Chapter 37
“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.