible to the early light. In the same way, and for the same reason, he was unaware that Tim and Tom had left the storeroom much earlier, and without a sound. The rough, hay stuffed mattress he used for a bed lay right under a window, placed there so that the sun’s first rays would prick him awake. It had always been that way, for as long as he could remember. He had lived a life at hard labor, arising early and sleeping late, all to satisfy the needs of someone else. What he wanted out of life was of no account by this time in the course of his years on this earth, and no amount of dreaming could ever really make a dream come true. But in that case, and if this was the small and negligible life he was given to live, he had long ago determined that someone would have to pay. Not in money, maybe, but in the currency of pain. Someone would have to pay in heartbreak for all the sorrow he had suffered, and his friends had suffered, and the family he had never known had suffered. As far as Promise Stone was concerned, that payment had come due, and the pained hatred that filled his mind and soul would never subside until every last debt was collected.

When he did awaken, he felt slow of body and dull of mind, fatigued when he should have felt refreshed. He did not get up right away. Instead, his dream made him think back. He didn’t want to think back, it made no difference now to do so, but he couldn’t help it. He remembered a mid-May day, warm enough but not yet furnace hot and steaming. He was working a plot by the river, put to ploughing fields that were too wet from recent rains. The day before he was harvesting rye on the hillside, but now he was told to plough cotton for the third time over the same field that had not taken to tilling before, only to find it was still too muddy. He told the farm’s driver, a scarce looking man named Coughlin, to put him back to reaping rye, but the arrogant bastard cursed at him to do as he was told. The mules were played out and beaten low, tempers were running high, and Stone came close to making a rush at the stick-thin stoat of an Irishman then and there.

The day ended badly, with little pools of water oozing up to fill the long files of cloven earth. There would be no cotton planting any time soon. Coughlin sauntered over to Promise Stone like a man walking down from a high place, as if he was descending just long enough to take a piss on someone’s porch. Stone was sitting on the broad butt of a long furrow, his legs shin deep in mud, eating fried peanuts dipped in oil. He didn’t much care if the driver stood there all day; he wasn’t planning on talking to him any time soon.

It was Coughlin who spoke first. He bent down to whisper right into Stone’s ear, crooking his neck to talk, and as he did, his blue eyes caught the bright shine of early evening sunlight. “I had Dora at the hush harbor last night. Be takin’ her there again tonight.” He smiled genially, and gave Stone a pat on the head. “I had her good. She called your name a time or two, but at the end she was callin’ mine.”

It was hard to recall what Promise felt in that moment or how and why he felt the way he did. He didn’t love Dora, but she said she was carrying his child and she was swelled up with a baby that was due in September, a future obligation that didn’t mean too much to him. But he hated the idea that she was touched by Coughlin, and that he had any pleasure by her. There was also something else. It was the fact the man patted him on the head, like a dog being coaxed for a quail hunt. Can’t ever let a white man pat me on the head, he had thought, but the thought was more like the streak of a lightning bolt, flashing with hard power and running him through and through, from his eyeballs to his bowels.

The sun was beginning a graceful descent, getting ready for a night of rest before the sweat and toil of the next day’s work, dealing out deep black shadows as a warning that it was almost gone. Stone and Coughlin were at the far end of the farm, in a shallow valley that eased downhill to the slow running brook that marked the estate line. No one was in sight. The act, when it happened, was easy work, grabbing Coughlin by the neck and holding him at arm’s length until his life juices poured out of him, leaving a dry and wrinkled husk behind, and then throwing that husk into the mud brown waters of the creek. It was as if Promise had exploded, like salt on fire, burning with a flame that could not be tamped down by fear. In fact, he felt no fear, no fear at all. And no remorse, and no guilt or doubt. In a Georgia minute he had shed his former self, sloughing off whatever he had been, and became a creature consumed by an unceasing desire for vengeance.

Escaping the estate had been no big deal, and the Underground had found him soon enough, and now he worked for a new driver, Mr. Jones. Promise considered him to be a savior, and like with any salvation, chances were he might be goin’ to heaven, or he might be goin’ to hell, but it didn’t matter either way to Promise Stone. Revenge would be served either way, the road made smooth by his deliverer. That was why he was very willing to lay down his life for Robert Jones.

Orkhum waddled into the storeroom and made a beeline towards Stone. He swiped at Stone with his booted foot but missed. They both knew he had missed purposefully. “What the hell you think this is, a country club?” He snarled the words but kept a little distance away from Promise. “Come on, get off your lazy ass. You goin’ on a little trip. You been rented out today.”

As he spoke an elderly man with full white beard poked his head into the room but remained scrupulously outside the door. He was white, stooped, and frail looking. Orkhum waved to him in acknowledgement, then pointed a heavy finger at Stone. “Get going. You his boy today.”

Stone had never been rented out before, though he’d heard about it. It didn’t matter any to him, one way or the other. The old man ushered him to the front seat of a waiting car and then drove off without a word, doing his best to see the road by squinting through thick lensed glasses. Promise didn’t know anything about cars, but could see that their auto was ancient, maybe as old as the decrepit driver. As they left the city behind, the road became first bumpy, then muddy, and eventually turned to nothing but pebbles and dirt. A fine talc dust soon covered both of them, prompting the old man to pull a pair of goggles over his eyes. He rapidly became metamorphosed into an ivory colored snapping turtle, still angling his head forward to see the road.

He screeched suddenly. “Can’t see shit. What about you?”

Promise considered whether he should say anything at all. After a moment, he relented. “Naw.”

The old man glanced his way two or three times. “D’ya know where we’re goin’?”

“Naw.”

“You been rented for the day. Ten bucks, that’s a pretty penny for just one nigger for just one day. Mr. Carmichael rented you. Know who that is?” He had to shout the last words, as the car was now vibrating badly.

“Naw.”

The old man made a noise, half laugh and half grunt. “You’ll see soon enough.”