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19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 23 | Jim sat silent in the living room in the thick aftermath of the FBI bombshell. Miller, another detective, and poor Daniel Hodge had sat at the table for an hour, going over everything he could remember from Sophie in her youth. It'd not been a particularly pretty story. Dan was a decent guy and recapped it all, even admitted he'd come close to taking advantage of her once when the pair had gotten a hold of some cheap wine. He'd stopped himself despite her Herculean efforts to encourage him. Said that's when she first started acting strange.
Jim picked up a random book off the shelf. Took a hit from his flask and leaned back on the stiff leather couch to read for a minute. To think on something else.
"Ought to share with a lady." Lynette was edging down the hall. Her twig-thin legs stuck out from under her gown. Her hair was wrapped in a flowered cloth on her head like a small turban.
Jim jumped up. Her scooting around in the rolling chair was frightening enough without adding alcohol. "You should be sleeping."
"I should be dancing the night way. It's Saturday night. I'm sure there's a good band around here somewhere. It's still Vegas, isn't it?"
He eased her into the big leather recliner across from where he'd been on the couch. "Sadly, it is."
The chair seemed to swallow her whole.
"I love Vegas. Always did. Did pretty good at the poker tables. I was a psychiatric nurse. Could read people."
Jim tried to picture her young and running a table. When she blasted him with that big smile, he could see her charm.
"So, you sharing the hooch, boy?"
"Don't you think Steven will have a coronary, not to mention my ass, if I let you mix scotch with your meds?"
She huffed, leaned back, and waved him off before she crossed her hands in her lap. "Probably send me on if I had any anyway." She winked at him. "I'm not quite ready for that yet."
"Me either."
She sat with her eyes closed and face relaxed for a few minutes. Jim opened the book back up. It was a romance novel. With vampires. Not his choice, but he didn't want to move. He read the first chapter and decided it wasn't too bad.
"They think I'm too far gone to see what's what here." She leaned closer. "I'm not completely out of it, you know? I got my moments."
She twisted her head to the side, toward the stairs. "I haven't seen Danny this wound up since his daddy died. So I know something horrible has happened. And I know this isn't a motel either." She gestured to the back yard. "No hotel has a fenced yard."
"What do you think is going on, Lynette?"
"You're no reporter. My guess, you're a cop of some kind. Maybe a Fed."
She had been in the bedroom with Stephen when the Feds were there. Never got to see Agent Webb or her sidekicks. Maybe she'd heard. Either way wasn't good. Jim did not want to be the one who broke the bad news about her daughter.
"I'm not a federal agent."
"You're not Santa either, are you?" Her movements were much surer than they had been earlier. Could be her meds kicked in or she was having a good moment. Bad luck for him either way.
"No."
She scrunched up her nose at him. "Then let's not play the guessing game any longer and you tell me what in tarnation is going on around here."
Jim shook his head at her liveliness. He liked her. She kept darting her gaze to the articles on the wall.
"Is there one you want?" He stood.
"Yes. There is. It's close to the door, bottom row."
Jim made his way over. "This one?" He pointed to one that looked particularly tattered. He was careful pulling it free from its location, worried the tape would tear it.
"Read it."
He turned so the porch light shone at the paper.
"Aloud. Read it aloud, boy."
Jim sighed, not liking where this was going. Lynette Hodge was very lucid right this minute and Jim was far too tired to manage what he was sure was a sharp wit.
A 22-year-old woman who was found shot in the head in the trunk of her burning Thunderbird was remembered in an obituary Sunday as a caring, fun-loving woman who loved country western music, movies and "wearing her trademark high heels."
Nichole J. "Nicki" Thomas enjoyed spending time with her boyfriend, Kito Lisser, and their 1-year-old son, Jack.
Her greatest joy was caring for her boy, the obituary said. Thomas "lived life to the fullest," and enjoyed, "above all else, spending time with her family and friends."
"Nicki left this earth too early for us to understand, but God always has a purpose and therefore we all must believe that Nicki is still among us fulfilling hers," the obituary reads.
Thomas's memorial is next Saturday at Christ Church.
"Thank you for being part of our lives, Nicki—you will continue to live in our hearts and never be forgotten. We love you," the family wrote.
The accused is twenty-year-old Patrick Wolf, who allegedly has ties to the Hell's Angels and has been arrested for petty theft and assault in the past. He is being held in Clark County lock up.
Deputy Prosecutor Jack Driscoll said today that he expects to file charges in Superior Court this week and they will determine if death penalty charges will apply.
"We'll formally file charges in the next day or so," he said. "You'll know after that."
Court documents say Thomas was assaulted for hours and stabbed several times before she was fatally shot in the head. Her body was found in the burning Thunderbird near Forker and Bigelow Gulch roads on April 13.
A motive is so far unclear.
She nodded slowly. "Two hundred and seventy-five words."
Jim headed back to the couch, watching her face.
She gave him a weak smile as he set the article on the table.
"The number isn't the point here, is it?" Jim eased back into the stiff cushions.
At this point Jim was sure she knew about her daughter. At least she'd figured out Cynthia was the only one not at the house so she must be in trouble or dead.
"Numbers are always the point, but often not the only point."
"What is the point, Mrs. Hodge?"
Her eyes were slack and blank but still open enough to see what was going on. Lynette sat so still and so quiet that Jim decided she'd fallen asleep. He'd had a golden retriever in his youth who slept with her eyes half open like that. It was unnerving then and unnerving now. As Jim used to do with the freakish habit of the family dog, he considered waking the old woman just to get her to either open or close her eyes.
He refrained. Waiting.
She finally blinked and answered his question. "What it means is, who died?"
Well, shit. Usually Bean didn't mind being the guy who dealt the bad news card. But right now he didn't want the job. He kind of liked the loony lady and her articles. Providing the proof of a spouse's affair, no biggie. It was intimate, heart-breaking crap, but Jim was honest enough with himself to know their misery made his misery seem a little less … miserable.
"I might be confused more often than not, buddy, but I'm not stupid. At least I don't figure I am." She leaned forward. "Who died?"
Maybe he could placate her for a while, just till she wasn't as lucid. Again asshole-ish, but it was that or run like a scared cat. Cause he didn't want to hurt this woman. His eyes fell on the bookcase again. Subject changer.
"Have you read The Great Gatsby, Lynette?"
"I have. Fitzgerald is a long-winded piece of crap if you ask me. Most popular novelists from that time were."
"He did go on a bit." Jim chuckled and leaned back.
"And that Gatsby was a schmuck. Worked his whole life, thieving to make a fortune and then carried on, putting on all those airs and all the parties for a woman who dumped him years ago. Man wasted a fortune on the sham. And for what? A gold-digging girl." She shook her head as if she was worried over his lack of money-management skills. "If a girl won't have you then there's no sense going off all half-cocked chasing her around." She scratched her nose with her frail hand. "I mean, I was no great looker or anything, but when my husband came around, I knew he was the one and I didn't play any games. If I'd have wanted something else, I'd have told him that as well."
She shook a twisted, wrinkled finger at his nose. "Young folks these days make it harder on themselves than it needs to be. Computer dates, text messaging, whatever other crap they have going on."
"I think it was his need to be more, to be rich, that mattered to Gatsby. He felt unworthy of her."
"Schmuck." She flipped her wrist in dismissal. "Men and their pride. Buy a girl flowers, tell her you love her, and be faithful. Why is that so hard?"
"I don't know, Lynette. You make it sound easy. Never been that easy for me."
Her frown was suspicious. "Nah. You look like trouble. Freaky gray eyes on the outside and deep waters on the inside. Be hard to trust those eyes. But that's just going off appearances."
"Heard that before."
"Reckon you have." She waggled that finger in his direction again and her face turned as serious as a schoolteacher. "Now, before I forget it again, answer my question."
Jim looked at the floor. He needed to go wake Dan.
"Who died?" It came out as a fear-laden shriek. Lynette had thrown her body into it, causing her slight figure to lose balance and skew forward.
Jim leaned in quick and caught her shoulder in time to keep her from breaking her nose on the table.
Dan rushed down the stairs. His feet tangled but he remained upright. "Momma." He eased beside her and took her weight.
"Why is Sissy not here, young man?"
Dan hung his head and rubbed her shoulder. "You pick now to join us? Huh?"
"I didn't pick any of this, Danny."
Jim's gut felt like he'd eaten a bag of quickset concrete. He was the only one who'd made any of the choices that brought about the current circumstances.
Dan looked at him. The guy's eyes were tired, and as red as a Vegas sunset. Jim had no answers to the questions that wounded stare conveyed.
Jim would not leave Dan on the hook. He needed to be the one to tell her. To say the words out loud so Dan didn't have to. "Lynette," he said, "I'm afraid you're right."
"So something happened to Cindy?"
Dan hugged her fragile body. "She's had an accident. I'm afraid we're going to have to write her story, Momma."
Tears poured from Lynette's eyes, so fat it looked like someone had poked a hole in a bucket. They trickled off her cheeks and soaked into the fabric of her faded pink gown. Each one seemed to drain a bit of her life away. A deep burning rage Jim hadn't felt in years ignited in the back of his throat. He tried to suck in a few deep breaths to tamp it. But nothing doing. He could count to a thousand and he'd still be angry. This was why it was better to stay uninvolved. Connections were dangerous. Made you care. Dulled you. Made you weak.
"It's gonna be alright, Momma."
"How are we going to manage without our Cindy?" Her voice was almost gone.
Jim had to get up, to walk, or he was going to implode. It would be bad enough just knowing he brought this to these people and caused the unacceptable sorrow. But seeing it …
He went out the back glass doors and circled around the front of the house. Knowing the female officer was on the porch, he came around heavy and loud. It didn't work. The jumpy cop drew on him before he had a chance to identify himself.
Jim stood still with his hands out to his sides until she recognized him and relaxed with a soft curse. "Sorry. Got an extra one of those?"
"Gun or cigarette?"
At the moment he wished he could handle a gun. But he needed to find his target before he could worry over eliminating it. "Cig."
She flipped the rumpled pack to him. A lighter was inside the half-empty box. He lit one up, coughed as he sucked in, and kept moving down the street. Instinctively, he scanned dark corners and noted lights on. Analyzing the area for possible threats. There were none apparent. The house and its location was well chosen. Probably didn't need to worry tonight. Sophie would be off licking her wounds. Regrouping. He had this night, maybe one more, before she returned for her prey. |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 24 | It was a short walk to the end of the block. After that, Jim had nowhere to go. Any farther and he wouldn't be able to put eyes on the house. He sat on the curb under the glare of a streetlight. He got out his flask. Took a long drink. Enough to drown the guilt for a moment, anyway. The anger would hang around for a good long while. Before he could take another swig, a dark Charger pulled up. The window eased down with little noise.
Jim set the flask by his side. "Miller."
"Bean." The detective looked toward the house. Lights burned in almost every room. "Everything okay up there?"
"Lynette decided to rejoin the world of the mentally competent after you all left. Cornered me about what's going on. I think she realized Cynthia was not at the party. Maybe put it together from pieces of things she'd heard today."
"Ouch." He motioned with his head for Jim to get in. "Let's go for a ride."
Jim put the cig out and followed orders. The passenger seat was tight, with the computer mounted on the console taking up a good part of the seat space allotted. His size didn't help, but he was used to the equipment in his own car and dealt by pressing his body against the door. They weren't taking a road trip.
Miller turned the radio down. "We're not having any luck tracing Sophie Evers. She's got no past or present. Feds are having the same trouble. Last we have of her was in Dallas, and the cops down there are as overworked as we are. They said they'll see if they can get someone to look into it." He shrugged. "But, when we say that on this end, the other department's shit is last priority." He stopped at a light.
"What's your point?"
"If you're really interested in helping this guy, you need to go to Dallas and pick up her trail."
Last thing he wanted to do was turn down Miller. The man had come to his rescue before and Jim considered him one of his few friends. "Surprised you're asking a civilian to help with the investigation."
Miller never took his eyes off the road as he drove, but Jim could see the determination on his face reflected in the windshield. "The sick bitch needs stopping. Finding people is what you do. Do it."
"I need to protect that kid and his mother."
"He's not a kid. You're better at finding people and I'm better at protection. I carry guns." The light ahead changed, the car eased to a stop.
A convertible mustang with three teenage boys pulled alongside them. The kids were sitting a little too still, all facing very forward, careful not to make eye contact with the cops.
"There's trouble," Jim chuckled.
"Not my beat." Miller reached over and gave him a small punch to the shoulder. "You know I'm right. The pair is settled in that house, getting more attention than Lynette's had in years, probably. And her son is there. I have it covered. Two of my best plainclothes twenty-four-seven. I pulled them off a big case for this. Not to mention the Feds are involved."
"Thought Agent Webb went back to Dallas?"
"For now. She left her backup suit to look over my shoulder." Miller turned again, driving in circles. "Do you want her to find this trail before we do?"
Jim wasn't sure. Maybe he just wanted this one over with. Maybe he didn't like the heavy responsibility he felt for Dan and Lynette. It sucked to care. "No."
"Take Double O. You should have enough of that retainer left to cover the two of you for a couple days."
Double O was a damn good choice as a wingman since he was a bounty hunter. "Why are you so interested in me doing this?"
"Because I don't like the FBI all up in my business. Cause you need to solve this. And if shit hits the fan again, I'd rather you be in Dallas so my Chief doesn't filet my butt cheeks for letting you so close to another case." He reached for a folder tucked between his seat and the center console, tossed it on Jim's lap. "I … um … tripped and the FBI file fell in the copier."
Jim barked out a laugh. "Hope that doesn't have to hold up under oath."
"You and me both, brother. You going?" He pulled back into the short cul-de-sac and stopped in the safe house drive. Dan was on the steps. He didn't get up when the two approached him.
"You shouldn't be out here. Makes you a really easy target." Jim hugged the folder as he crossed his arms, going for intimidating. Poor guy was so wiped out it wasn't going to work.
"I guess so. I'm used to being outside at night. I like to look at the stars."
"Lights from the Strip ruin that, so no use taking the risk. Don't make me kick your butt." He cut Dan some slack. "Promise me you'll stay inside from now on."
"How long is that?"
Miller patted Dan on the shoulder as he passed. "Not long if we can help it. How's she doing?"
"Not great. She's calmer. I had to wake up Steven. He gave her something to help her sleep. Said he hated to do it since he hadn't seen her that lucid in months."
The guy looked like the rooster who lost the cock fight. He was skinny, his burgeoning beard was patchy, and his hair was all over the place from being shoved under a cowboy hat.
"Maybe you can get him to give you the same thing, man. You need to rest." Jim did too. He probably looked just as bad.
"I do." Dan stood.
"I'm headed to Dallas," Jim said.
Dan stopped in the doorway, his eyes wide as he turned back to Jim.
"Trail starts there. She's got to have some of that money from the robbery-killings Agent Webb told us about. I find that, then maybe I can track her all the way here. You're in good hands. As soon as I get a clean cell phone, I'll call you."
Dan looked at his feet, then at Miller, and then started to speak. Miller was standing right there, so Jim doubted Dan would say he didn't feel safe even with cops around.
"This is the best plan of attack. I'll be more use in Texas than sitting here staring at a bunch of cops."
That was if Sophie didn't find him and drug him again. Maybe this time she would cut his throat. |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 25 | The dumb detective led her straight to the house. He made a couple of odd turns, but he was as easy to follow as a kindergartner playing hide and seek. Even a cop wouldn't suspect a minivan of following anyone, would they? There were four billon of the oversized, ugly things on the road and most were the same nondescript silver hers was.
The house was just as obvious sitting back in the cul-de-sac, windows lit up as if they were expecting company. An undercover cop sat in a wooden swing facing the sidewall of the porch. Not much of a view of oncoming trouble or a vantage point to shoot from. They might as well have put a sign in the yard: Occupant in protective custody. Keep off the grass.
Sophie drove past the entrance to the cul-de-sac and parked three blocks away. The puppy was happy to be getting out. The thing had been in the car for hours while Sophie watched the police department waiting for Miller to leave.
Carl needed to walk and she needed to case the area. He pissed almost immediately. Squatted. Huh. She inspected his back end a little closer as he walked on. She was sure if it were a he, she'd see the evidence.
"So, Carla it is." Or maybe Carley? Nah. Carley was too girly and Carla had been the first thing out of her head. Sophie liked things simple and straightforward.
Carla led Sophie between two houses. She followed the dog's lead along a path in the stones and dried grass. That route had been carved by countless kid-sized tennis shoes making thousands of trips between houses. It wound between fenced yards but eventually led right to an excellent place to get a look at the back of the safe house.
The yard was clean and surrounded by a four-foot-high fence that encircled several mature trees. For a Vegas subdivision, a tree that could cast a shadow or make a little shade was big deal. The back porch was lit up by indirect light from the inside. And there was a sliding glass door with eighties vertical blinds closed tight yet still letting a little yellow light seep out.
She eased around the north side of the fence and studied the outdoor lights of the neighbor's house. They were on and had motion detectors. So once they were turned off for the night, they'd come on if she got too close. Not good.
She backtracked, moving slow and low so as not to be spotted by the occupants of the safe house, who were undoubtedly on full alert. Might even have someone walking around outside She'd not seen anyone yet.
She gave the leash a gentle jerk to get the mutt's attention. "No barking. You got me?"
Carla stopped and tossed her an as if look.
Sophie eased up to the fence behind the correct house. A shiver made its way from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes.
He was in there. Danny was so close her body felt his energy. She inhaled, sure she could smell him in the air, almost taste his skin if she closed her eyes. She visualized her future, her plans. The house was set. The plan was laid. Very real.
The dog tugged on the leash and shook her out of her fantasy. Carla was right; not good to linger while one was on reconnaissance.
The dog was happy to continue her exploration of unfamiliar scents. Sophie let her loiter and sniff whatever she wanted as they made their way. Oddly, she was enjoying the dog's curly little tail as it wagged happily. It was a distraction from the stress. Sophie used the opportunity to memorize the landscape and the lighting while Carla tinkled again and again.
Movement grabbed her attention as she came around the far side of the house. A hairy-chested man sat on the back porch of the neighbor's house. Unfortunately, the large-bellied bastard had spotted her as well.
She dropped Carla's leash and tried to appear as if she'd not seen him. Damn her luck if he was a police officer posing as the neighbor. She tapped her fingertip on her blade to check its accessibility and then reached for an injector pen tucked in her waistband. Hidden there for emergencies and loaded for bear in the literal sense of the old saying.
"Odd place for a stroll." He stood, cigarette in hand. The bucket beside the lawn chair he'd occupied overflowed with crumpled butts. His light blue tank had a faded slogan she couldn't read on the front. Dark sweat stains outlined man-breasts above a pumpkin-sized stomach. The slob must be relegated to the backyard to smoke. His shorts were cut-off jeans, a little too short both for the current fashion and his pudgy legs. A glut of empty beer cans was scattered behind the chair.
Likely not a cop, but there was no way to be positive. Her gut told her he was more deadbeat than cop. Her guess was washed-out techie who now works at the auto parts counter.
Sophie put her hand to her chest. "You startled me." She backed up a step. "I'm really sorry to bother you. My dog got loose and I followed her this way." Carla waggled herself right up to him just as the words came out of Sophie's mouth. Good girl.
Sophie glanced over to the safe house. All the shades remained closed and still.
This guy gave her that I'm fantasizing about you naked smile. "Cute dog for a cute lady." He rubbed Carla's little head.
The action made Sophie angry. She didn't want this creep's hands on the pup. She did however want to cut him, badly. But she bit her lip hard enough to taste her own blood. Sometimes it was hard to refrain from killing off the bottom basal slime of the gene pool just for the sake of humanity. But he wasn't worth the attention the body would bring.
"You live around here?" He caught Carla's leash and headed toward Sophie. Moved like a man who sat around a lot, maybe watched TV all day. Maybe she was wrong on her first assessment. He didn't look smart enough for the parts counter. At least three days of smoke and body odor wafted as he approached. No. This guy was unemployed. If she had to guess, Sophie figured he lived off his mother or his girlfriend.
She gripped the injector. Maybe the distraction of this creature's death would be good for her. The pleasure of watching the smoky vapor of his bleeding soul as it left his ugly carcass would boost her, feed her. Might even settle her frayed nerves. The cops would shit themselves if she killed so close to Danny and his crazy mother. So it would accomplish two things: relax her and up the anxiety levels inside that house. Two birds with one shot. Three, really—she could rid society of the burden of this indigent slob.
He was making the decision easy too. His approach kept the two of them in shadow not more than seventy-five yards from safe house.
She glanced back to breath in the air from the safe house, feel for Danny one last time, and check for the best entry when the time came.
She made out two windows on the ground floor of the safe house she could breach with little effort. She blocked her disgust at the man's odor with the more pleasant thought that Danny was sitting just inside those walls. Perfect.
"We're new. My husband and I moved in a couple blocks over." She vaguely tilted her head.
"You buy that place on Falcon Street?"
"Yeah. That's it." Whatever you say, my dear. She reached for the leash.
He handed it over, taking an extra step, standing a little too close for polite conversation. He was trying to be large, intimidating. Oh, he was asking for it. "Cool. Nice place."
She backed up a bit. Carla happily retreated in the direction they'd come. "It is." She nodded to the leash. "Thanks."
She turned and headed off into the dark.
"See ya." The dumpy man said to her back. It was more of a question than a statement. Ridiculous. Did the fat fuck think he had a chance with a woman like her? Her pulse was thundering through her veins, rushing in her ears. She could visualize the slow surge of his blood, lazy with cholesterol, pumping through his carotid artery. She needed to hit the road but wanted to cut him.
Never act impulsively. You almost got yourself caught last time.
Carla tugged to go off exploring again, but Sophie reined her in.
Even that mutt's smarter than you.
She wanted to shout at the voice in her head, curse it. Her own self-deprecating critic making sure she evolved. Never good to be static. So she listened to that voice. Argued with it. No matter what drugs she took, it was impossible to ignore. Besides, she could ignore it. Disobey it. No matter what the voice had to say, the urges were strong. She tasted her desire like a strong shot of tequila, burning and acrid.
She turned to see the man still watching her, staring at her ass. She was next to a little shed, blocked from view from his house and the safe house. He would only take a few moments, even seconds.
She smiled at him and leaned against the shed. She crooked her hip and tossed her hair over her shoulder.
He let his cigarette fall to the ground and snubbed it out with his flip-flop-encased foot.
So easy to extinguish.
He stopped, facing her, aligning himself so his body was looming. "Forget something?"
She nodded, let the leash go, and eased in closer to him. The stench of cheap tobacco and two days' worth of Vegas sweat rolled off his skin. The idiot grinned like he'd won a prize.
She palmed the injector in her left hand, walked as if to circle around him, trailing her right fingers across his chest and over his shoulder. She brushed her breast against his back as she stepped in behind him. She wanted to give the sap the impression she was embracing him. She had to hold her breath to avoid the stink of his skin.
The slug was five-seven, roughly two hundred and fifty pounds, and she guessed most of it was in his stomach.
"You like it rough, baby?" she asked him. In her head the words echoed along with the images of others who'd answered that question with an exhilarated yes. Just as he would. Her pulse was drumming, her head cloudy with lust.
He looked over his shoulder, his lips curved in delight. A quick nod.
She tightened her grip on his neck, not enough to frighten him, just enough to make him think he was about to get the fuck of his sad, stinky life. She reached up and put her lips on his left shoulder. Made her think of salt mixed with old trash. He was moist with sweat, maybe from his arousal or it could be the miserable evening heat. She bit down. Hard.
At the same time she hammered the injector right next to her seductive bite. He jerked from the unexpected sting.
"Sorry." She kissed the spot a couple of times and he relaxed immediately. This guy wouldn't lift a finger to defend himself. "Too much?"
He shook his head, turned to her. He reached for her neck. Maybe to pull her head back. Maybe to return the bite, but his hands came to rest on her arm. Gripped. His body began to veer backward, she widened her stance to hold his weight. She wanted him upright.
He reached for her face, but missed. "I … what …"
She put the knife at the base of his ear. The exceptional blade encountered no drag as she drew it. The steel sliced though his skin and the platysma muscle that shaped the side of his unshaven neck like a shark slicing through a breaking wave.
Blood surged as she severed the jugular and the carotid. Once she felt the bump of her blade on the solidity of the hyoid, she yanked, speeding up the process, repeating the damage to the far side of his neck.
He bucked only once, his effort to cry out far too late. The drugs and the lack of oxygen to his lungs and brain made that impossible.
She shoved his body off to the side as he started to bleed out. She didn't want any more of his blood on her than was necessary. The clothes would have to be burned, but she still needed to hit the store, ditch the van, and head home to regroup. She cleaned the blade on a portion of his shirt that wasn't yet scarlet. He had landed on his side so most was draining on the ground.
Don't leave them bloody fingerprints for Christ's sake!
"I didn't. Shut up."
It was beautiful work. But you have to control yourself. I know five-year-olds who are better with delayed gratification than you.
Heaven forbid her inner voice give her a compliment without knocking her down at the same time.
"Can't you just let me enjoy the symphony of the moment every now and then?"
Time to go. Stroke your ego later.
She looked back at the house, the one Danny was sitting in. Maybe he was right there behind those blinds. Killing that slob left her wanting and aroused and she wanted to run right up to the door, but the inner bitch was right. Sophie needed to exercise more restraint.
The yahoos would watch this place like a hawk for days after this, but after some time, Danny would get restless and his protectors would get complacent. She could be a patient girl when she was well motivated. Dead body in her wake notwithstanding.
It was time to go home. This trip had taken longer than she'd expected as it was. She had to go to work for a while or she'd get fired. Again.
"Carla?" She half called, half whispered the pup's name. The scruffy thing trotted toward Sophie. The dog headed to the mess on the ground but Sophie caught her leash. "Don't sully your fur with that." |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 26 | An oil-burning delivery truck blasted past him as he stood on the curb. The thing was puking sooty exhaust that made Jim hold his breath as he headed for the Coffee Girl across the street from his townhouse complex.
As he entered the lot, Oscar Olsen pulled in on his equally roaring—but non-oil-burning—bike. The loud pipes dared anyone to come within yards of the huge motorcycle.
Most bounty hunters and PIs made great efforts to blend into the crowd. It increased the possibility of maintaining the element of surprise until the last minute. Good for sneaking up and gaining custody of the skip tracer. Not Double O. Nope. He made his way through the world larger than life. His stature, his personality, and his appearance. He was a big boy. No changing that, so he made it work for him. Instead of sneaking up on bail skippers, he walked straight on and intimidated the shit out of them.
But as with most things hard, O had a soft side. Jim had seen O's and that made the big man much less of a threat. Oh, he could still whip Jim seven ways in seven seconds, but Jim figured he wouldn't.
After O balanced his helmet on the handlebars, he stopped just shy of the door to wait for Jim.
"O! You're here," Sandy cooed as they entered. She rushed over and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
"Morning, beautiful." His voice was smooth. The kind used in life insurance and Viagra commercials. The girls melted every time O started talking. Also a good tool to have on your side. A trusting voice made people comfortable, helped them let their guard down. His size quit being so intimidating as soon as he opened his mouth. Unless he wanted you to shake in your boots, then that deep booming voice was only slightly less frightening than your mom screaming your full name after discovering you broke her favorite lamp while throwing the football inside the house. Again.
They slid into the usual spot, corner booth in the rear of the restaurant. Jim sat with his back to the wall. O had no fear of putting his back to the world.
Sandy trotted up with the coffeepot. "Do me a favor, O." She ignored Jim.
O gave her a look with an overdramatic brow arch.
"Say, 'Beef. It's what's for dinner.'" She poured as she made the request.
Jim laughed. She was so cute. And he'd bet the contents of his wallet she'd get the big guy to do it too.
"What?"
With a quick slosh, she poured Jim's coffee. Maybe a half cup. Her attention barely left the big bounty hunter. "You know, that commercial Sam Elliott does? The one for the beef people. They showed a pretty steak and then you heard him say it."
O closed his eyes with a little headshake. Evidently, this was not the first time he'd heard the request. "Unfortunately, I do. And no."
"Oh, come on. Please." She looked back. The other morning-shift waitress had moved in close. She wore the same pretty pretty please look young girls achieved with ease.
"I told Lisa you sounded just like Sam Elliott. And she loves Sam Elliott." She clutched her hands over her heart. "Please."
O gave Jim a tepid look, as if this were all his fault. Maybe his silent chuckle wasn't helping anything. "I didn't ask you to say shit."
Sandy then pulled out the big guns, played dirty. She reached out and put her dainty little hand on O's tattooed arm. "Come on, Oscar, it's just one sentence." She'd used his first name. Like she was his little girl or baby sister. Her expectant face was more than either of them could refuse.
He growled. "If you promise not to utter that man's name around me ever again, I'll say it once. And never again."
"Yay." She set the coffeepot down and did a little dance. Lisa loomed closer.
"First Roadhouse, then that commercial came out, I thought I'd never get to speak again without people mentioning him or that ad." O sat up straight up. "Just once."
She nodded. Behind her Lisa mirrored the gesture. He cleared his throat. Took a long sip of the coffee. The girls were patiently waiting, but Jim thought Lisa was gonna bust if O didn't speak soon.
"Beef." He said it slow and with that Texas drawl Elliott had made a living off of. "It's what's for dinner."
Lisa clapped. Sandy squealed.
"And if you don't find me some real beef in this joint, I might just have to gnaw on you for protein."
She smacked his shoulder. "You're so sweet."
"Oh. My. God." Lisa rushed off as if to share her experience with the next person she encountered.
Jim didn't try to hide his mirth. Opened his mouth to speak, but—
"Not one fucking word from you, Bean."
"Not me."
"Now. Seriously. When is the pecker-head in the kitchen going to give up this green menu and start serving real food?"
Sandy rushed back over to retrieve her pot. "Maybe soon." She looked over her shoulder. Lisa no longer shadowed her. "Business has been really, really slow."
Jim pushed his already empty cup toward her. "So my regular business isn't enough to keep the place open?"
She gave him a little smirk and a wink. "Your tips sure aren't."
"Go on. Bring us something resembling breakfast," O said.
She sashayed off.
O looked at Jim. "I bet your tips are the only reason she can feed herself."
Jim shrugged. Sandy was one of the few women he did trust. Not that there was any kind of relationship there. She was a hardworking girl trying to make a living. That could be difficult in Vegas, and he couldn't bear to see the girl hit the streets to make her bills. He was known to leave a twenty or two on the table at times.
"She puts up with me almost every morning. Should get more than a couple bucks."
They sat quietly for a minute. O looked out the window at the passing traffic. It was a comfortable silence that comes from spending time with a guy. Time and danger made men comfortable with one another. And they'd shared both.
O took another drink. The action brought them back into conversation position. "You lookin' for some work?"
O often let Jim pick up some skips in his bounty hunter business for extra cash when things got slim in Jim's world. The offer usually came with the suggestion that if Jim advertised and had a better website, he might get more clients, or better-paying ones. But that was for a later conversation. Today Jim was the one with the offer.
"Nope. I want to hire you this time."
O's brows rose. "As in a bondsman? You get arrested and I didn't hear about it?"
"No." I got drugged and screwed by a serial killer and need your help finding the bitch. "My last client hired me to find her brother. Said he'd been into drugs."
"Sounds about normal for you."
"Well, that's where the normal ended. Turns out my client was only pretending to be the target's sister. She killed the target's sister and stole her identity."
"Oh?"
"I need the backup." Jim liked to work alone. But heading into unknown territory without backup was risky. And he might be lazy, but never intentionally stupid.
This was his burden. His problem. And sooner or later his night with Sophie might become pertinent to the investigation. But if he was going to tell anyone, O would be the guy. Still, he'd wait until that info was need-to-know. Sophie Evers was a grade-A whack job who made his usual list of clients seem like church ladies. Miller had been right. Having some backup with this bitch out there would be smart.
"With your help I'll find her faster. I got a young man and his elderly mother stashed in a safe house, along with her care worker."
"And a couple badges, I'd guess."
"Yep. Not ideal."
"Sounds interesting."
"We'd need to head to Dallas, today. I have a couple leads to work and a copy of an FBI file to decipher."
"How'd you get an FBI file?"
Jim shrugged.
O took a sip of his coffee. "Get to fight with the Feds too, then?"
"More than likely. Pretty female Fed."
"I'll be. This day is getting better."
"I can even pay you."
"Now you're just pulling my leg." He winked but sadly it wasn't too far a stretch.
Jim took a deep breath, unsure why telling O this seemed embarrassing. Probably because Sophie had shown him she could get to him. That he'd been stupid. He rarely repeated stupid.
"We're thinking this chick's killed around ten people, O. Some of the corpses have been scumbags and some are just regular civies. I'm invested in this. I fell for her lies, found her ultimate target, and served him right up to her. Almost left him to her too. I'm responsible. I've spent time with her. She's very good at being bad."
"Dang. You have the strangest shit come across your desk."
"Tell me about it. You in? I know you have a business to run here."
"I got people who can do my job while I'm gone. You could use someone working for you too. Then you wouldn't have to pull me away from picking up strays every time you need help."
"Build my business and hire someone reliable?" He mimicked the advice that O tossed his way every time they talked.
O rolled his eyes at Jim's sarcastic tone.
"That means I'd have to deal with that someone. I hate that someone already and I haven't even hired him yet."
"Why do you hate everyone?"
"I don't hate you."
O smiled. "Yet." He pointed a long, ringed finger at Jim. His late wife's name was tattooed along his knuckles. He'd lost her here, in Vegas, on their honeymoon. Traffickers grabbed her in a club, right under O's nose. He'd stayed to find the creeps, but only found a trail to a dead body.
"I'll be your Huckleberry … on one condition." O leaned back in the booth, his body language suddenly cocky. "Gun range."
Jim let his head hit the back of the booth. "I don't want a gun." He sounded like a whiney teenage boy being assigned chores.
"You need one. I'll help you."
Not the range. Anything but the range. It was bad enough he was feeling like a weak-ass punk after letting Sophie get him by the balls, now he had to prove to O he couldn't shoot for shit.
"I'll hire someone else."
"You really that afraid to shoot, man?"
"Not fear. I told you, I suck with a gun. You want me to carry a gun, give me a sawed-off shotgun. Hell, a grenade. Cuz anything that takes more skill than that, I'm useless."
"Grenades? That's subtle." O pulled a ten out of a beat-up leather wallet and tossed it onto the table. "Two hours. Scruffies."
Jim knew it. The outdoor range on the west side. "The food's not even here yet."
"No real food is ever gonna show up here." O stood and tapped the table. "Two hours." |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 27 | Shrill lyrics reverberated around the car. Not that Sophie could understand the words to any of the tracks. It was in Italian. She knew the story the opera told without the actual words. A count kills his countess after an affair in the afternoon. Classical opera, full of death and tragedy. It had taken years to understand why it spoke to her at such an early age. The death, the tragedy, it all mimicked her childhood, her life.
The crap audio system in the late-model minivan was not designed for the tonal depth of the piece. Not many speakers were. But the intense harmonics and the riot of sharp voices battling deep emotion worked to calm her scattered thoughts.
That the pup slept through it amazed her. It was loud and obnoxious and she loved it. That affinity had started in high school. The music had made her foster parents insane. Anything to annoy them had become a fast favorite.
In the process, she'd acquired the taste for the bloodlust themes and desperation in what little of the lyrics she understood. The passion of the music always made her blood run hot.
Music was one of the few things Sophie felt a passion for. The rest of the entitled and commercialistic culture could cease to exist and she'd miss little of it. Everyone on the planet could dissolve and she'd miss no one. Well, no one but Daniel Kent Hodge. A therapist once told her those weren't real feelings, just a mere obsession. Fuck him. She felt them. Danny would too. Either way, the music fueled it and her.
After graduation, when she'd held a series of meaningless small jobs, classical music had helped her move up in the world. Escaping to it helped curtail her anger. She could disappear and the stress of working with the inane idiots at the Taco Hut would slip away.
In a way, it pushed her and was part of the plan on how to get out of the lifestyle she was doomed to live because her dumb whore of a mother had dumped her. It had been while lost in the frenzied notes and octaves that she decided she could use her body and her anger to rise above the carnage of her existence. She could work herself into a musical trance and think through her issues. It had helped her decide that taking out pimps and drug-dealing scum would be far more lucrative than selling pretzels or burritos at the mall.
A flash of blue caught her eye, followed by another, blaring for her acknowledgement. Fuck. She did not need this now. How long had the annoying cop been back there with his lights flashing at her? She glanced down. Apparently the music had worked its way from her brain to her right foot.
She turned down the music and considered just driving on. Her tool bag was in the floorboard on the passenger side. Close enough to reach out and snag her blade sitting snug in its sheath.
She slowed to pull over. Carla raised her little head from the seat next to her.
"Don't worry, sweet pea, it's just the stupid cops."
She fished for her current set of documents as the officer took his time to run the plates. She made sure the name was the one she wanted to present at the moment. No worries there. The van was registered to Eloise Fowler, Noblesville, Indiana.
She waited.
The cop stayed in the car.
Checking her plates shouldn't take that long.
Time passed, but Sophie didn't worry, nor would the ice job intimidate her. She glanced at the clock on the dash. Five minutes since she'd come to a halt. If he was looking for any sign of criminal activity, he'd find none. She was getting peeved.
Finally the silver door on the squad car opened. Sophie let the window down as a young officer stood. A small, round female approached. The woman tugged her black slacks up by the utility belt. Different to see a female officer alone at night. Sophie assumed another cruiser was close by in case of trouble.
"License and registration, ma'am."
Sophie shoved the required documents toward the window, sighing loud enough to show her displeasure at the interruption of her travels. And the bitch cop had the nerve to closely examine the license as if she suspected a forgery. There was nothing to suspect. The minivan was bought and paid for with cash at Herb's Used Cars last month by Eloise Fowler. Registered in the same name. Insurance carried by Eloise Fowler. Driver's license with Sophie's picture read Eloise Fowler.
And her van wasn't suspicious either. They were near the Yosemite National Park. Several duffle bags and a cooler occupied the back, and a puppy happily riding by her side made for a great cover. A camping adventure. Nothing out of sorts, nothing to see here.
"You realize you were going twenty miles per hour over the limit, Ms. Fowler?"
"Of course I do. The speedometer is directly in front of my face. Any moron who tries to tell you they don't know they're speeding is lying."
Sophie didn't look away from Carla to see the cop's reaction to the frank comment. She was in a hurry and wanted to get the ticket and move on. She didn't care. Nothing would be on her record, no need to pay whatever fine might come along with such a grievous disrespect for California speed laws.
She glanced at the out-of-shape woman. Her collar rode high on a squat neck. No sign of an Adam's apple moving as she preached the cops' sermon.
"That's considered reckless driving. I can't let this one go. That far over, you're facing a loss of driving privileges. Probably going to lose this license for at least six months."
Sophie sat silent as the policewoman waited for an elaborate lie. The plea for a warning ticket. Sophie checked her nails.
"But hey, no excuses, no argument. I like that."
"I don't give a shit what you like. I have places to be. Can you cut the chit-chat and let's get this over with?" She shooed her with a wiggle of the fingers.
"Don't antagonize me, Ms. Fowler." The cop hitched up her belt again and Sophie caught her checking to see that her weapon was at the ready.
For an instant Sophie's fingers itched to take the challenge. Who could kill faster on this deserted bit of highway? She was at a distinct disadvantage sitting in the van. But the cop was fat and several years older than when she'd passed the physical requirements of the training academy. Sophie was fit. Strong. And smart.
If she irritated the bitch cop enough, the officer would have Sophie step out of the car. Advantage was definitely on Sophie's side then. She would have the upper hand in close combat. The element of surprise alone was a winning factor. The completely unexpected ability to turn from belligerent speeder to killer in an instant. This cop would never see it coming. Sophie could disarm her, and then kill her with ease. Who did she think she was dealing with anyway?
"There's no law that says I have to be nice to you, is there?" She didn't give the officer a chance to respond because she knew very well she was right. "Are we done?"
She looked the cop directly in the eye, showing no fear, no intimidation.
The officer shoved her citation through the window. "I'll see you in court. There is a law that says that."
Sophie smiled at the woman, genuinely pleased, knowing she would not be going to court. "Thank you very much."
"Slow down." The cop handed her the license before walking back toward her cruiser. Sophie could go after her and slit that short little neck in an instant. But she had other, more pressing things to attend to. |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 28 | The door to Scruffies looked more like the entrance to a strip club than a firing range. Screaming red neon confirmed the establishment was, in fact, open. There were fliers and posters plastered over the entire surface of the glass door, blocking any view of the interior. He'd not been here before. Jim had not stepped into a range since college, when he was getting ready to join the cadets at Quantico.
He'd sucked. Not in the missing the center mass of the body-shaped target by a few inches kind of sucked. No. He missed the entire body-shaped target almost every time he pulled that trigger. Not long into training, he got frustrated. He'd stood in that booth and looked down the range with his ego in full control. No way he was going to be the worst shot in the class. Not him. He'd mastered so many other things in life with ease. The fact that weaponry hadn't come naturally worked his nerves like a dull knife on a thick rope, slow and fraying.
Instead of reasoning out the bad aim, his move was to use a gorilla grip on the gun, the idea being he could manhandle the weapon into improved targeting. Sounded good at the time. The instructor had given Jim nothing but disapproving looks, which only fueled Jim's overreaction to the situation. Arrogant and mean, the retired trooper was probably doing these classes to pay for alimony. For at least two ex-wives.
The last straw came on a Friday. He remembered it like a bad dream. Jim had fired. His tight grip pushed his aim so low, he shot the inside of the range booth.
The slug ricocheted backward at an angle, which took it dangerously close to the thigh of the asshat instructor. The man had to jump out of the way of a .40-caliber slug. It wasn't really that close. Given the mouth breather's goal was to make everyone around him feel small and stupid, he used the accident as expected.
He'd roughly extracted the weapon from Jim's shocked, shaking grip, followed by a teardown fit for a teenager who'd taken his father's car keys. Then to make the scene complete, the instructor had tossed the gun dramatically into a case and told Jim a five-year-old could outshoot him. Although true, the public slur pulled at his ego. Insult to injury. The rest of the class was looking on, most trying to stifle their amusement. Not to save Jim any embarrassment, but to keep the instructor's attention away from their own shortcomings.
Mortified, Jim went straight to the karate studio and signed up for classes. He'd taken them as a kid and figured accidentally killing a man with your bare hands was a little less likely than with a gun. Intentionally … well, that was another story.
With a deep breath to suck down his memories and his ego, Jim stepped inside Scruffies. O stood at the counter. He'd signed them in. Jim gave over his license for their records. Muted gunfire echoed throughout the building. Through the thick glass behind the counter he saw a couple of guys and women were already on the range. He'd hoped for a more private lesson.
O turned and headed back for the door.
"You forget something?"
"Nope. We're shooting on the outdoor range. It's around the far side of the property." O used his body to push the door open but didn't wait for Jim to follow. He had to rush to catch up as O started up his Tahoe. Jim hopped in the passenger seat. "I thought we'd be less claustrophobic out here."
O was right. The outside range was a picnic table under a carport shelter with a long, waist-high bench along one side to hold the weapons. Their shooting alley was far enough away from two other shooters that he didn't need to worry about anyone but O seeing the fiasco to come.
O pulled out four twenty-five-round boxes.
"Don't need too much ammo. If I haven't sent you running for cover by the time we finish one box of that, I'm buying lunch."
"You're buying lunch anyway. What time do you want to head to the airport?" O shoved a magazine into the gun and pulled the slide to load the chamber.
"Three."
The big man held the gun in his palm. "You get any real instruction?"
"Does an old trooper yelling at me for two days count?"
"Yeah. Here. Loaded five. Keep it pointed downrange, please."
Jim took it. "So you have seen me shoot." Cool metal was slippery in his sweating hand.
"It's just good practice. Finger off the trigger too. Keep it that way till you have the legal right to shoot and the intention to do so. No walking around dark houses with your damned finger on the trigger. Cat might jump out at you and you shoot your partner in the ass." O demonstrated, keeping his finger pointed up the barrel but very close to the trigger.
Jim mimicked the finger position. It was comfortable.
"Now shoot."
Jim turned his attention to the targets. They weren't the paper silhouettes that he'd used in the indoor range. Still body-shaped, these were metal and dangled from posts like hammered steel hangmen.
Jim took a deep breath. "This won't be pretty." He held the gun up with both hands in the grip he was taught. His finger slid to the trigger. He squeezed slow. He didn't want to hear it. His jaw hurt from his clenched teeth. After what seemed like a day too long, the gun went off. No sound of metal. He looked at O.
"Try again."
Jim repeated the same action. Still no sound of metal on metal. Hopeless.
"You shoot like a girl."
"Fuck you."
O moved close and shadowed Jim's stance. "You were all leaned back with your hips forward. Looks like a pregnant woman, all belly out. And you anticipated the bang, making you lean even farther back."
"Did I?"
"Yeah. Could you even see the target when you pulled the trigger?"
Jim thought about it. No. Crap, that was embarrassing.
Never told the old trooper he'd lost sight of the target. But he now realized what he was doing. Same thing with the baseball as a boy. The pitcher would let go of that hard ball and Jim's eyes snapped shut knowing it was flying uncontrolled at his head. Not to mention he was trying to force as much power to the bat as possible. No need to cover his inadequacies with O, the man had already seen many of them.
"I think I closed my eyes."
"Hell yeah, you did. And to compensate for that you're gonna automatically point that gun almost straight down." O demonstrated, his hips pushed forward, his gun arm pointed down and his eyes closed.
"Fucking does look like a pregnant girl."
"Don't say that too loud. There's plenty of girls around here who shoot better than the both of us. Now, try again. Lean those shoulders forward. Relax. Point the dangerous part forward and aim. Use that finger pointing forward as a guide. Forget the sights. Point at what you want to hit. Take a smooth breath and pull that trigger. Keep your eyes open and on the target."
Jim changed his stance. It felt better. He pulled the trigger. Felt the sweet spot, concentrated on keeping his eyes on the center of the human-shaped metal plate he was pointing at. The blast made his ears ring even through the earplugs, but he managed to keep his eyes open.
Clank. Metal. Hit.
He looked at O. "You look more surprised than me."
O chuckled and fired off five quick rounds. Each hit. Center mass.
Jim lifted the gun, sighted, and fired the remaining two rounds in his magazine.
"Still low and to the left, but that's just a problem with anticipating. You'll get past that." O handed him a box of fifty rounds. "Five at a time. Reassess. I'll make comments."
O leaned back on the picnic table and lit a huge cigar.
Jim slapped in the reloaded magazine. Checked his stance. Took a smooth breath and squeezed as he let the breath out. Very zen. Clank! Clank! Miss. Clank! Clank!
"Not bad for a guy who said he can't shoot. All you needed was an instructor with half a brain."
"Good thing I have one of those." Jim looked up from reloading. "You're lucky to have half a brain."
"Shut up and shoot. Need to be at Ely's in an hour. He says he's got something on our whack job."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. And he's got us some toys for the trip." |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 29 | Annie circled Jim's legs as he sat at Ely's table. The cat was desperate for his attention. So much so that she jumped up and perched contently in his lap. He ran his fingers though her long, silky fur. Not a luxury he experienced very often. The cat loved to be close, but touching was usually a deal breaker. She doled out that kind of intimacy in small sweet moments. Jim needed to spend some time at home.
When Ely tossed the blue folder in front of Jim, Annie fled the area and returned to watching them from her normal spot on the top level of the countertop.
"How'd you get a copy of this?" the techie asked.
Jim shrugged. "Contacts."
"But this is actual FBI paperwork."
"It's a copy."
"No, dude. This is original sin, right here." Ely bit his lower lip.
Crap. "Evidently it got mixed up with the copy."
Ely tapped the folder. His thin frame was made thinner by black fatigues and a black tank. When he turned around, the back arm openings let some of his scars show. Scars from months of being a POW. Remnants of horror stories that must come to him in the night.
His right forearm was tatted up with an odd pattern of old and new ink. Each little thing meant something to the wiry vet. Jim never presumed to ask about any of it, but sometimes when Ely was stoned, and they were alone, he told some stories. Jim always listened. Never asked for elaboration. He'd let the guy go into heavy details, even when they made Jim thank whatever lucky stars there were that his own misery and pain was not what Ely had lived through.
Jim feared he wouldn't have made it through something like being beat with bamboo until blood ran down the backs of his legs, staining the dirt floor under numb knees. And Ely still cared about people. Jim rarely did. Didn't trust. Even getting close to O and Ely had been hard.
"Hope your source can cover his or her ass, man."
"He can." Jim hoped. He'd call to give Miller a heads up. If they needed to make a trade, he'd make it happen before leaving for Dallas.
O lit up. With all the pot smoke in the house a little bit of cigar smoke wouldn't hurt anything.
"That secondhand is going to shorten my life, you know?" Jim waved his hand to usher cigar smoke out of his face.
O puffed out. "You smoke sometimes. Anyhow, that's not going to be your downfall, Bean."
"No?"
"Nope. Your solitude."
"I'm dying of solitude?" That was prime.
"Yep. You care about nothing. No one. You got nothing to lose. It makes you a good investigator, would have made you a great soldier, but it's gonna get you killed. Last time we were in on something together, you jumped off the roof of a two-story building."
"And?"
Ely nodded. Not like he had any more personal connections than Jim did.
"Moving so fast, you're gonna breeze past that line in the sand one day. The one you shouldn't cross. You'll go too far. And you'll do it without thinking twice. Why? Cuz you got no one to worry over you." O sucked in a draw, closed his mouth, his cheeks puffed from holding it.
O was mostly right. But Jim figured even if he had someone these days, he'd still call all the shots the same. "I got you guys. And Annie."
Ely nodded, his whole upper body moving with his head as if grooving to some beat Jim and O would never be able to hear.
"Just consider going on a date."
"A date?" With flowers and good night kiss pressure? No thanks. He'd stick to the strippers and one-night stands.
Like in Texas with Sophie. That was how he would have to file that event in his head. Just a drunken misadventure. An image of her straddled over him made his stomach turn. "We got a case here or we gonna continue with this joke of a love life intervention?"
"Have to have a love life to intervene in it." O took another puff and leaned his head back so the exhale billowed straight overhead.
The smoke danced around the weird Circus-Circus act sculptures hung above.
"What do you think, Ely?" Jim asked.
"Of the folder? Bitch don't like anyone and has no conscience."
O laughed. "No shit." He leaned forward. "What's her plan, though? It can't be to kill Hodge. Too much drama for that. She's clearing a path of bodies to get to him. There's got to be a motive here we're not seeing."
"Agreed." Jim stood and paced toward the front door. "She could have killed Dan back when she slashed his old girlfriend. And again when she got his buckle bunny."
"They ever have a real relationship?"
Jim turned back to the guys. "Nah. He said she was too young. He was in high school, she was in middle. I'm guessing the attraction was probably all in her head, even back then."
O shrugged. "So she loved him and he didn't return the favor. Since she's diced up pimps for money, I'd think unrequited love would be a killing offense."
Ely opened the file. Pointed at the pics of dead men and women staring up at him. "If these are all hers, she's changed her technique as time has passed."
"If?"
"Yeah. I mean other than the girlfriends, the first two crimes were pimps. In those days not a lot of care was taken if a dirt bag, drug-dealing pimp with a two-foot rap sheet got offed. Clumsy evidence collection at best. Couldn't pin those on her without a confession, is my guess. The next two or three aren't much better. Wasn't until she moved uptown that her vics got middle class enough to have the crime scenes well documented and collected."
"We have to get moving." O mashed his cigar into a tray. He looked remiss at leaving a good half of it behind. "Flight's in a couple hours. Can you keep looking for something in that file, Ely, something we're not seeing?"
"Yep. Have just the tool for opening the mind."
O snorted. "I bet you do. Maybe you can give us a good place to start?"
"Of course. Get that file back to Miller," Ely said.
"Why'd you ask where I got it if you knew?" Jim asked.
"Two ways that could have gone down—Miller or maybe you seduced it off Lady Fed." Ely's grin was lopsided. Suspicious.
No way. She was smart, successful, and beautiful. Everything he would love in a chick, but he'd never get past the fact she was an agent and Jim was a slob with a drinking habit. "Hardly."
They both eyed him.
"How'd you two know about Lady Fed anyway?"
The pair shrugged, neither doing a particularly good job of faking their innocence. Fucking Miller. Maybe Jim should keep that blue folder and let Miller deal with the consequences.
"See, I knew there was a woman for you." O winked. "Classy agent lady?"
Not a chance. No Feds for him.
Ely slid a yellow folder to Jim. "Made extra copies." He met Jim's eyes. No humor. Then glanced to the folder and back. It took all of two seconds to know what Ely was thinking about. Jim had forgotten to take his own rap sheet out of the file. Lady Fed had pulled his records. Records that should have been sealed.
His palms itched to hit someone. Not that he was hiding his past from Ely, but few knew he'd faced all those inflammatory charges and had changed his name. Seemed that number was growing. Miller, O, Lady Fed, and now Ely. If Ely gave him the pity face, Jim was gonna punch it.
"I think you need a woman who don't keep the clock running, Bean," Ely said. So it was the hookers and not Jim's history he was all bashful over. Surprising.
"The day you can keep a girl, call me. I'll consider it. Until then …"
"I have a girlfriend." Ely gave them a smug look and headed to the back end of the building. He stopped to twist the tumbler of the combo lock on his closet.
Jim called it the Toy Room. He'd only seen it a couple times, but he knew there was shit in there from both world wars. Real stuff. Fun stuff. He had the latest state-of-the-art techno-warfare munitions as well. Things Jim was sure Lady Fed would love to know were residing with a stoned, batty ex-Marine. Jim loved looking at the old shit.
"New girlfriend? Do tell." O followed him in.
Jim trailed. He sucked in a deep breath, loving the smell of gun oil and black powder. Now that he had figured out the basics of his shooting problems, maybe he should consider getting his own handgun.
He picked up a good-sized one, maybe a 9mm. Could have been a 40-cal. He had no real clue.
"She works at the Mellow Man pizza place downtown. Old hippy. Skinny. Pretty eyes."
Sounded about right for Ely. Someone from his era was a good thing. Might understand the PTSD and all the scars. Jim checked the gun to feel its weight in his palm. Felt light.
"Don't get ahead of yourself, Bean," O warned. "You need a lot more practice before you start waving those things around. A few plinks at a target does not a marksman make."
Jim turned the gun over. Inspected the other side. "Thinking about it doesn't hurt anyone."
O pushed the muzzle away from the open room. "Unless you let loose a panic round or something and put a hole in good old Ely here. Whatever would his girlfriend do?"
Ely snickered. "She'd likely move on to the next guy with a big … bag."
"Is that the kind of relationship you want?" Jim wasn't sure why he asked that. Ely was a grown man. And shit if he wasn't experienced, but Jim still worried someone might take advantage of his generous nature. Last thing the vet needed was some chick cleaning him out.
"She's all yours when you want it, dude."
Jim put the gun down. "Only kind of bag I have carries groceries. Your girl probably won't like that."
Ely laughed and bobbed his head towards the gun. "The piece, I meant, not my piece." Ely dug in a box filled with shipping peanuts. He pulled out a smaller black plastic case. "New tracking device. Comes with a phone app. If you can get it in a purse or briefcase, you can track right to the object."
Problem with that was purses and briefcases got left behind. But it was better than the big magnet trackers Jim stuck on car undercarriages.
Ely took a couple small boxes off a shelf. "Earwigs. Set of four. I got a few more flash-bangs if you want them, but not sure the airline will let you carry them on. More than three ounces."
"No shit." O took the electronics. "I'll hook up with a bounty hunter I shared some info with in Mesquite. He'll take care of anything we need beyond my sidearm."
"Don't think we'll need too many toys, O. It's like we're hunting a ghost. We don't find her, there's nothing to shoot at. It's unlikely she's back in Texas."
"She could be anywhere."
"Girl's gotta have a home base." Ely led them out of the closet, making sure the thing was locked up tight before he stopped and put his hands on his hips, staring up at the eagle hanging over the upstairs railing like a gargoyle on steroids. "She has a plan, she wants that Hodge boy. She's got somewhere ready to accommodate the dude. Whether it's for loving or killing, that's your worry—the nest." |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 30 | "Hope you got the insurance." O got out of the car and stretched his legs. The trip from the airport had taken near forty-five minutes.
Jim pushed the button on the fob but also double-checked the handle to ensure that it wasn't opening. Not that any door locks made were going to help. This was the kind of neighborhood where if a person found themselves there accidentally, by wrong turn or bad GPS, they snapped the locks shut as they drove. They prayed to whatever god they pleased that they hit all the lights green until they could get back on the freeway. When they had to stop, they kept their eyes forward, wondering if the kids on the corner were going to hijack the car. Even the streetlights sagged in depression as they hung over dirty, narrow streets.
"I did. Good thing you wanted to leave most of the equipment in the hotel room."
Jim turned back down the street they'd driven up. They'd passed the address.
It looked vacant. Graffiti-painted plywood covered the only window on the first floor. As they approached the smoky glass door, a small boy ducked through the opening. He glanced at the pair with a surprised look but kept to his intended path without much change in pace. He must have figured them for cops. Or thugs. Either way, he wanted no part of them.
The door was perpetually a foot and half open. Jammed. Jim found it incredibly hard to pull it the rest of the way. It creaked as if the metal would snap.
Inside the dusty stone foyer was a bank of mailboxes and an intercom system. Some names were still taped beside dingy red buttons. But the case holding the intercom system had long since been pried from the wall and twisted wiring hung exposed and dead. "We need 4B."
Neither even tried for the elevator.
Only four flights. Shouldn't be too bad, Jim figured. Wrong. The urine stench was only slightly overpowered by the smell of molded ceiling tiles. Random clothing, paper, and a few broken needles littered each of the landings. They moved at a steady pace. O had not unholstered his gun, but his hand rode on the grip as he eased up the steps, keeping to the outside wall. His attention stayed a flight higher than his feet.
Jim ducked close behind. Military formation for two guys who'd never worn a uniform. Different kind of training for their type.
The door to the fourth floor was closed. Jim wasn't exactly afraid as O pushed it open, but he'd sure rather be sneaking through a cheap Vegas hotel over this rundown housing project any day.
"Feels dead in here," O whispered. He seemed just as spooked. Not scared. Hyper alert.
The matted hallway carpet felt lumpy under Jim's feet. Maybe it had been green at one point, but it was now so dust-coated it looked gray in most areas. The first door they passed had a tin letter H hanging crooked under the peephole.
"B's at the other end of the hall," O said over his shoulder.
"Of course."
The next door stood open. Jim glanced in. Empty. Single abandoned chair sat under the far window.
Jim could hear a TV. Game show. Family Feud maybe. It was coming from another open door, third to the right. The next door they passed was broken and hanging crooked on the bottom hinge. O scanned the inside before passing.
He pictured a tiptoeing cartoon character stopping and bobbing his head around every corner just waiting for the bandit to jump out. "This place must have been condemned years ago."
O was still whispering. "If there's a TV, there's power here."
They made it to 4B. The door was closed. Jim tried the handle. "My bet … No one's been here in years."
Before O could reply, the door swung open. An elderly black woman in a bright yellow floor-length evening gown stood before them as if she were expecting them. Her face was made up like a teenager ready for a prom date, her long gray hair twisted in a sloppy braid on the top of her head.
"Well. Early. I like it." She motioned for them to enter.
"I'm Jim Bean. A private investigator from Las Vegas—"
"Vegas!" She spun in place. The dress flared at the bottom, making her look like a flower. Her big feet were covered by tattered gold sneakers. "I danced on the main stage at the Flamingo in '62. Eight straight weeks."
"We're looking to see if anyone here remembers a Kiko Henry," O said as she sashayed up to him.
"You are a big one, aren't you? In my day, young man, I would be inclined to explore all that creamy white skin of yours." She motioned up and down his torso and tilted her head.
"Kiko?"
"Hmm … " She turned and glanced at two pictures on the wall. Both family portraits. Could be hers, could have been there before she decided to squat in this apartment.
"That the boy that got himself sliced up about ten years back?"
"I think it was seven."
"Bah," she scoffed. "If memory serves, he was one of the hustlers. Selling smack to the kids 'round here and the boy had the girls coming and going. Got cut up one night. Died in his skivvies." She looked out the dirty window. The TV was plugged into a big extension cord that was affixed to the wall and ran out the window.
Jim glanced out. Smiled.
The cord stretched to the building next door and connected to another extension that ran to the roof. Four or five other cords zigzagged back and forth across the alley. That was the power. He almost asked her how she managed to get water but decided he didn't want to know. She was living on three outlets on an extension cord.
Instead he asked, "You ever know any of his girls?"
"Me?" She clutched the rhinestones at her chest. "No, sir. I been keeping my mouth shut and my eyes on my own business for a long time. Keeps me alive, it does." Her nose scrunched up. "Why the cops digging into Kiko's mess anyway? Dead black man in this neighborhood is no big deal today, much less a dead pimp from seven years ago."
"We're not cops." O almost stiffened at the accusation.
"You said you was an investigator."
"Private investigators," Jim said. "We're looking for one of his old girls. Her family is wanting her back." Lie.
"Well. You have a rough row to hoe, brother." She patted O on the tummy, leaving her bony hand there. "Ooh. You want to hang around and see what an old lady can still do?"
"You still got that in you?" O winked. His charm worked even on the old and insane.
"Not sure. That's why I asked. But I'll give it my best." She cackled. Her eyes sparked with life. She seemed content with her place in this rundown, empty building.
Jim backed toward the door. "You okay in this apartment, ma'am?"
"Been okay in this building for twenty-six years. I moved over here to this side of the hall after the power died."
"So you were across the hall when Kiko lived in this apartment?"
"Yeah. They cleaned the blood up good and then another couple tenants come and gone before I slipped in."
Jim fished the picture of Dan and Sophie out and held it for her to see. "This girl." He tapped the picture. "You remember her?"
She strained to look at it. "If I seen her, I don't recall."
It'd been worth a try.
"Most of his girls were white and young. Boy was bad news. Lord forgive me for saying it out loud, but I shed no tears when he got cut."
"Not sure anyone did, ma'am." O bowed a bit. "We'll be on our way then. Lovely to have met you, my flower."
She curtsied, holding out the ratty old gown as if in royal court.
They closed the door behind them and left her humming to herself.
"Her smile was ruined by those rotted teeth, but it still put off the warmth of the sun."
Jim stopped to look at O, confused. That poor woman was living off the grid and barely making it day to day. She was clearly broke. Somehow, O had been lightened by her.
A slamming door echoed in the corridor. Jim jumped. Good thing O hadn't noticed.
"Quit your grinning, lover boy, and put your hand back on your sidearm. Besides an aging showgirl, we have no idea what other surprises lurk in places like this." |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 31 | Carla trotted off the porch as fast as her little legs would carry her.
"Don't go off too far. That drive wore me out. I don't want to be chasing you."
Sophie went in and rummaged through her quaint kitchen cabinets with the carved wood trim and found an odd glass bowl that didn't match the rest of the set. All the furniture and the kitchen trappings had come with the purchase of the cabin. The woman who'd designed the look had done a nice job. Some kitschy mountain cabin decor graced the place, but not so much it was cliché.
She ran the water for a moment before filling the bowl. She'd been gone for a while and didn't want crud from the old pipes in the bowl. Carla barked at something and Sophie headed out to see what the pup had found. She sat down on the top of the few steps leading down from the porch and looked out to the lake.
It was a perfect house. The secluded little log cabin had been a jewel to find. Foreclosure, so she got it cheap. Maybe that isolation had added to the reason it was on the market so long. Too far off the beaten path for most, but it was tailor-made for her. Quiet.
"Carla."
The dog looked up from whatever she was sniffing at the edge of the lake.
"Come here."
As if she'd been responding to Sophie all her little life, the creature turned and pranced right to her.
"Good girl."
Happily, Carla took the attention for a moment, but her desire to explore took over soon enough. Sophie understood. Her first time here, she'd walked every inch of the area, memorizing the downed trees, the masses of dense bushes tucked here and there, and exactly how far it was before she could see another cabin. More than far enough for what she needed.
She kicked her shoes off and walked barefoot to the bench through the tall grass below. Her cell rang. Her work cell. She'd only turned it back on once she'd entered California.
"Successful trip, I trust?" Dave wanted numbers right off the bat. She had to physically shake her head to remember what little sales work she had done on this trip. She'd been gone five weeks. Dave gave her the perfect amount of freedom, but he would want something to show for her time. She worked on commission, so he didn't care how long it took to woo the hospital administrators to buy their system. But, it'd been a week since she'd even checked in.
"How's three out of five sound?" Along with two dead bodies. Brings me to a grand total of fourteen, but Dave wasn't interested in those stats. The schitzoid swing from sales professional to dirty cabbie was harsh, but the sales calls had paid off. So had the cabbie job, for that matter.
"You are the man. Umm … woman. Which three?" Dave's excitement was really cute.
"Desert Springs, Sunrise, and Valley."
He'd hired her to sell software systems to hospitals without much of a background check. Changing your identity was hell on the resume. But the car salesmen turned software marketing VP had said his gut told him she was a beast.
She'd laughed at how right he really was. After several horrid interviews, she'd taken his confidence as a motivator. What's it hurt him? Job was pure commission. If she failed it would only cost him a little training time. He'd made his money back in spades. In less than a year she was getting all the big leads and was assigned the best territories.
There was one more thing Dave wanted to hear. "Duke left a message today too."
"And? You're killing me, Maria."
"It's a go. Two point five, Dave. The entire network—hospital, outpatient, heart center, and medical facilities. Tech guys will be busy until next Halloween. I'll send you the specs and orders soon."
Carla came back up and jumped on her. Sophie didn't feel like being Maria at the moment, but that was the price she paid. A few minutes on this call and a full day's work tomorrow and she'd be set for a while.
"Damn. I'll need another project manager for that one. Nice work. You beat everyone's numbers again. One more and you'll have the record. Your bonus should be enough to buy a house."
"Already did." She laughed. "Gotta walk the dog. I'll email you tomorrow." She paced into the house and down the little hall.
"When did you get a dog?"
Carla had followed.
"Found her in Vegas and decided to keep her."
"Cute. Bring her when you come in. And when might that be?"
She stopped in front of a closed door and placed her palm on the wood. "Think I'm off to Dallas in a day or two. Want to follow up with Baylor. That COO is not happy with the system they have at all, but he's hesitating because it's only a year old and he dumped a wad into it. I think I can talk him over the hurdles if I keep at him."
"Great. You need anything from me?"
She patted the wood. "Not a thing. I'm all good."
"You sound … cheerful."
Sophie chuckled. "I guess I had better stop that, hadn't I?"
"No. That's not what I meant. I mean it's good to hear you sound so cheerful."
"Bye, Dave."
He huffed. "Later."
She disconnected the call and pushed open the door. Carla stood in the doorway.
"This is Danny's room."
There was a bed with hand and leg shackles like the hospitals use, several blankets folded neatly at the foot. A small beside table sat alongside it. The lighting was wall mounted so it couldn't be used as a weapon. She'd put two chairs in the room. One was a small plastic one for her to sit next to him and help him though his illness and she'd bought a more comfortable rocker so she could watch him as he slept.
Carla rushed to the bed and jumped on it.
"We must be patient, it may take him a while to come to love us again. Well, me. To love me again. But we will be a happy family."
You're gonna fuck this up.
The condescending tone grated Sophie's ears.
She was not. And this time she would ignore that voice and not play into her hate. Maybe she actually was cheerful. She was only a few days away from being with Danny, it didn't matter.
You better not wait too long. What if they move him?
Taunting.
What if that crappy van you picked out breaks down?
Criticizing.
What if you run out of drugs?
Undermining.
Sophie slammed open the closet door as the volume in her head reached a screeching crescendo. She ran her finger over boxes and tubes, checked the supplies off the mental list she'd memorized over a year ago. It was all in order. Drugs, bandages, plastic sheeting, bottled water, and men's necessities, all purchased months before. She had thought of everything. It would be fine, if she didn't fuck it up. How long should she wait for the cops on protection duty to get complacent? "Two days? Three?"
Carla yapped.
"Three days." |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 32 | "It's past my dinner time." O rubbed the back of his neck with a white bandana and then shoved it back in his pocket.
Even after dark it was over 80 out and the humidity levels had to be topping out over 90 percent. They'd been walking around the known hangouts of the local working girls for a couple hours. It was close to ten and Jim's stomach was churning too. But that came with the territory. You kept at it until your leads were all gone. And there were still girls out there.
"You really think one of these girls is going to have been on the street that long? Long life for a pro." O looked over another girl they were approaching.
Most looked closer to twelve than thirty. "You're probably right, but we don't have much more to go on."
"There was a Mexican joint a couple blocks back. I say we get some enchiladas and a margarita. I think better on a full stomach." O turned without waiting for Jim's reply. Guess that was an order and not a request.
"Don't we all?" Jim followed.
He'd asked at least fifteen girls about Sophie. Shoved her picture under their noses telling them her mother wanted her home. Most could have cared less whose face was printed on that paper. They had their own sob story and no one was looking for them. No progress. Didn't even get a hunch one of them was lying to him. It had been too long since Sophie walked this dirty mile of concrete.
Tomorrow, come daylight, they'd visit the next crime scene in the file. Ely said it was in an abandoned warehouse. No electricity. Known area for gang activity. Jim was beginning to doubt any of the old crime scenes were going to give them much on where Sophie might be now. But all they had was the FBI file. He needed to retrace Sophie's steps.
The waitress seated them and handed them menus. O ordered two margaritas, on the rocks, with salt. She went on her way. The menu was similar to every little Mexican joint in the world. Jim knew what to order without looking. He studied the picture instead. Sophie looked happy. Dan was smiling too, but his eyes didn't reflect her joy. He was a teenage boy with a kid stuck to him like a shadow.
The waitress put down the drinks. O ordered his chicken enchiladas. Jim dropped the picture. "Speedy with beans."
"Chicken or beef, sir?"
"Beef."
"Is that Beth?" She pointed at the picture of Sophie and Dan.
"You know her?" Jim held the picture out for the woman to take. She was in her late thirties, maybe early forties. Old enough to have been around.
"Yeah. She comes in a lot. Well, she used to. I haven't seen her in years." She shrugged. "She got a big-time job and moved outta the ghetto."
"We're trying to find her for her mother." Jim made sure he made eye contact with the woman. Softened his face. "Do you know where she went to work?"
"Not sure. It's been a while."
He nodded, not wanting to pressure her. The memory could be a temperamental thing. He was in no hurry, he had tacos and margaritas to enjoy while she thought on it.
O spoke up. "We think she changed her name too. You know what last name she was using back then?"
"Girls do that around here." She looked down. "You know she was working the streets then. Getting a real job was a big deal. She was so excited." The waitress tapped her pencil to her lip. "Stratford … or maybe Stafford."
Nice. Something to go on. A good lead from an unexpected source. He loved his job. Not that this case was really his job, was it? His job here was to make amends for his colossal fuckup of bringing Sophie to Dan's doorstep.
"I'll get you waters too." She left.
"You are a lucky bastard."
Jim half laughed. "Not me, bro. My luck is all bad. Remember, it was my luck that got me into this."
She rushed back over. "Stanton. Elizabeth Stanton." She looked quite pleased with herself. "I remember her pretty good. She would come here before going out for the night. She'd buy extra food. We thought she was feeding some of the homeless folks that lived under the overpass. Or maybe some of the other girls. I talked to her a lot. So did the old manager. But he's long gone."
Jim did not to think of Sophie as a saint delivering food to the helpless. She was a bat-shit crazy killer. Psycho. Maybe she was nice to people to get what she wanted. Stands to reason she was helping these people to get something from them.
"That's great"—O looked at her nametag—"Alejandra." He, of course, used the perfect accent to make her name sing.
She beamed at him. "I'll put in the order for your food. It won't take too long."
"Thanks, love," O said to her as she departed, garnering a quick smile over her shoulder.
Jim was already texting Ely the name Elizabeth Stanton. "Do you get laid? I mean does that shit work?"
"I don't do it to get laid." O smirked. "But that is sometimes a side effect of being nice to women. You should try it." O tilted his head. "Maybe just being nice to anyone you're not in the process of trying to get information out of."
Wow. That was the same thought he'd just had about Sophie Evers. "Tried it once. Didn't suit me."
Jim saw her as soon as the door opened. Suit wearing, not sweating in the heat Special Agent Ava Webb. She made short work of scanning the room and finding his face. There was no hiding from her. He tucked the picture, which he'd left out to help with Alejandra's memories, into his pocket.
"Mr. Bean." She glanced at O and gave him a small head nod. Very professional. She dragged over a chair, positioned it at the end of the booth, and plopped down in it. Her legs crossed with grace. Her shoes were sexy, but very sensible.
"Join us," Jim said, none too friendly.
"Hello." O leaned toward her. "And who do we have here, Jim?" O stuck out his hand. "Oscar Olsen."
"Hello, Mr. Olsen. Or should I say Double O?" She let her gaze swing back to Jim for an instant before she took O's hand. "You have an interesting history."
She thinks she's so smart for knowing everything. Well, it was her job. It was also fucking irritating.
O didn't flinch. His background was a tragic, painful mess and he wasn't the slightest bit ticked off this lady Fee Bee knew his deets. "And you have beautiful eyes."
Jim, meanwhile, needed to make a visit to his anger-management class over the fact that his records were still available to her. He'd seen his sheet in that file. He wondered if Miss Know-It-All understood the ramifications of his arrest and exoneration. That he'd be in her shoes right now if that night, that lie, had never happened.
"I seem to be the only one without the pleasure of your acquaintance, Ms. …"
"Special Agent Ava Webb."
"Ahh. Lady Fed. Very nice to meet you." O exchanged an approving look with Jim. As if he had anything to do with her appearance or her presence at the table.
Jim had no worry that O would give her the information they'd just received, but little Miss Alejandra might just do so when she brought the food. Jim was not ready to share his boon with the FBI just yet. First on the scene gets the best info.
Webb leveled her steely gaze back on Jim. "I assume you're here investigating Sophie Evers?"
He glanced around the tacky restaurant with its dime store sombreros and brightly painted mural. "Just visiting Dallas. Lovely city." Most of it was. This particular area, not so much.
Damn, her eyes were green. Really green. Like his cat, Annie's, eyes. Green and deep and mischievous. Her hair was a normal brown but it seemed to be vibrant even pulled back in that tight-assed ponytail.
"I suggest you find a better area for your vacation needs, Mr. Bean. We have an active investigation to run and we don't need you muddying up the waters. We're recanvassing; you don't have to."
We. Her quiet suit of a partner must be around. Made sense.
Alejandra was coming with the food. O slid out of his side of the booth and excused himself with a brief word in the waitress's ear.
She set the plates out. "Would you like a menu, señora?"
"No, thank you." Agent Webb only gave the girl a fleeting glance before turning back to Jim.
He gave her his best surprised expression. "You ordering me out of city limits, Sheriff?"
She cracked a tiny smile. "I'm asking you to go back to Vegas and wait for word from us. We have this under control. Go play bodyguard there."
Ouch. "I think I like it around here. Considering moving down south."
"It's hot and humid and you won't like the locals." She stood. "I know your cop buddy must have shared something, or everything, from our file, Mr. Bean."
O folded himself back into the booth. "Call him Jim. He's not as bad as you think when you get to know him."
She didn't reply to O. "If you fuck this up, Detective Miller's ass is in hotter water than yours. This is our jurisdiction, and our investigation. Go home."
But it's my responsibility.
"You can't make me leave." Jim raised his brows, knowing the Feds could well make trouble for him, O, and Miller if they wanted to. But she couldn't make him go. She had no authority over him.
"I can have your investigator's license pulled. Stealing federal files is a serious offense."
He smiled at her. Well, she could probably do that. But it would take time. And if he solved this case before she got his license, what would she have to gain? "Do your worst, Agent Webb."
She marched away. Jim tried not to watch her go. He failed.
He turned back to O. "No way she can send us packing." But Jim did worry about her pressing charges on Miller for something like mishandling federal evidence.
"You have to go the hard way all the time, don't you?"
"What are you talking about?"
"That one? Out of all the women in Vegas, that's the one who heats up your tamale?" O took a big bite of enchilada.
"What are you talking about?"
He chuckled and dipped a chip. "You got the hots for her. Might as well take out a banner and fly it over the neighborhood, bro. It's written all over your body."
"Is not." Jim felt the lie on his lips. His luck sucked. |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 33 | The margarita was harsh. Probably the cheap tequila. But it was cold and it contained a good amount of alcohol. Basic survival needs.
The food far surpassed his expectations. The hole in the wall in Dallas was as close to authentic Mexican as he could get without a passport. No sour cream, no corny uniforms or giant blow-up beer bottles. He was about to happily bite into his second taco when Special Agent Ava Webb marched right back in the restaurant. Toward him. She still looked good, but she didn't look happy.
"Miss me already?"
"Apparently." Webb kept her gaze steady. "I'm not exactly in a sharing mood. But I get why you're interested in helping Dan. And I get that there's no way you two are going to back off … Is there?"
Jim gave her a shrug. She only knew the half of his desire to get Sophie Evers. He wouldn't be enlightening her on the rest.
Her face briefly twisted into disgust before she spoke. "I just got a call from Vegas."
She didn't immediately elaborate. Jim's heart pounded. Her stern face was not helping. She'd make a great poker player.
"Cops found a body in the backyard behind the safe house, just outside the fence. The guy's throat was slit. My agent said it was messy. Probably unplanned and happened fast. ME just picked him up. Early guess on time of death was late last night. Dan and his mother are fine."
Jim's world tilted. "How'd she find them?"
Webb took the question as an invitation to sit. "Who knows?" She took a chip from the basket and bit off a tiny part of the triangle.
O pushed the salsa in her direction. "Miller moving them?"
Another safe house would be best. Unless she was hanging around to follow them to the new one. But why kill right there? Why not go on in and get Dan?
She took another chip and loaded it up. Jim should warn her he'd ordered the extra hot. He didn't. Let her play rough and tough.
She didn't pause to question the dip. Whatever. She bit down on the chip. No flinch. Didn't reach for water. O pushed his over just in case. Jim had thought about it but decided to make her sweat it out. Problem was, she wasn't. Can't fake that shit either. When a normal guy's mouth is on fire he sweats, turns red, eyes water.
"You read the file, right?" Still no signs of stress from her. Nada. Assumption: Jim and Miller had broken her rules and had the FBI file. There was no reading this chick. He couldn't tell if she was fishing for something to nail him on or what.
He shrugged. Wouldn't directly incriminate Miller.
"I'm thinking you know Sophie's killed in spurts. The first two in Stephenville, Texas, were anger-motivated. She saw the girls with her man and that's that. Blatant disrespect. Obviously doesn't value human life and she's got the drive to continue to kill like a serial."
She looked at O. "Then here in Dallas. It was a hodgepodge—some look revenge-motivated, some for profit, and a couple could be spite or practice with a new technique. With each one, though, she got smarter, stronger. The girl lives like a shadow. Selling drugs right under our noses, turning tricks. Then she goes silent for years."
Agent Webb finally took a sip from the water glass. But it wasn't in desperation or pain. She could take the hot stuff. She continued, now looking past O more than at him. "Since it seems your Danny boy is her final target, I'm thinking the closer she comes to fulfilling that long-term goal, the hastier the killing, the more her mental state is deteriorating. Her perception is getting more and more shattered. That plan, it's been her driving goal for years and now it's time to act. It's do or die. The guy behind the house looks like a slip in her control."
"You one of those profilers?"
Her gaze snapped to O. "Took a couple classes, but it's not my job description. My guess is she just lost it when the neighbor came up on her. She was snooping around and got spooked. Why else would she kill right there? It's dangerous. Very bold, more like stupid. She'd have to have known we'd yank them out of that house and place them somewhere under deeper cover."
"She's done more than one stupid thing." Jim almost wished the words back in his mouth. But Agent Webb was sharing; he should too. She may give him even more. She could drag him in and question him even though he had already shared most of his exchanges with Sophie. She had the report from Miller.
"Hiring me wasn't all that bright. She asked me not to confront Dan after finding him. That's all well and good. And if this had been an adultery case, I would have followed that request to the letter. Nothing but a photo and video confirmation. But her backstory on Dan was too far off. It didn't match the guy I found. Dan didn't remotely look like a lost junkie. I followed my gut."
"Good thing for him." She took another swig. Still no sign of sweating the hot sauce. "Sophie's good at hiding her identity. She's done an inordinate amount of prep work. So much so that she's lived several separate lives at once. She's not dumb. Why hire you to track him down in the first place?"
"Hiding and finding are two different things, Agent Webb." O took an enormous bite of his enchilada.
Webb watched him chew. Big guy with a big bite was quite the sight. She stayed silent as he took a rather large swig of his 'rita before continuing. How did people get so comfortable with this man so fast?
"Finding takes connections and legal avenues. Hard to use legal avenues when you're trying to stay off grid as much as she is."
She tapped the table. "You got a line on anything I need to know, Bean? You can stay and share, or go home and follow up that death in Vegas. But I'm lead. I cannot have you interrupting my investigations."
She was right. It would slow things down if she was interviewing the same people Jim was. They did have a little something Ava Webb did not: a name. He wasn't sure he wanted to give it up. She might take it and go off and leave him out of the loop. She could. She should.
He would.
Alejandra refilled their waters. "You sure you don't want nothing?"
"Am I staying or going, boys?"
Jim wanted to be around the hot sauce–eating Special Agent Ava Webb, even if his gut told him she was trouble. As in girl trouble. The feeling made him want to tell her to shove off. "Let me in on a part of it."
She balked, leaning back in her chair. "Not a chance."
"I can help. I'll be quiet. All input after your interviews. I need to be doing something here, Agent Webb."
She huffed. Considered. Jim, O, and Alejandra were all staring at her.
"I'm a dammed good PI."
Webb stood, paused at the edge of the table for a moment, silent. Maybe trying to talk herself into a sharing mood. Maybe trying to talk herself out of it. He wasn't going to say anything and make her decision fall against his favor. He wasn't fond of working with the Fee Bees, but they had fucking good resources. And in this case, the end goal was the same for both of them.
"This is against protocol," she said finally.
O looked at the waitress. "Staying."
She sat back down. "No menu, I'll have the Speedy with beans."
O barked out a laugh over the food order coincidence and winked at Jim. He got a frown in return. O just kept grinning. Dear god, the man was going to try and play matchmaker. Jim would put a stop to that easily enough. For now, business.
"Waitress recognized a picture of Sophie. Said she was a pro until she got a good job and moved on. Said she went by the name Elizabeth Stanton."
Webb stopped with a chip almost to her lips. "Like the social activist?"
"You know the name?" O asked.
She rolled her eyes. "Elizabeth Cady Stanton was one of the early advocates of women's rights. Basically started the suffrage movement. You know, equal rights? Women get to vote?"
"Oh." O dabbed at some melted cheese that had found its way onto his shirt. "That Elizabeth Stanton. Out of context. I wasn't thinking in historical terms."
She tapped out a text. "I'll see what we find on Elizabeth."
He wondered if Ely would find something as fast or as good as the FBI. |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 34 | Jim was drying off when he heard the knock at the door. He'd jumped in the shower right after leaving the restaurant. Wanted the grime and sweat of the dying neighborhood and the steamy Texas heat off his skin before he went to sleep.
"Yeah?" He never put his eye to a peep hole.
"Pizza delivery." O's rumbly voice was easily recognizable.
Jim swung open the door. To his great and unpleasant surprise, Agent Webb walked in … followed by Oscar you're getting your ass kicked Olsen. Jim tightened the towel wrapped around his waist. Did she give him a good once-over before she turned away? Probably not. He needed some sleep.
"Sorry, bro. Didn't know you were … um … naked."
"I'm not naked." Jim headed to the bathroom to grab his jeans. If O was matchmaking at this time of night, Jim was going to find a good payback.
"Mostly naked," O allowed. "Nice abs. Been lifting again, I see."
Through the mirror Jim saw her give an eye roll. She didn't find his nakedness quite as amusing as O. Could be a good thing. Could be bad.
And his gym time was to burn off steam. Properly release his anger. Or so the court order had read. Didn't hurt to be in shape in his business either and O knew it.
"Why are you two here, O?"
"Ran into Lady Fed in the hall. She was on her way."
Jim popped his head out of the bath as he buttoned his jeans. She didn't correct O's comment.
"I got something on Elizabeth Stanton."
As if on cue, his phone started blaring "Smoke on the Water." Ely. The phone was by the bed, across the room. She was a Fed, worked around men. His walking around shirtless shouldn't offend her sensitivity. And if it did, he wasn't sure he cared. He picked up the phone. "You have good stuff for me?"
"I do, my fine friend." Ely was always on target. He'd get the chance to one-up the woman. "I do. How's Lady Fed?"
What? "How do you know about … " Jim was going to say her name, but that would give her reason to believe they were taking about her. She was smart enough to see they were all plotting to put them together as a couple. Probably already picked up on it. That pissed him off too. He had no intention of adding to the farce. He glared at O as Webb looked out the window. Not that the view was exciting. His room overlooked the parking area.
"Good news travels fast," Ely said.
Jim gritted his teeth. "There is no good news. Unless, of course, you have some for me."
"Bummer. And I do."
"Well?"
"So you want the Stanton stuff or the mother stuff first?"
Jim looked at the Fed. "You coming up here to share info on Stanton?"
"Who is that?" she asked.
At the same time, Ely asked, "Is that Lady Fed? You in her room?"
"Special Agent Ava Webb, meet Ely. Go on with the Stanton info." Jim hit speaker button. "This is my research guru, Ely."
"Hello, Miss Ava Webb, Lady Fed." Ely was stoned. He all but sang out her name.
Her brows drew at Ely's tone. "He together enough to be reliable?"
Jim sighed. "Would I have put him on speaker if I didn't think he was okay?"
She frowned and stepped a little closer. Her eyes scanned his chest again. That time he was sure of it. Jim inwardly smiled.
Ely started, "Elizabeth Stanton. Born in Sweetwater, no real records until '89. Graduated University of North Texas in Dallas with a logistical something or other degree. Social Security records show two jobs in her career. One short term at a car rental company, the other with a warehouse distribution firm. You know, trucking and logistics and shit. She was there at least six years. Then she drops off the face of the earth. No money trail. Nothing."
Jim rubbed his chin. "That time period. The seven years or so she was employed. That the quiet time in the killing spree?"
Agent Webb nodded.
Ely said, "You got it."
So they had the same information. Where was her partner from the Vegas office, anyway?
"All lines up." O oozed into the chair at the tiny desk in the room. He'd been drinking all evening. Jim had a stash of scotch he'd been about ready to crack open. He wanted it now.
"But it tells us nothing." Jim shook his head. "So she had a job. Killing pimps seemed to be her job for a while before that. Pays her way through school with the drug sales? Then she goes all respectable? That would mean she was in school, turning tricks, and selling drugs. Busy young lady."
"Makes her smart and hard working. But fragile and easily thrown off kilter," Ava added. Jim shook his head at himself for thinking of the agent by her first name. He'd intentionally kept her at a distance by reminding himself she was an FBI agent and Jim was not. It would be like dating a really rich chick. You'd never be on her level. Not really.
"No shit," Ely said. "But I got another bone for you."
He paused. He always did. Jim could see him sitting at his wall of computers and grinning like a kid with a new Xbox.
"Don't keep us hanging too long," O shouted so he'd be heard from across the small hotel room. "We're all here looking at Jimbo's throbbing pecs while you shoot for the dramatic pause. It's taking away from the effect."
Jim grabbed a tee from his bag and pulled it over his head.
"Stealing my thunder, Bean?" Ely drawled.
"Ely."
"I found her real mom, bro."
"Sophie's real mom, not the foster mom?" Jim had talked to that family. They'd said terrible things about the girl. Not surprising, given what Dan had said about the way the fosters had treated her. Nothing to really consider there, since he was sure the foster father had abused Sophie.
"Exactly." Ely cleared his throat. "Her name is Mary Callas. Looks like she gave up three kids to the system over about seven years. Get this. All three were named 'Something' Ryan Evers. Oldest, Samantha Ryan Evers, died in a car wreck in 2001. Middle, Sarah Ryan, moved to Idaho and got married real young. You Feds find that shit out?"
Ava frowned. "Not yet. We didn't have a lead to make us think tracking down the birth mother would be of importance."
"You were not adopted then, Miss Lady Fed. My girlfriend was. She's looking for her mom right now. Probably dead, but I think maybe all abandoned kids feel the desire to seek out mom."
She nodded to the phone. "You got me there, Ely."
Ha! His guy had one-upped the Feds. Take that. "Nice job, anything else?"
"No. Annie misses you. You want to talk to her?"
Ava raised an eyebrow.
"Miss her too, but I can't talk now. Work to do." Interesting. Maybe Agent Ava was a little bit jealous.
O butted in. "Give her some tuna."
Ava looked appropriately confused at O's order.
"Cats love tuna, don't they?" His tone dripped amusement.
So much for making the Fed think there was a little woman named Annie at home waiting for him.
"They do," Ely agreed.
"Goodbye, Ely."
"Later, Jim. See you in the a.m., O."
Jim looked at Oscar.
Ely sang over the phone, "Goodbye, Lady Fed."
Jim ended the call. "Heading home?"
O shrugged and put his arms up, locking fingers behind his head. "I figured you and Agent Webb here have things firmly in hand. No need for me to be tagging along. I got a business to run."
His leaving Jim alone with Agent Webb was definitely playing matchmaker, but O's reasoning made perfect sense. No way to argue it. Jim was the one emotionally invested in the case, not O. He'd be available if Jim needed him, no question about that, but talking him into staying was impossible.
"I'll check in on Dan as soon as I get there and often. Is he in the same place?" O asked.
"We haven't made the move yet. But I'll clear you when we do. Probably tomorrow."
"Why so long?" Jim would have figured for a quick move.
"Sometimes we do a fake-out move. Let the bad element believe the subjects have been moved. His mother is old. Taking her a long way off would be hard on her. My partner is there, coordinating with the locals. Dan's being consulted today, we're getting his opinions."
"Wow. Considering the subject's opinion." Not what Jim expected to hear. "Kinder, gentler FBI?"
She smiled. "Not exactly. People in protective custody tend to stay in custody longer and stay safer when they have some say. Likely, we'll move your boy and his mom to another local spot. She's really frail. Don't want it to be too hard."
O piped up. "So I'm out for the night. On a jet plane in the a.m. Call me if you need." He gave a pathetic salute and left Jim standing in his hotel room with Special Agent Ava Webb.
"Tomorrow. Distribution company and the mom's house?"
Jim nodded.
"Eight. In the restaurant?" She was looking at the carpet. Or was it his bare feet? He hadn't answered, so she looked back up. Damn, her eyes were green.
"Got it. Breakfast at eight."
"No. Ready to go at eight."
Not a breakfast invitation then. He needed that scotch. |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 35 | It was definitely not a breakfast date. She met him in the dining room precisely at eight a.m. He was finishing up his steak and eggs, which was better than the paleo-vegan mush at the Coffee Girl, but the place lacked a certain charm—that charm being Sandy. He hoped that girl stayed in school for a long time, otherwise he'd need to go farther afield for his normal breakfast.
No surprise, Agent Webb seemed miffed that he wasn't ready to leave. She slid into the booth with a snippy greeting. They ran over what facts they had.
He paid the bill. They headed to Hickville, north of Dallas somewhere. No trees. Lots of dust. Ninety-three degrees at 9 a.m. Breathing was as laborious as sucking air through a swimming pool.
Heffelmire Distribution and Trucking was not the small, tired business on the verge of ruin Jim had expected. Not really sure why he'd thought that anyway, other than it was in a small town outside a huge metro area. He'd been dead wrong.
Instead of a shack, Heffelmire was a complex, thriving enterprise. Two office buildings and several huge warehouses sat safe inside an eight-foot fence topped with shiny new razor wire. No one was coming into this place without cutting up his ass cheeks. If Jim had bothered to spend the time counting, he was sure he'd find at least fifty tractor-trailers and half that many box trucks in and around the warehouses. Alejandra was right. Sophie had gotten a real job.
"Someone from HR is meeting us at the main building."
"You called ahead?"
Agent Webb let the window down to show her ID to the man working the gate. He jotted her name and the plate number in a log. "Yes. It's best to have an appointment."
"First building on your right, ma'am." The security guard waved her on with a sleazy grin.
"I never give people a heads up. That's opportunity for a guy to decide what you want and how he wants to handle you. If he's got something to hide, he's ready to talk. Lying's easier if you're prepared. I like to take them off guard."
"And if the person you want happens to be out to lunch?"
"You get what you can from the secretary or a co-worker. They'll be back."
She got out and leaned on the roof of the car. "Seven-year-old employment records? You really think anyone here has old information like that off the top of their heads that they want to protect?"
Anything was possible. He shrugged. No way he'd admit she might be right about that, and followed her into the building. She was still wearing a dark suit—possibly the same one, but it looked clean and pressed. Did she take the time to press it this morning? Jim checked his jeans to make sure they weren't stained.
Webb took the lead. She was the Federal agent in charge at the moment. Why would she let a lowly PI take point? Made for a great opportunity to see how people reacted to her. How she did her job.
She flipped out the badge. "Agent Webb, here to see a Millie Stubbs. I have an appointment."
The receptionist smiled. "I'll call her right away." She motioned to a clipboard with a sign-in sheet. "If you could, please."
She called and chatted with Millie in a hushed tone as Jim and Webb left their full names, the name of the party they were visiting, and the time of arrival. The woman took the board and handed them each a visitor badge as she logged the badge number beside their printed names.
Jim eased over to the large windows overlooking the complex. A security guard walked the front of the building. Probably cameras in the parking lot too. Lots of security. With a small turn, Jim scanned the reception area. Inside, two surveillance cameras scanned the reception area.
"What kind of distribution do you do around here?" he asked.
"All kinds. Domestic. International. Land, sea, air. You need it moved, we're your logistics experts." The phone rang. The receptionist grabbed it as she pointed to a small seating area and mouthed Have a seat before rattling off her canned greeting.
"Bet this is the biggest employer for miles around."
"Looks like it." Webb was also scanning. Checking the environment. Her cool eyes assessing. "Why take off? I mean, this is a real job. One she got from an education she earned under an assumed name, as if this was going to be her long-term life. But then she abandoned it," Webb pondered aloud.
Heels clicked sharp and snappy on the floor. Efficient. Millie Stubbs rounded a corner, but she wasn't what he'd expected either. A Millie should be older, grayer, probably a little chunky. But this Millie was in her mid-twenties, dark blond hair with a pert nose and stick-thin figure. Her beige pinstripe suit made her look like a walking ruler. She was not smiling.
Webb stood. Extended her hand. "Special Agent Webb, FBI. Thanks for seeing us on such short notice."
"Not sure how much I can help. I pulled Elizabeth Stanton's file. She did work here on the dates you gave me. Almost exactly."
"And she left why?" Jim stood. Millie looked down her nose at him. Could be his unshaved face, could be his causal attire. Either way, Millie was not impressed.
Millie put her hands behind her back, making her look even more like a talking ruler. "Afraid that's confidential. I can't release the circumstances around someone's termination. It's against privacy laws." She tilted her head down but looked up at Agent Webb, as if she were looking over glasses. "I would think you would know that, Special Agent Webb."
This chick was a barrel of laughs.
"Would you hire her again?" he asked.
Millie's sour look made Jim want to smile. He knew the laws. But he didn't want to push any more of her buttons than necessary. Yet.
"I'm afraid not."
"So, she was canned?"
She said nothing. Just stood there looking straight and smug.
Webb let out a heavy sigh and cocked her hip slightly to the side. She clasped her hands at the fingers and impatiently tapped her thumbs together. Quick as a snake strike, her face contorted. Millie took a very small step back. Jim loved it. Special Agent Webb turned bulldog in a heartbeat.
"You can be as smug as you like, Ms. Stubbs. But I'm investigating murder cases and the body count is now over double digits. Do you think you might have something you can share from your files that could help us?"
Millie's face paled. Her hand went to her chest. "Wow. Murders?" The word murder usually takes the starch out of the smug one's britches. "And one of our ex-employees is involved?"
Jim decided to speak. "We're trying to track Stanton down, follow her history. It could help us solve a series of murders and prevent any further violence. Any help you can provide would be beneficial." He'd play the nice guy. It wouldn't kill him this once.
"Umm. Legally, I can't say too much." She glanced back toward the hall she'd come down. "I looked at the file when you called. I, of course, was not here at the time. But the termination was robustly documented. Without a warrant, I'm afraid I'm only willing to say she had a rather heated personality conflict with another employee."
"Can you tell us the employee's name?"
Millie hesitated and glanced back again to make sure the receptionist was not listening. "No." She bit her lip. Her little pointy-toed shoe tapped the tile. "I can suggest you stop in at Woody's Place to have a drink. The 'bartender' is a great guy. He's been around and may have stories about local history." She actually used air quotes for the word bartender, as if they were stupid.
Agent Webb pulled out a card.
Millie took it. "Hope that helps."
"Me too. Thanks."
"Tell Max I said hi." Millie turned and strolled down the hall, seemingly satisfied that she'd helped the FBI and not broken her rules.
Max the bartender was either the ex-supervisor or someone who would know what had happened. Hopefully he had something pertinent, if not …
"How long does it take the FBI to get a warrant?"
"Too long. My hope is Ms. Millie just made that unnecessary." |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 36 | "Stop by and see Max on our way to Mary Callas, the mom?" Jim closed the car door.
FBI car. Big and dark and with state-registered plates. About as stealth as the Empire State Building rolling down the Strip. She drove. He'd never be caught in a dark blue or black sedan of any type. Cop car, cop engine. In his line of work, the car should say nothing about the man or his mission. Special Agent Ava Webb, however, had a cop car. Rolling authority.
"Logical progression." She punched Woody's Place into the GPS. "Only ten minutes in the wrong direction. Back towards town."
They had to have driven right past it on the way out here. Jim hadn't noticed. What had he been paying attention to? Not like him to miss something like that.
The gravel parking lot had only three vehicles. An old Chevy and two compacts. It was ten a.m. Probably just the owner and the cooks prepping for the day. The front door was unlocked. Webb pushed the door in and eased through without waiting for him to open it for her. Jim followed. Scanning.
He was right. Not one customer in the wood-paneled place but behind the counter was a graying man in a T-shirt with an outline of Texas on it. Inside the state lines was a cowboy pointing a gun straight ahead. The caption read: We don't call 911.
Nice.
"You must be Max," Webb said as they approached.
His face was tan, like a guy who spent too much time outside. Maybe enjoying fishing now that bartending was his gig and days were free. He had more gray hair then brown. Max put his knife down and wiped his hands, carefully returning them, palms down, to the bar, where they could be seen. This wasn't his first rodeo.
"Not if you're the law." His face was easy. Calm. Not a twitch. This man was guilty of little.
Jim wished he was the one talking to this guy. Figured PIs might do better with guys who don't like cops than a Fed in a suit with a shiny badge. He was less coppish than her by a mile.
But she had to flash the badge. Protocol.
Max straightened. Pulled away from them. "What's the FBI want with me?"
She eased onto a barstool. Unbuttoned her jacket. Nonthreatening. "We were wondering if you ever worked for Heffelmire."
"I did." Crossed his arms eased back a step. More standoffish. He was ready to clam up completely.
"You ever work with an Elizabeth Stanton?"
He leaned back against the beer cooler. If he could have oozed his body thought the wall of liquor bottles behind him, he would have. His body language couldn't be any more closed. "Eliza. Yeah."
"You two have issues?"
His expression went flat, his body stiff. Even his eyes didn't blink. Jim felt the anger from six feet away. "What's this about?"
"We're looking for her."
He huffed, unfolded his arms. His shoulders dropped. A big relief. But why?
"You ain't gonna find her here!" He snickered and started cutting limes again.
"Don't suppose you know where …"
"Nope. And don't want to. If you find her, keep her the hell away from me." Lime juice shot in Webb's general direction. "Sorry. Can't help you."
Jim sat too. Why had the man relaxed so suddenly? "What happened with you two, anyway?"
Max looked down at his work. Hesitated. "Nothing I feel like reliving." His glance was down and his eyes avoided both of them. "Why are you looking for her?"
"We need to ask her some questions. Having a little trouble finding her," said Webb.
Max studied Webb and glanced back at Jim. Maybe he did know something. His face lit up as he stopped the cutting again. He leaned forward on the bar. "Feds only show up when something real bad happens." His accent thickened as he leaned forward, his arms on the counter like he was ready to come over the bar in a big leap. "Crazy bitch done killed someone, didn't she?"
Webb glanced to Jim. Nodded. She was going to let Jim go with this one. Fine. "Actually, a bunch of someones," said Jim.
Max's meaty fist smacked the bar hard enough to make the cutting board jump. "Told everyone she was a certified psycho." He rested the knife on the counter. "How?"
"Stabbings."
Eyes closed as if to ward away some reality Jim and Ava didn't understand. "She use drugs first? You know, to knock 'em out?"
"We think she sold drugs for a while in Dallas under another name, before she came to—"
"No." Max's head shook and his gaze found Webb. "Did she use drugs in the killings? Like date-rape drugs?"
Ava tapped the counter, thinking. "Not that I'm aware of."
Jim's heart, meanwhile, thudded in his chest. Each beat heavy, sluggish. He knew what Max was asking. "What do you mean?"
Maybe Jim wanted to know the answer to that question. Maybe he didn't. Memories of his experience with Sophie assaulted his own head space. Her voice, drug-garbled and vacant, echoed in his ear, ran like a bad music clip. The vague feeling of violation crystallized with every word Max uttered.
Max looked around as if someone might have invaded the space as they had been talking. If he was going to tell a secret, he didn't want the world to hear. "Eliza invited me for drinks after work one night." Aimlessly, Max stroked the tattered bar top with his towel. "I thought it would be a crowd. Usually was. Turned out to be just her and me. No big deal at the time. We were co-workers. No reason to not have a drink with a co-worker, you know?"
He looked at Jim to confirm his feelings. Jim gave him a short head tilt to agree. Max concentrated on the wood surface to avoid looking at Ava.
"Well, it got out of hand fast. I was drunk, real drunk, after just two beers."
Jim knew where this was going. Wondered if the sweat he felt beading on his forehead was noticeable.
"She offered to run me home. I remember that part. Then I remember a little bit of a hotel room. And her naked. And …"
"We get the gist, Max." Jim said it to keep him talking. His own demons were twisting in his gut with each word. It would have been so easy to vomit right there at the bar. Jim swallowed down his own anxiety like dry bread. Didn't really want to know the rest. But they needed to hear this guy out. "Go on. You can leave out the details."
"I told this story enough. Hell, the whole town knows about it. I been bartending on the side for years. Everyone knows me. Small place like this, the bigger the secret, the faster it spreads."
Damn. Jim knew that. "Go on."
"Woke up in the hotel. I was … well. I knew I had … been … " He rubbed his fat finger under his nose and exhaled. "Raped." He stared at the bar for a moment.
Jim didn't like the word. It was like acid pouring into ears. He accepted that he'd been taken advantage of, even duped over the investigation. But rape?
Ava gave him time before pressing for more. "You confront her? After the incident? Report it to the authorities?"
Max finally looked at her. "I most certainly did. The next day at work." He shook his head. "I went right to her office and told her what I thought of her little escapade." He waved his hand. "But that didn't work out like I expected it to, either."
"No?"
"She took offense to the accusations. Got all mad. Started yelling. Standing as far from me as she could. Saying I was harassing her. Turns out, the night before she'd filed a sexual harassment complaint against me! Took me hours to get over the drugs. She made her complaint before I could do anything, say anything." He rubbed the towel across his brow. He was sweating more that Jim, but not by much. "You can imagine my reaction to that. I felt like shit. I'd been taken advantage of. Was worried what the wife was going to think."
He leaned against the coolers again. All the color was gone from Max's face. "We got into one hell of a shouting match. The whole office tuned in. Then she came over the desk after me. Looked like a cheetah on attack. Screaming like I was the rapist. The cops came. Then they didn't know who to believe."
Jim's vision went a little blurry with anger. Not only was this guy the victim, he was being accused of the crime. Jim's unease with his own feelings multiplied. He was going to get this woman and put her away if it killed him. But he had to know if he and Max shared more than Max would ever know. "Did they arrest you?"
"Of course. Who believes the man would be innocent? That I was the victim?"
Jim knew that feeling all too well. He and Max were uncomfortably close to kindred spirits. Both falsely accused of rape. And both …
And both rape victims of Sophie Ryan Evers.
"Flip side of this being such a small town out here is my brother-in-law heard quick. He's an attorney."
Max looked Ava in the eye now. Stood his full height. "I'm telling you. I know a Mickey when I see one. The bitch drugged me. Put shit in my drink. Brother-in-law sent me to the hospital, did the rape kit. Tested my blood. It was ketamine."
"Did they arrest her?" Nothing had come up in the searches, but this was a small town.
"When my brother-in-law took the evidence to the police, they went to question the crazy bitch, but she was long gone. Never heard another peep out of her. Flat out disappeared."
Ava stepped away to make a call. Jim heard bits of the conversation. Latest vic. Signs of Special K. He knew that was the street name for the drug.
Jim noticed Max didn't wear a wedding ring. He'd said he was married. Now that it was just the two of them, he asked, "The wife?"
"Didn't like the stigma either way. I was a villain or a victim. She couldn't hack the aftermath. It's been years now." Max started back to the task of cutting the evening's limes. "Most people have forgotten or at least don't seem to care anymore."
"And you, you still care?" The importance of the answer was weighty.
"Life's short. And if she's killing folks now, I guess I got something to be appreciative about."
Jim agreed with old Max on the whole not having your throat cut thing. He hoped this feeling of helplessness passed soon. Last thing he needed was one more thing to drink over.
"But it'd sure be real nice to know if you get her. Feel kind of like vindication."
Amen. "I'll let you know if we do. Any idea where she might have gone? She ever talk about any family or friends living around here or out of state?"
Max pulled in a deep breath. "Sure wish I could tell you anything useful. I didn't even work in the same department she did. She was sales and project management. I was operations. Only knew her from the few times a big group of us went out."
Jim handed Max a card. "If you think of anything."
He knew he should probably tell Ava about his own experience with Sophie. The thought only lingered a moment. Wasn't going to happen. Unlike the good folks from small towns, Jim could keep a secret. It in no way jeopardized the case or his client, so Ava didn't need to know. If Sophie was drugging vics, they'd figure that out. They didn't need his word for it. Max had fixed it for him, actually.
He would file his experience, that freakish night, away with a few others he'd buried in the never think of again file.
It'd be easier to accomplish once the bitch was behind bars. |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 37 | Mary Callas's trailer was, at one time, pink. Flamingo pink, Jim would guess. Now it was faded I-don't-give-a-shit salmon-ish. A tiny porch was missing half the handrail and the driveway was more weeds than gravel. The surrounding lot had not been mowed all season. Haphazardly placed along the mobile home skirting were crumbling plastic pots with the skeletal remains of long-dead flowers.
A lone red Ram Raider from the eighties sat covered in dust by the steps.
Agent Webb, looking particularly starched and official in this crumbled surrounding, put her hand on the hood. Jim wouldn't have bothered; thing looked like it hadn't moved in weeks given the weed growth around the tires.
"Haven't seen one of these in a while." She looked back. "Dated a guy who had a black one years ago."
Three steps and she was on the porch. Jim stayed on the ground. No room up there for the both of them. Not without being really close to her.
No bell.
Webb pounded. Jim figured she would shout an announcement, a proclamation the FBI was on the premises. Open up. But she waited. Silent.
"No appointment here, huh?"
She raised an eyebrow. "No. Someone told me it was best to catch them off guard."
His own words. But she'd obviously made this decision long before he'd made that statement at Heffelmire.
She knocked again.
Jim indicated he was going around back with a head tilt. From the side, he saw a second trailer several hundred feet behind the faded flamingo. No driveway led back that far. The thing was old. Rust stains dripped down the corners and window edges. Overgrown shrubs and trees had taken over to the point he was sure no one had lived in the place for the last decade. Windows were busted out. What was left of the porch was detached and leaning off into the bushes.
But after finding the ex-showgirl in the abandoned housing unit in Dallas, who knew? His thoughts were drawn back when a woman started singing. At least, he thought she might be singing. It also might have been a cat gargling razors. He eased to the back corner of the trailer.
Sure enough, it was a woman in her sixties, squeezed into a plastic lawn chair two sizes too small. Her double chin wriggled as she mouthed the words to a tune he didn't know. She tossed something to the ground and a flutter of crows swarmed to her feet. Bread crumbs? She didn't look to have the income to be buying bird seed.
Webb joined him. "I'll go first. Stay behind me." She loosened the strap on her holster. Ready to draw. Started walking confidently toward the mother. "Ms. Callas?" She walked on.
"You worried an old woman might be killing black birds with a machine gun or something?" Jim asked.
"Given what her daughter's done … " Which was laymen's speak for protocol. "Mary Callas?"
The woman lost her balance as she reeled back in the chair. Arms flailing to catch herself on a concrete step. Quick as a whip, she recovered and reached for something next to her. Jim was three steps behind Agent Webb. The mother swung a shotgun in his general direction.
Webb drew lightning quick.
Chalk one up for the Fed's protocol.
Jim held up his hands. "Whoa, Nelly."
"Who in the tarnation are you assholes?"
"I'm Special Agent Ava Webb, FBI." She said it calm. Collected. "Put the weapon down and I'll show you my ID."
"Ha!" she barked out. "Put your weapon down an' I might let you live long enough to get your first hemorrhoid."
Jim chuckled. "I think she's calling you a baby, Agent Webb."
"Shut up, Bean."
He poked his head around his female protector. Didn't like the idea of using the woman as a shield. And Momma didn't look too intent on shooting anything but the shit.
"Jim Bean. I ain't got no government ID. Private investigator from Vegas. You're not in any trouble, Ms. Callas. We just wanted to see if you could help us with something." He shrugged. "At least, you ain't in any trouble as long as you put that gun down."
She pointed the gun off toward the woods where there was no immediate danger of killing anything human. She looked at the old gun. "Just for robbers, snakes, and such." She pointed it at the ground, seemingly unconcerned that Special Agent Webb still had her sights dead set on the woman's center mass. And boy, was it a center mass.
Webb pulled out her billfold and flipped the badge out as she let the gun point straight up. But she didn't put it away. "Wondering if you can tell us anything about your daughter."
"Ain't got no daughter."
"Sophie Ryan Evers?"
"I said, I ain't got no young'uns."
"No kids?" Webb asked.
Momma Callas didn't answer. Sufficiently convinced she wasn't getting robbed, she put the gun on the ground next to her chair.
Webb kept hers out. "I have records that say you have three children."
"I popped out three spawn. Give them up, so's they not mine. Hear one's dead, the other two is off somewhere that's not here. They are not my daughters. Adoptions is supposed to be private. Seems everyone and their dog been out here about those girls."
"The youngest." Webb stepped closer. Jim followed.
"She's a piece of work, that one." The mother turned her head and spat between two crows that had resettled on the food scraps.
"You have seen her?"
"Suppose I has. Stupid girl came around here few years back." She shielded the sun from her eyes to look up at Jim. Sweat trailed down her face and neck. "Crying about being broke and mistreated by the folks that raised her. Looking for a handout, I reckon." She tossed some more of the scraps on the ground. Crows swarmed. "I look like the handout kind to you, Mr. PI?"
"You're feeding birds."
"I'm littering. The fucking birds is scavengers" She pried herself out of the chair with a great deal of effort. The distortion and near destruction of the plastic made Jim feel the need to go and assist, to prevent a fall, but she seemed the type to be offended by chivalry.
"Sophie?" Webb turned the conversation back to the papers. "So she wasn't working then?"
"Pfft. No good little whore. Couldn't hold no kind of job. Pathetic. Weak. Stupid. That's what I told her too." She shook her finger at Webb. "If she was gonna whore with her stepdaddy, or whatever the man was, she might as well go do it on the street. Make some cash. I wasn't gonna let her come here and use up my check." She shook her head, chin swinging. "Kids gotta make their own way. No one ever gave me a thing in life. Told her that much too. Stupid bitch just cried."
Webb flinched at the harshness. "She's your daughter."
"She's a fucking useless waste of air. Girl got no backbone and no sense. Just like the others. All she wanted was a handout. Little snot wouldn't never bring a thing into my place but trouble. And you being here is proof enough of that, now ain't it?"
Webb took in a deep breath. Her face got that determined look again. "You have any idea where she went from here?"
"Do you think I asked the girl her travel arrangements? That was years back, anyhows." Momma Callas was trying to get up the stairs and into the house. The crows were landing close to her feet, looking for their crumbs.
"She did manage to work her way into college, Ms. Callas." Webb wielded the information as if it were a weapon.
"Did she then?" She looked back from her open doorway. Jim was sure she would have to ooze through the door like the blob. "Should I be proud?" She curled up her nose and her top rotted teeth showed though the sneer. "And the FBI and some PI comes looking for college kids just to congratulate them?" She waved them off. "Whatever trouble that child is in is all on her shoulders. I ain't got nothing to do with it."
"I think you had lots to do with it. But nothing I can charge you with."
Mary Callas flipped the bird to the federal officer and slammed the door with a rickety clunk.
Agent Webb stomped through the weeds back to the car, grumbling under her breath the entire way.
Jim followed. "Can't pick your family, huh?" |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 38 | Carla trotted happily around the splintered wooden picnic table. She'd pooped and peed and was now sniffing the signatures of a thousand other dogs who had ventured through this rest area.
Sophie took a drink of her vitaminwater. She'd go herself before they got back on the road. Carla was fine moving about in the big van, but the stiff upright driver's seat made Sophie's human back ache. She could take something, but she wanted her nerves calm and her head clear.
A phone in her pack rang. She opened the zipper. Three cheap prepaids lined the bottom of the pocket. Untraceable. Disposable. Then noise came from the project phone. The other two were her work phone and what she referred to at the time as the bat phone. Only a select few had the project line number. People who didn't care what her real name was. People rendering services. Something was happening.
"Yes."
"It's um … Cat." The little homeless girl Sophie left watching the house where the police held Danny sounded unsure she'd reached the right number. Killing the neighbor had been a momentary lapse. She should not have given into the ardor so easily. Cat had been her fallout plan. Using her own brilliant strategy, she'd acquired another dog and set Cat up with some new clothes, food, and a hotel a few blocks away. The poor girl hadn't had a good meal in days. So it was charity as well. To earn her gifts, all she had to do was walk by the house several times a day, blend in, look like she belonged, hang out on the corner like a teenager without enough supervision.
"I think something's going on. They like put an old lady in an ambulance thing and moved her. I followed as best I could."
"You lost them?" Sophie's grip on the phone was almost painful. Having to track them again would burn up time. Sophie was out of patience and the dead sister and dead neighbor really sped up the sand dripping through the hourglass.
"Kinda. Made it to another corner, several blocks away. Was weird cuz they was heading like, into the neighborhood, not out of it." She sniffed.
"You're not using with that cash are you, Catty?" If the little shit lost Dan …
"Naw. I never really use. Makes you vulnerable on the streets. It's allergies. My nose runs all the fucking time." She sucked in again. Sneezed. "Anyway, then a truck went by. Three guys were in it, all in the front. I thought it was the one from the house. I managed to follow that for a block or so. Then I just wandered around until I saw the ambulance again."
So they'd moved him, but not far. The old woman must be frail. "Nice work, Cat." Too bad she'd still have to die. Poor kid had saved her some legwork, but she was now a witness. "You think the cops noticed you were hanging around both places?"
"I don't think the same cop saw me at any two places. Stayed back, I tried being sneaky." Sniff. "Put a cap on and shit."
Didn't matter. Sophie was on her way. The anticipation, the excruciating waiting, had been eating away at her. She'd started biting her nails again. She needed to take extra vitamins next week. The stress was murder. That's why she'd only stayed two nights at the house. She was itching to go, get her Danny and get back home. In a matter of hours she'd roll back into Vegas.
"The address?"
"375 Harper."
"Thanks, Cat. You stay at the hotel a few more days. It's all covered. And I hid a bonus under the nightstand."
"Wow. Thanks, lady. Been nice eating regular like. I'm gonna hate hitting the streets again."
Sophie hung up.
The hotel would be a great place to stage the van until she could scope out the new house. Carla jumped up on the bench and curled up next to Sophie's leg. Her fur felt like satin under Sophie's fingers.
"You look tired. Ready to go nap in the car?"
Carla raised her head and gave Sophie that ridiculously cute head tilt, eyebrow lift thing.
"Okay. Let's go."
At the word go, Carla was up and pointed at the van. She stayed right by Sophie's side until Sophie herself got up and started moving.
"Good girl."
The phone rang again. Irritated, Sophie punched the green button. Nothing. Another ring. It was another phone. She pulled one of the other two out.
"The bat phone." Her heart fluttered. This phone was connected to her real self—or as close to a real self as Sophie could get. She'd set it up under the name she'd decided would be her hidden identity years ago. She wasn't sure what to expect. It had caller ID, but she didn't recognize the number. Texas.
"Hello."
"Hello your dammed self."
Sophie looked down at the electronic device with a dizzying mix of hate and curiosity.
"Well, you gonna say anything, stupid?"
"What do you want me to say?"
"'Hello, Mother' would be nice." Her voice dripped with the same malice that barraged Sophie with insults and disdain in her head. The voice was Sophie's own, but the content was all the venom that this woman could spit. Sad, seeing as they'd only spoken a few times in her life.
"Hello, Mother."
"I'm not your mother, you cunt."
Sophie spun around, as if she would find her birth mother sitting on the bench. If she had been, the bitch wouldn't have an ounce of blood left. Teeth clenched so tight her jaw popped at the hinges. Her temples throbbed as a blood-red haze clouded her vision.
Carla nosed Sophie's free hand. Her mother was bitching about something related to damaging her reputation. As if she had one worthy of protection.
"I really wish I had just gone to the clinic and been done with the three of you. Only the first of you has had the decency to die."
What the fuck was she so worried about this woman for? Nothing but a birth canal. She held no power over Sophie. No power.
"Maybe you should have. What do you want?"
"No trouble on account of you're in trouble."
"That makes no sense, birth canal."
"What?" She coughed again. "Whatever. Cops came looking for you."
Holy crap. They'd traced her that far. Good thing the plan was getting close to culmination. Outsmarting the cops was not a problem. She'd done it a hundred times before.
"And you told them what?"
"None of your damned business, you ungrateful shit." The birth canal started coughing again, but this was not from allergies like little Cat. That disgusting hack rang of heinous lung damage, sprawling cancer from years of chain smoking. The red eased away some more. Sophie may not have had the nerve to kill her, but fate would intervene on her part.
"Fuck off," she said.
"Oh, so you do have some backbone. Imagine that. Fancy education and little baby balls."
"What did you tell them? When were they there?"
Get the facts and get off the phone. Should have never left her a number in the first place. Ignorant, youthful hope. Had she really wanted to make a connection when the birth canal had been a bitch to her?
"A while ago. Took me forever to find that thing you wrote your number on."
Sophie remembered. She had to turn and pace back toward the table. "You mean the copy of my birth certificate?"
"Oh. Whatever. Can't read the small print no more. Been in the junk drawer. So how come the cops are looking for you?"
"But you kept it? How sweet."
"Don't go looking for a Hallmark from me, honey. Knew trouble would come from you someday. Only kept it so's I can tell you I don't want your shit to bring no trouble on me."
"Lose this number then."
"Lost." The line went numbly empty. |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 39 | Jim's stomach felt like an abandoned well. Empty and dusty. He glanced around the area surrounding his hotel as they approached. Slim pickings. "Anything better around here than the Arby's?"
Agent Webb pulled to the curb. Didn't put the car in gear. "I'm heading to the Grove. It's a cop hangout. But it has a good beer menu and the burgers are as big as your ego."
"Good for you. Arby's for me unless you have a better idea. Is there somewhere around here?"
She gave him a weak smile. "I'm asking if you want to come."
"Oh." That was a genuine surprise. "With you? Sure you want to be seen with the likes of me, Agent Webb?"
"My reputation might survive this one time. And call me Ava."
She put the car back in gear. They drove in silence. She was playing with her bottom lip. The mindless action was hot. And now she was Ava. Like a real girl.
He looked out the side window. Ava Webb was the kind of woman he always figured he'd end up with. Strong. Independent. Only one thing … He'd lost his opportunity to be in the bureau back in college, so now the whole FBI thing was a deal breaker. He'd spent a good deal of time being angry at life and at women since then. And he drank too often because of it.
The betrayal, the bitch slap to his life's plans. It was the first thing he thought about in the morning and the last thing before slipping off to sleep. He'd gotten better, but he was still bitter. So it didn't matter what he wanted. Or what the guys thought he needed. Ava Webb would remain Agent Webb to him. No way he was going there. Not now. Probably not ever.
They slid into a booth. Several other men in uptight Fed suits were scattered around the bar. A couple off-duty cops as well. Irish joint, not a surprise.
"What is it about the Irish? Even down here in Texas, the cops hang with the Irish."
She smiled. "I've wondered about that too. All over the world, it seems the same everywhere. I have no idea why. Maybe the casual feel of Irish pubs?"
They ordered off a flip menu standing on the middle of the table. Burgers and beer.
"Maybe because the Irish are either cops or criminals themselves."
She chuckled. An uncomfortable silence took over. If it wasn't case related, what else could they talk about? Maybe dinner together had been a bad idea.
After a moment of silence, she said, "Tell me what happened in Ohio, exactly."
And there it was. Dinner had been a colossally bad idea. He had been looking at the cardboard coaster advertising a local brew. His gaze slowly went to hers. She didn't blink.
That information was his. His history. "Rather not. You read the file. Sure it's all in there."
"Couple lines. Basic facts. Reality is usually longer, and way more interesting than a blurb in a file."
"More interesting?" Oh god, was she right. But he was in no mood to go over the nightmare simply for her curiosity's sake. He was still reeling from his encounter with Sophie in Fort Worth. No way he wanted to churn through pain and anger from his past to add to the growing acid reflux of his present.
"Why do you have those facts anyway, Agent Webb? No reason for my history to be in the Evers file."
"We get as much information as possible before an interview. Can't imagine your technique is much different." Her brows rose, but she only hesitated for a moment. "You were almost in the academy when things went south, weren't you?" She twisted a napkin without looking away from him. Might as well be a knife in his gut. She looked into his eyes as if she knew his secret without his telling her or without that file to give her hints. No judgment there either.
He suddenly wished he'd picked Arby's. Sliced beef and curly fries didn't sucker punch you with questions about your past.
Thank whatever beer gods hover around Irish bars, her phone rang. She dropped her catlike stare to grab the call. His shoulders relaxed a bit. He didn't lean forward, but could hear a muffled male voice on the other end. Obviously Fee Bee business. Probably the partner in Vegas. All she said was yes or okay for five minutes. No hints for him. Thankfully, the beers came. Distraction number two.
Now that the irritating subject had changed, he was hoping to get something, anything that would help them get closer to Sophie. Time was passing by like a stock car. The maniac would be back to get Dan, and it would be ugly when she showed her face.
All day, Jim had been torn in different directions. On one hand, he wanted to leave the legwork to the Feds and get back to personally protect Dan and his mother. On the other, he didn't trust that Agent Webb would keep him in the loop if he wasn't by her side. Then there was the third hand: he wanted to be there. To be the one to strap Sophie's hands behind her back. Cuffs or tie-wraps, he didn't care which. She might not be left unmarked before her trip to the station either.
O was back in Vegas by now. He'd be watching Dan. No one better. And Miller and his team were on the job. Plus the Feds. No worries in Vegas, he told himself. Again.
She disconnected the call with only a stern, "Okay." She took a long drink.
"And?"
"The neighbor was drugged. Ketamine. ME says there was a mark on his shoulder that was made by one of those auto-injectors. You know, like an EpiPen?" She didn't wait for his answer. "Found the same mark on Cynthia Hodge when he went back and checked." She spun her glass between her fingers. "Makes sense. Sophie's a smallish woman, right?"
Jim nodded, remembering her straddling him, whispering in his ear. He bit his tongue. He hadn't been injected, that he remembered, but she'd had control of his drink when she was at the bar.
Webb kept talking, unaware of what was racing through his head. She never would be either. Now that two vics had come up drugged, there really was no benefit to Dan or the case to share his experience.
"Some ketamine would make the bigger guys much easier to manage, her kills cleaner. And the sexual assault of Max … I can only guess that was a power trip."
Jim's heart was pumping again. The feeling of loss and violation churning with anger forced the acid in his gut to climb toward his throat. "Why do you say that?"
She shrugged. "Fits the profile of a serial. Sex and killing get all tangled up in their minds. Rape is just as much of a power trip as slicing that throat, maybe more. For male perpetrators, rape is more about power. Maybe it's the same for her. Unlike the drug dealer killings, there's no financial gain. No theft, no drugs to take. No higher moral ground for her to cling to." She tucked an errant hair behind her ear. "I bet she's done it more than we know. Maybe that's what she used to placate the killing urge when she was holding down that job. If she did, it wouldn't have satisfied her lust for killing for long. Not enough violence. She was far too into the act of killing by then. But the fact she used ketamine for both the killings and the rape is telling."
Every time she said that word, his stomach pitched like he just ate a dozen raw chicken livers.
Webb hadn't noticed. She kept on with her theory. "If she's injecting strangers, she can't know their weight up-front. Right?"
Jim nodded. He should contribute to the conversation, but his mouth was dry, numb. His throat thick.
"Dosing is usually figured by weight, so the doses are not quite accurate. Bigger guys probably don't get as fucked up. Maybe remember a little more. Max was a big guy—240, would you say?"
Jim was very aware his own weight hovered around 230. Maybe more, not like he had scales in his place. He breathed in through his nose. Agent Webb was looking at him as if she expected him to speak. Had she asked a question?
"You okay, Bean?"
The burger was set in front of him. No. He wasn't okay. The burnt meat smell convinced him he wanted nothing to do with a medium-rare hamburger. He wanted to crawl under the table, straight into a deep hole. He wanted a shower. A long, hot shower. Did not like feeling so weak. Out of control.
"I think I might be a little jet lagged." It wasn't a good lie. He didn't care. "I think I need to head back to the hotel, get some sleep."
She didn't need keen special agent senses to see he was lying, and she was not going to let this go. "Jet lag?"
He nodded.
An overt sigh. Her expression was not anger, no. Disappointment maybe? Too bad. He had that effect on women more times than not.
She looked over toward the huge bar. "Hey, Jake." The bartender looked around. "Couple to-go boxes and the bill."
"No problem."
Jim guzzled down the beer much faster than he had intended. One beer wouldn't cure what ailed him. But scotch might. |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 40 | Jim paced the length of his hotel room. Eight strides in depth, thirteen in length. He'd made that journey fifty-seven times. Not that he was counting.
His computer sat open on one of the two double beds, notes and pictures scattered around it. He'd hit a dead end. Everything stopped with Elizabeth Stanton. Nothing beyond that. She'd gotten another name, started over. He glanced at the copied images of the IDs Agent Webb had been able to get. He had to hand it to her, Sophie had found a fantastic source for IDs. They were perfect. To start over completely, new name, new social security number, new you—that shit wasn't cheap.
Jim Bean knew that, and not just from tracking lost kids and cheating husbands. More than once he'd considered starting clean himself. But he'd stopped short of doing it illegally. When he was accused of rape in college, he'd lost everything. His life, his friends, his shot at the FBI or the force. Not to mention the money of defending himself against that kind of lie. But he couldn't clean up a past that lived in his head. He'd moved, changed his name. It had been enough. No one was looking for him. No one cared where he'd gone to hide. He wasn't hiding like Sophie anyway.
He picked up a sheet that included the timeline of Sophie's name changes and location changes. That made trip fifty-eight across the room. Grabbed another slip of paper. Fifty-nine. He compared it to the timeline of known vics. Again.
Usually he or Ely could find the trail, the electronic signature of name changes, money moving, auto registrations, utility bills, something. But right here in Dallas four yeas ago, she left. Elizabeth Stanton fell off the face of the virtual world after she … attacked Max. And she'd set him up first. Why?
Jim had to be missing something. Maybe it was just a power trip for Sophie, but why a coworker? He'd consider that very close to shitting in her own kitchen. That one act had her scrambling out of town. Had to be something else there. He made a mental note to call Max tomorrow. Maybe the man had stumbled onto something that would incriminate Sophie. Maybe he didn't even know it. Or maybe she just lost control one night. Like in a bar in Texas. There was no reason to … assault Jim either. Except ego.
Jim sat on the paper-covered bed. There was nothing worse than failing. The idea of this trip was to find her before she had a chance to attack Dan. Not finding her meant sitting and waiting for her to come to Dan. Bug in a web, waiting on the spider to get hungry. That could take a while. She'd been planning and waiting seven years as it was. Waiting weeks, even months, would wear down his protection detail. Dan's mom couldn't take moving around to keep Sophie off their trail. And for that reason, fully going under witness protection wasn't a good option. Not without a hit to her health.
Jim paced back to the bathroom counter.
Thirteen steps back to the door. Sixtieth time.
His gut tightened. This time it was a bad feeling, not anger or misery over the crummy life that twisted his insides. This was about the case. About Dan. The clock on the wall ticked off a countdown.
Sophie had waited this long. Hiring him had to be to speed up the process. She was so close to her goal. Staying away must be torturing her. Nope. She wouldn't wait much longer. That meant Jim couldn't wait either. He needed to do two things right away. |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 41 | "First flight to Vegas in the morning?"
There was some key chatter as the reservations agent put in his request. "Five a.m., Mr. Bean. Would you like me to assign you to that flight? There's two seats left."
"Yes." No sleep for him tonight.
She rattled of a confirmation number. He'd get the email with the details, he wasn't worried.
"You're set. Thank you for choosing—"
He disconnected before she finished. The cab hadn't showed yet. He'd called them first. Thirteen minutes. The clock ticked in his mind. He shouldn't have let O insist on returning the rental. Tricky way to stick Jim with Ava … Agent Webb. Should have known he'd go out on his own at some point even if Agent Webb wouldn't be happy.
He waited. It was after eleven. A few shots of scotch had cleared his brain and dampened his tormented emotions.
Lights swung across the drive, the cab rolled to a stop.
"Haskel and 2nd," Jim said.
"This time a night, gringo?" A Mexican driver looked concerned through the mirror and the glass divider. "Not a good place for a man like you."
A man like him? What kind of man was he? "There was a restaurant around there. Good food."
"Ah. Tres Hermanas?"
"Yeah."
"Still. Bad neighborhood. I can take you to good restaurant closer. Less chance you get shot."
"Have a crush on one of the waitresses." Jim shrugged. "Take me there."
"As you wish, señor." He shook his head with an it's your neck look and put the cab in drive and pulled off.
Jim stared out the window and watched the streetlights go by. In the beginning it was all about the money. What would a prostitute do to save money? All the way to south Dallas Jim struggled with his bad feeling. He texted Miller. Everything OK?
Other than Mrs. Hodge is kicking my ass in spades, yes. Anything new there?
Jim said "no" aloud. The cabbie looked back at him.
No.
Traffic was much better late at night than it had been in the afternoon. Cabbie said they were lucky not much was going on at the fairgrounds.
"I not stay here, señor."
Unlike the traffic, the area looked much worse at night. People hanging around. Drug deals going on. Girls in salty clothing on the corner.
"You be on duty for a while?"
The cabbie handed back a generic card with his number handwritten on it. "Be driving till the bar crowd goes home." He looked at the closed restaurant. "She might be gone. You sure you want to stay?"
"I'm okay." Jim checked for his slap-jack in his pocket. The weight of the small metal weapon was reassuring as he got out. The thing would break a jaw bone in an instant, but there were guys with guns out here. No doubt about it, he'd have to take care not to offend the natives. Just a guy looking for a girl.
Jim banged on the front door of Tres Hermanas. Nothing. He waited. Two young black guys walked by. They stared him down. He made eye contact but tried not to threaten their alpha standing in this neighborhood. He jerked his head back slightly. It's cool. Keep going, dude. The guys returned the gesture and walked on.
He banged again. This time Alejandra peeked around the closed sign. Once she recognized him, she opened the door. "What are you doing here this time of night?"
"Wanted another taco?"
"Liar. You still looking for Elizabeth."
"I am."
She put her hands on her hips. "I have been thinking about her since you left. But I can't imagine anything that might help you find her."
"I appreciate that, Alejandra. Do you know many of the girls working tonight?"
She looked down, then behind her. They were still alone. "After Elizabeth left, I did start to give them food sometimes. Like she did. Leftover things that are not going to last, you know. Here and there, I patch a few of them up after their man get too rough."
Jim smiled. Maybe Elizabeth Stanton did have one positive legacy. "You think there might be one of those girls who would be old enough to have been around seven years ago, when Elizabeth worked?"
"You know they don't last long on the streets."
"Think for me. That would be someone twenty-five to thirty. Maybe the one the rest of the girls are afraid of."
"There is one. Um … Jelissa. I bet she was around." Alejandra worried at the polish on her finger. "But you can't tell her I sent you. She's mean. Last I saw her was a couple months ago. Works a couple blocks west, I think. She has mean-ass boys too. You better be careful."
"Anyone who would put girls through this shit is mean. I'll watch myself though." Jim pulled a twenty out of his wallet and tucked it in her apron. "Thanks."
"You'd be surprised 'bout who is working for who with her. Good luck, mister."
She locked the door behind him. |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 42 | Three blocks west looked more like a blown-out Middle Eastern war zone than a good place to pick up johns, but there was a four-lane street and an abandoned ball court. The hoops were rusted rings standing guard over a lost court. Three benches lined the far part of the tarmac with three girls lounging on one. They noticed him coming.
"We don't usually get white boys walking up around here."
The one who spoke was not a pretty girl. Skinny. The way her shirt hung off her shoulder showed deep hollows around her collarbone. Her teeth needed work. But her clothes were clean and her makeup was freshly painted on light black skin. She didn't smile or make any offers.
He must look too coppish tonight, even in jeans and a black T-shirt. The other two didn't bother to get up, just shot him skeptical looks and went back to an animated conversation.
"I'm looking for a girl."
"Aren't you all?"
He smiled. "I mean I'm a private investigator from Las Vegas. I'm looking for Jelissa."
She shrugged and looked back at the other girls, who'd stopped their conversation and were now paying attention. "Don't know no Jelissa."
Jim pulled a twenty out of his pocket. "She's not in trouble. I think she might be able to help me find a missing girl. That's all." He waggled the bill in front of his principal interviewee.
She glanced back. One of the girls shook her head and turned to face the four-lane. A couple cars went by. They didn't slow.
Jim pulled out one more twenty. "More than you get a trick, I would guess. All I need is a place."
She snatched the money. "You shouldn't flash bills around like that." She tucked them in her shorts. "Do you know where you are? Gonna get yourself knocked over."
Unfortunately, he did know where he was. "Surprised you care." He held out his hands. "Where can I find her?"
"You better not be making trouble."
"Scout's honor."
"No scouts round here. But I'll tell you. Other side of that warehouse." She tipped her hip to the right. No pointing. "There's a little yellow door. She stay in there. You don't tell her I said so, okay?"
Jim peeled off one more twenty. "Eat a sandwich."
She huffed and pushed up her tiny tits. "Some like it thin. You want a fat chick, Candy over there is your girl. But I can take care of whatever you need, white boy."
"I bet you can." He knew there was no need to give these girls any advice. No need to try and talk them off the street. If their man was watching, just talking too long could get them beat. He'd seen enough of that in Vegas.
"Thanks," he said loud enough for them all to hear. "You girls be safe." He walked back across the empty courts to the dark warehouse. "Why does it always have to be a dark warehouse?" he asked no one.
But it was true. If he were to buy and renovate all the empty warehouses he'd been through in the last two years, he'd be a freaking billionaire. He slowed as he made his way alongside the building. Two stories at least, gray metal siding. No windows facing the side street.
He looked around the corner. Several men were hanging out in front of a faded yellow door. All looked to be bangers.
He was alone, without transportation. He texted the cross streets to the number on the cab driver's card. Ready to go. And then he walked around the corner as if he belonged. He kept his head up, his stride loose and easy. One of the guys had gotten up and was already heading his way. The thug actually laughed when he realized what was walking his way. White man with no business on this block. He shook his head as Jim approached. Still smiling.
"Good evenin'," Jim said as the kid came alongside. Didn't keep eye contact, didn't avoid it.
"Might be." The kid kept walking. The kid's gait slowed, probably turned to check out the interloper. Jim didn't look back.
The other two thugs had already stopped whatever they had been up to by the time Jim reached them. One was sitting on a tattered folding chair. The other was on an overturned bucket. That one stood and faced Jim. He was very thick. And tall. So was Jim. His slap-jack was in his back pocket. Easy out if he needed it, but he prided himself on talking to people to get what he needed.
"Jelissa in there?"
Big boy took a step forward. "What the fuck you want with her?"
"Well, a visit, I suppose." What else would a guy be looking for her for? Not really good business for a pro to have bodyguards outside turning away potential buyers. Unless she was on a known-customers-only basis these days. Happened.
"She ain't seeing visitors. Go on outta here before I make you a stat, bitch." A threat. A stupid one, but the big guy stepped closer to show he was serious.
Jim supposed he should be afraid. The moose had his hand behind his back. But then again, so did Jim. If he carried a gun, Jim would have only a second to act. Reacting would be too late.
If this guy wanted trouble, he was sure hesitating. His body language was all wrong. He was still standing head on. Open to all attacks. The man glanced back at the guy in the chair.
Jim addressed him. "I want to talk to her. That's all. I'm a PI from Vegas. Just looking for a lost girl she might have known. Not a cop or anything."
He eyed Jim. Assessing. "No lost girls around here."
Jim huffed. "Nothing but lost girls around here." He stepped to his right, around the big boy to address the man with the power. Guys with power never got up until their muscle had failed. "This is ancient history in your world. Seven years ago."
"I said—"
"Who you want from that long ago, darling?"
They all jerked around. A beautiful woman stood in the yellow door. She was in a bright green wrap with African designs. Her makeup and nails were immaculate. She glowed compared to the dank and dirty of everything surrounding her.
Jim gave her a little bow of the head. "She went by Elizabeth." He pulled out the picture of Sophie and Dan. The big guy took it and handed it to Jelissa.
She held tight to the door frame. Her wrists looked thin. All of her looked thin, weak, though well-disguised in cosmetics. Not skinny like the girl on the bench. This was gray and hollow thin. Jim recognized cancer when he saw it. Yet she held a lit cigarette. Time must be running out for Jelissa.
"She got out."
Jelissa nodded. "She did."
She shooed the man from the folding chair. "You two go down the corner."
They balked, but she insisted. Her word obviously carried some weight. "Why you looking for her?"
"Her family's looking for her."
"That a lie, baby."
"So you knew her pretty well?"
She took a long toke. "You got one more chance and I call the boys back."
Hard ball. Sometimes the truth can be an ally. It was hard to tell when. But this time the choice was easy.
"You're right. It was a lie." He folded his hands in front of his jeans button. He would deliver the information as if it could be bad news for Jelissa. "She's wanted for killing about fourteen people. Some from this neighborhood back then. Now she's stalking a boy from her youth. We're trying to stop her from killing him."
"So you are a cop?"
"Nope. Just a guy who fucked up and needs to set something straight."
She eyed him carefully. "That is the truth. Probably in more ways than one."
He wasn't sure if he reeked of a fuck-up or if she had immaculate people skills. Perhaps both.
"He's not a pusher?" she asked.
"The guy she's after? No. Simple cowboy. She killed his sister too."
Jelissa looked down. Flicked her ashes to the dirty concrete at her feet. "I learned a great lesson from Eliza." She took out another cigarette and lit it, offered Jim one. He took it. She lit his too.
"Thanks."
She nodded. Cool. Collected, she was. "She told me how to take back what belonged to me."
Jim almost laughed. "Didn't go telling you to kill your pimps, did she?"
She gave a quick raise of the eyebrows but didn't answer. "Things have changed in this neighborhood over the years. I can now keep the really bad element out. The girls get a bigger take. It's safer. As safe as this life can be on a girl." She looked back at Jim. "Eliza told us how to do that."
Dang, crazy bitch did have a soft spot for the downtrodden. "And it looks like you've done a hell of a good job. Whatever she said to you was good advice. But she's off the chart now. Killing anyone in her way. Cut the throat of a guy in his backyard." He let that sink in. "Another couple young girls who were just out for a party. Now she wants this guy because he was nice to her when she was a kid."
"That don't sound like her."
"She's changed. Very delusional. She's switched identities several times." He turned to face her. "Jelissa, I'm not a cop. I'm just trying to get her trail. None of the work you've done here"—he made a circle with this finger to indicate the neighborhood—"is in jeopardy."
"You gonna kill her?"
"No." If I get the chance, hell yes.
"Killing people for no good reason ain't right. I done a lot of talking to kids and parents in this area to make that point. We are getting better." She stood and gingerly paced a few steps back toward the door. "But I don't know where she at. Haven't seen her in years."
"You made this place safer." Even if it was by killing off the worst of the bad element. But that wasn't his business. "Tell me this. Takes money to make these kinds of changes."
She looked away. Had she gone to the extremes Sophie had? She was trying to clean up her neighborhood, save some young girls, and he respected that. Small-time vigilante like Jelissa was okay with his moral code. Too bad Sophie had not taken the same road.
"She teach you to protect your cash?"
She shrugged.
"How did she teach you to hide the money? Can't leave it around here in boxes."
"In the bank, of course." She smiled. "In my momma's name. High-interest CDs."
And the woman still lived in this bleak neighborhood? Maybe she just worked down here now. "In your mother's name?"
"Yep." She took another hit and blew slow, dancing smoke rings. "Sure you ain't a cop?"
"Nope. No interest in what you've accomplished here, Jelissa. I just want to stop a guy from getting dead."
"Okay. It was mamma's name, only I switched that up too. Flipped the names around. Easy enough nowadays to use it without ever going to the bank. Use my iPad to do all the banking. Cash goes in the ATMs."
"Brilliant." He dropped his cigarette butt on the ground, stood, and stomped it out. "Thanks, ma'am."
"You want an escort out?"
Car lights turned off a side street. The cab. "No thanks, my ride is here."
He gave her a pantomimed tip of the hat and got in the cab. |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 43 | Sophie sat in the van watching the new age diner. The lot was empty, and the only lights on were the safety lights above the back door.
She'd decided to snatch the waitress on the morning drive in. After talking to momma, Sophie realized that she'd left a very troublesome loose end dangling in the wind. She needed insurance. Bean had seemed rather taken with the little blonde during their initial meeting. It made her valuable.
Sophie waited in the beginnings of the new day, parked behind the diner, assuming the staff parked here as well. Between the drive and the waiting the hard van seat was killing her ass. Carla was restless.
"You need to pee?"
The pup whined. No way to tell her she had to hold it, was there?
"Oh all right, but you have to make it quick." A stretch of the legs wouldn't hurt. She got out and made sure Carla's leash was attached. She tucked an injector pen in her waistband. Always prepared, right?
Carla sniffed around the gravel lot as if there were gold to be found. Or bones. They must be the doggie equivalent of a rare metal. Given the mush and vegetarian fare that Bean had been eating in that diner … "Probably not a bone in sight, sweetie."
A tiny red Honda popped into the lot. Old enough Sophie figured it for an eighties model. Behind the wheel was the little blonde. "How fortunate." She'd supposed the cook would show up first, requiring a plan for getting the girl out back alone, but fate had helped her once again.
Carla barked.
"Why yes, little one, you may help me take our prisoner," she cooed to the dog.
Sophie nodded to the waitress as she got out of the car, and then let the leash drop. Carla, as if following mental instructions, ran to the girl.
"Carla!"
She meant it to sound panicked. Urgent. The girl spun back to them, saw the situation, and placed herself in the line of fire. Not that she needed to do much. Carla was heading right toward the girl. She abandoned her things, swept down, and caught the pup as Carla bounded up.
"I got her."
Sophie limped a little as she took a step toward the waitress. In response, the girl hurried to bring the dog over. People were cattle.
"I got her. I'll bring her to you."
She made her way right to Sophie and stopped within two feet of the van. Cow to the slaughter. Except this particular cow would have to wait for her appointment with the blade. Dead hostages aren't worth much.
"Thank you so much." She reached out to get Carla, but stumbled and quickly reached for the girl to steady herself. In the process, she smashed the injector into the girl's shoulder. The girl caught Sophie and prevented her from hitting the ground. Even though she didn't let Sophie falter, she did let out a little yelp at the pinch of her flesh.
"I'm so sorry." Sophie tucked the spent syringe away while acting as if she were trying to regain her balance. "My ring does that occasionally." She held out her hand to show the girl that there was a silver ring on her middle finger. It was designed as a butterfly with two stone encrusted wings with pointy ends.
"I'm constantly pinching myself … and everybody else. But my daughter gave it to me for Mother's Day and I can't bear to not wear it at least occasionally. Didn't break the skin or anything, did it?"
The girl rubbed the spot. "I don't think so. I'm fine. Don't worry about it."
Carla jumped up on the girl's leg. She reached down and rubbed the dog. Carla wallowed in the attention, rolling over, kicking happily as the girl scratched the pup's belly.
"She's such a cutie. What is she? A Yorkie?"
Shit. Sophie had no clue. That sounded as good as anything.
"Yes. A mix." That should cover it. "I recently adopted her and we've bonded so well. The rescue people said she was with a dreadful family before. I haven't had a friend like her in ages."
Carla came back to Sophie's voice. The friend part was true anyway. Sophie had no clue how the people before had treated the dog. They had left her tied up outside a coffee shop, so how good of doggie parents could they have been?
"I love her so much. But with my injured hip, I'm having a heck of a time traveling with her today."
The girl swayed, trying to hold her balance. Lost to the effect of the drug, she stumbled backward. She caught herself on the van.
Sophie had filled all the syringes on hand for a man-sized dose. This little blonde was short and thin. Shit must be hitting her pretty hard.
"Could you help me get her into her crate?"
"Sure." The girl touched her front teeth. Pulled her hand away and then looked at her fingers, wiggling them out in front of her face. Poor thing must be feeling a little numb. Sophie needed to hurry before she began to hallucinate.
"Great." Ignoring the girl's obvious altered state, Sophie limped the few feet to the back of the van. The waitress picked up her bag and her apron where it had landed in the short altercation when she got her injection. That would save Sophie a trip back to retrieve it. Someone else should be showing up soon. Prep had to be done in a kitchen before the day started, and light was now visible on the horizon.
Sophie waited by the back of the van. The girl wobbled as she took a few steps, shaking her head as if she could shake off the growing effects of the ketamine. Not a chance, girl. You're toast.
"Right in here." She thought of the witch in the fables who tempted children to her house with candy and then cooked them. Sophie didn't even need to include Carla in the charade anymore. The girl wouldn't know a dog from a dishwasher in less than a minute.
"I think I'm gonna be sick."
"Oh dear. Here … " Sophie opened the van door. She'd had the interior of the van custom built. For business travel, of course. One side of the cargo area was a deep plush bench covered in outdoor, cleanable carpet. It was wide enough for a nap and narrow enough for a seat. The wall behind it was cushioned with lots of matching pillows. "Have a seat. I'll get you some water."
The other side had a small mounted table for working and several built-in cubbyholes for storage of … things. Like knives and injectors, bandages and food—stuff she might need on the journey to bring Danny home. She was very happy with how it had turned out. Comfortable and practical.
She helped the girl in.
"Thanks," she said, not at all concerned that the van was decked out like a killer's lair.
Sophie reached to the cubby that held her knife. She unlatched the drawer and pulled it open. The metal shone up at her, begging. "What's your name, dead … I mean, dear?"
The girl's head smacked the back wall of the van a little harder than Sophie had intended when she tried to turn her attention to Sophie's voice. Her eyes were glassed over. She was almost gone. "What?" Her head drooped to the side.
"Your name?"
"Name. Name. Sa … Sandy." She tried to touch her face again. Her hand never made it past her chin. She missed completely. Her eyes rolled back.
Sophie closed the back door and locked it. Carefully, she latched Sandy's legs in the cuffs built into the base of the bench. They were in plain view. If not for the drugs, the girl would have surely seen them and questioned their reason for being.
Sophie smiled as she tucked the seat belt across the girl's torso and snapped her in. No argument. Sandy was smiling as Sophie tied her hands in place.
Her arms were hanging awkwardly, so Sophie fixed that. No need to make her uncomfortable. She would be a guest until Sophie got Danny safely to the house.
If Bean showed up in the meantime looking to thwart the master plan—and he might—Sophie had a card left to play. She couldn't resist tracing her fingers down the girl's young face. Her complexion was perfect, her skin tight, her lips full. Her life had been spent around people who loved her.
How do you know that? Stupid girl. Just kill her now.
"Hush. I need her."
You need to see her blood flow across the floor of this van. You need to christen the mobile retreat. You need to feel her pulse stop as the life leaves her perfect little body!
Sophie closed her eyes. She could very well visualize all that, looking at her pretty face, holding her graceful neck. So much lovely skin to slice. She fought back the images, tried not to let the urge take over.
Her heart pounded in her chest with anticipation. She did want to kill her now. She did want to feel the life flow out of that girl as Sophie held her, feeling her pulse, counting in time as the beats dwindled into nothing.
She shook her head. It was harder all the time. Not killing. But this girl was important to the plan. She bit into the inside of her cheek hard enough to tear flesh, her eyes watering from the stab of pain. She fell back.
"I'll need her later," she said to convince herself she was right. It was time to go.
She got up and made her way to the driver's seat, buckled herself in. She gripped the steering wheel with all her might. Carla followed and took her place in the passenger seat, all perky ears and bright eyes. No judgment from her.
Fighting the urge to kill was always a battle. |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 44 | Style wise, the new safe house looked incredibly like the last one. From the first scan of the windows, it simply had one more room downstairs. Miller's car wasn't there yet.
Jim showed his ID and passed by the undercover at the door. Dan was standing in the kitchen in only pajama pants, which showed off a tattoo of a rearing stallion on his left side as he leaned on the counter. He held a small white mug close to his lips. One leg was crossed over the other, the top one wagging back and forth like an excited hound's tail. But he wasn't happy to see Jim like a loyal hound might be. His annoyance was clear to see.
"Please tell me you found something."
There was a bay window and a sliding glass door across the back wall of this living room/kitchen combo. Not safe. Who picked these places?
"Ready to spring this joint, huh?"
"You have no idea. This place has some extra room and all, but I want to get out. I'm used to big open spaces. I feel like I'm in a fish tank. Diner, gambling, titty bar. I don't care at this point."
Lynette rolled her chair into the room. "You mind that mouth, Danny." She looked up at Jim. "Well?"
She wanted info. He didn't have what she wanted.
"You catch my girl's killer?"
She was lucid today.
"Sorry, Mrs. Hodge. I didn't. Not yet."
Her articles were hung on the half wall between the eat-in kitchen and the living room.
"What good are you then? All you po-po hanging around here. What good are ya? Go out there and find her."
"Mom." Dan pushed her toward the kitchen table. "Sorry. Stephen's nephew was here for a couple of days. Having a kid around did her some good, but now she wants to talk like she's from the hood." He looked down at her. "It's irritating. But I'm glad to have her this engaged."
Jim handed her a book. He'd seen it as he paced the terminal last night waiting for his early flight.
"This Side of Paradise. More crappy F. Scott?"
"You might like this one better."
"Doubt it." Her lip curled up like a teenager facing cooked spinach. "His books are all about the same things. Men whose failures are the result of their own shortcomings and the influence of women with low moral standards." She scrutinized him. "Or is that why you like them, Mr. Bean? Hmmm?"
Dang, that was an arrow right on target. "Maybe I should give up the classics and stick to a good mystery?"
"Ah. No good," Miller interrupted as he joined them in the bright kitchen. "As a master investigator, wouldn't you always figure out who-done-it well before the end?"
Jim wouldn't count on that. "You're the detective."
They exchanged a vigorous hand shake, but his face was a bit pinched. "Oh. And, thanks for not pissing off Lady Fed."
Heavy sarcasm. Had he pissed Agent Webb off? "You're welcome?"
"She was in my ear first thing this morning. Cursing up a storm because you'd left without permission."
"Permission?" Jim shrugged. None of her business, really. "Not on her payroll. No reason for her to be upset. Told her I had jet lag."
"Then you went out to the fairgrounds."
Damn. "How did she know that? Did I have a tail? If her uptight agents go out to visit my informant … " He didn't want them bugging Jelissa or making any trouble after he'd promised.
"She's on her way here. Says she knows you know something. Threatening to charge you for interfering in a federal investigation."
Lynette cackled. "I knew you were trouble, Jimmy." She chewed on the edge of a placemat. Dan took it from her.
Jim checked his phone. "She didn't call me. Went over my head to you … oh wait. I don't work for you either." He glanced past the FBI agent quietly lurking in the hallway to Dan. "Except you. I work for you. But that's just a formality. This is my case too. And, yes. I got a lead on the money trail. But it's just a lead."
"She was sharing, Bean. You have to return the favor. You can't sneak out in the middle of the night."
"I did not sneak out. I took a morning flight. It's only ten a.m. now, for Christ's sake. I did share with her what we found on Sophie's birth mother. I shared that." He had planned to share this too, but it had been the middle of the night. He didn't think it was urgent enough to wake up Agent Webb. "I'm going to go home and then over to Ely's to follow this lead." Jim squatted next to Lynette's chair. "Look at me, beautiful."
She did, in her addle-minded honest way.
"I expect things to get a little crazy around here soon. I want you to listen to Dan and the po-po and do exactly as they say."
Miller's phone rang. "Gotta take this."
"Do you all have to treat me like a child?" She crossed her arms. "I'm no child."
"You are in danger, Lynette. Think of it as being treated like a VIP. If you were the first lady, you'd get the same handling. Hidden away at the first sign of trouble."
She seemed to consider. But her eyes were getting glazed. He touched her arm. It was frail and cool. "I mean it, woman. Follow orders."
"Fine. Get on outta here and scrounge me up some pomegranate marmalade."
He stood. "Yes, ma'am."
Miller's face said bad news. A detective really should have better poker face skills. He was still on the phone, but he covered the receiver and said, "I'll run you to Ely's. But we need to go now."
"Okay." Jim's curiosity bone was tickled. "Lynette, follow instructions. Okay?"
"Yes, my love." There was a warmth in her eyes for just an instant that made Jim feel like she meant it.
He smacked Dan on the shoulder. "If this lead pans out, we're golden. Once we have a money trail, it usually takes us right where we need to go. Just like the yellow brick road."
"Good. I want out of here. And I want to take care of Cynthia."
"I know you do."
Miller coughed and picked up what passed as Jim's overnight bag. "Really, Bean. We need to go." He gave a head fling as if no one would notice.
"Okay, Captain Subtle. Giddy up."
As soon as they pulled the door shut, Miller continued his phone conversation.
"Diner. Keys. Unlocked car in the lot. No one's seen Sandy." Miller kept talking but Jim couldn't wrap his head around the fact Miller was talking about Sandy.
"When?" They got in the car. Jim shoved his belt into the catch with difficulty. "Who the hell did this?"
Miller hung up. "Don't know for sure. They think she went missing this morning." He started the car and turned on lights and sirens when they were a couple blocks away from the safe house.
Jim's blood pressure was rising. "What do we know?"
"Her car's there. Manager is sure he saw her leave last night. Silver van was exiting the parking lot when the manager got there this a.m."
"Silver van? What kind of van?"
The cruiser blasted through red lights, the suspension tossing them like a small boat on high seas. Cars pulled to the side, some faster than others.
Miller laid on the horn to insist traffic yield to the mass and momentum of the Charger as it careened through Vegas back streets. Jim closed his eyes. Not in fear of Miller's driving ability. That he trusted. No. His mind was centered on one thing. Sophie Ryan Evers. If that woman hurt one little blond hair on Sandy's head …
"There is a good chance this isn't related." Miller said the words, but Jim knew better.
"Sophie knows we're getting closer. We visited her mother in Texas. Maybe her mother contacted her afterward." Maybe she was just a sadistic bitch and wanted to hurt Jim for not following her instructions and making her job harder. Maybe she wanted to use Sandy to keep him quiet about the rape or off her tail. He clenched his fists. Who knew with her?
"How much time did you spend with Evers?"
Jim didn't want to say exactly. "Just a couple client meetings, phone conversations."
They spun to a stop in front of the diner. Jim only took a momentary glance toward his place in the townhouse community across the way. Two uniforms were at the front of the diner and pointed them around. The back parking area was cordoned off with crime scene tape. Another uniform there. Miller logged them onto the crime scene. Two techs in white lab suits were dusting Sandy's car.
"You have anything?" Miller asked the tech who stood. He motioned them back a few steps.
"Several prints, no sign of forced entry. There's some disturbance in the gravel that appears to be a rushed departure. But gravel won't give us tread imprints. Her keys were on the far side of the car." He nodded in the direction as his hands were full of the powder and the brush. "And one small dog poo that looks fresh."
Jim carefully made his way over to the tire impressions. "You guys already shoot these?"
"Yep. Measured and photographed."
"Bigger than a minivan, wider. More like a panel van or a delivery truck."
The tech came and glanced over Jim's shoulder. He was a tall dude. "I thought the same thing. I'll be able to narrow it some, so maybe the manager can point it out from some pictures. Get us a little closer."
"Good."
The dog shit was marked with a plastic yellow evidence tent. Number 7. Poo number seven. "Is the shit part of the equation or just in the scene?"
Miller leaned in over it. "Hard to say. No sign of a dog at the last scene. I'll have someone reread the canvass statements. You never know."
"Can't imagine Sophie is the dog type."
"What the fuck type is she?"
Jim said the only thing that came to mind. "Snakes?"
Miller headed inside. Jim followed. They'd closed for the moment. The owner, Todd Haig, stood at the far end of the room, looking at his phone display. When he saw Jim, Todd brushed by Miller and grabbed Jim in a bear hug, the force almost taking them both back into the bar.
"I saw that van and didn't think anything of it. She's been coming in early last couple of weeks while Bobby's out with a bad back. Helping me get the prep work done." He let Jim go. "What do I do?"
"Do?" Jim ushered the tree-hugging vegan onto one of the counter stools. "You're going to relax. Take a deep breath." Jim went behind the counter and poured the man a glass of water.
Miller sat beside Todd. "What was the first thing you saw when you pulled in?"
"Her car. The van was pulling out before I got in the lot. I didn't have to wait for it to leave the driveway, but it was close. The burger joint around the corner gets deliveries back there all the time. I saw there was no logo on the van or anything but figured it was one of their vendors. Then I saw Sandy's car and I didn't think any more about it." He scratched his ear, then started thumping the inside of his palm. A tiny punishment. "The first sign anything was wrong was when I realized the kitchen door was still locked. She usually leaves it unlocked when she gets here. So I had to dig out a key. I looked back at her car. But it all seemed okay."
He stood and paced to the front door. "But it wasn't okay cuz she wasn't in here. I went back out and saw her keys out there. I knew. Called you guys." He looked at Miller.
Nothing really helpful. "You did everything right, Todd. Can you remember anything else about the van? Was it a man driving?"
"I think. Maybe. You think it was those human traffickers, Jim?"
"Doubtful, but anything's possible. The van, was it more like a delivery truck than a minivan?"
"Yes." He wagged a finger. "A good-sized one cuz it took up almost the whole driveway. Or the way she was driving made it seem that way."
He'd said she. Not he. But Jim wouldn't push it right this second, given he'd just answered that question. Give it time for the memory to start putting things together. He was calming a bit.
Miller had his pad out. "And you didn't see a plate?"
Todd shook his head. "I was coming in, he was going out."
Now he again. That was no help.
Miller handed Todd a card. "Call us if you think of anything. We'll have your business back to you in a little while."
It occurred to Jim that if Sophie had snatched Sandy from the lot without leaving a body to be found, that was a good thing. It gave them some time. But the bitch had some kind of nasty agenda. Whatever it was, Jim had no intention of letting her play it out. |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 45 | Jim walked home from the diner after the last of the crime scene people had left. He was exhausted. A couple hours' restless sleep on the flight was all he'd had in two days. The heat and humidity of Texas had drained all his energy.
If Sophie took Sandy, the possibility of an imminent attack on Dan was high. And it was clearly a message to Jim. No other reason for Sophie to target a twenty-something waitress who had nothing to do with Dan or the case. Sophie had seen him and Sandy interact at the Coffee Girl the day of the initial case meeting.
No question about it. Miller could investigate however the book told him to; Jim only had one suspect. He fumbled in his bag for the key fob to his apartment door. The beep sounded as he deactivated the automatic door lock, but he heard no latch click open. Jim edged closer and noted the door was slightly ajar.
He pushed it open, using just his fingertips while he protected himself behind the wall, out of the line of fire. Nothing seemed out of order from that angle. He stuck his head in.
Annie rushed out. The little black ball of fur wound between his legs. Her attention nearly tripped him as he stepped inside. Ely had dropped off the cat. Jesus. Glad that was nothing, he went in without further concern. He glanced on the office desk. There was a note from Ely.
Thought you might like some company. Be back over as soon as I track down anything related to the mother's name.
Take a nap.
~Ely
There was nothing he could do to find Sophie without Ely's information. Maybe he should search himself? His legal databases paled to what Ely managed to find in most cases.
He sat in the recliner. Without invitation, Annie hopped up on his lap. His girl wanted some loving.
He leaned back, slouching in the deep chair so she could stretch out on his chest. Her purring and soft fur lulled him. The familiar leather seat, cool.
Jim woke to searing pain in his chest. He leapt to his feet and took a defensive stance, ready to swing or kick. The house was silent. He'd dozed off rubbing Annie.
He found two small punctures where she'd dug in her back nails as she'd jumped off. His phone was on the counter. From the angle of the sun casting weak shadows through closed blinds he guessed late evening. He needed a shower.
He checked for messages. None. Not from Miller or Ely. Jim made his way back to the office instead. He needed to get a pad of paper out and think through this situation. Write out what he knew. There was something lingering that he hadn't put in the right place. Something that would make Sophie's latest move make some sense.
Turned out there was not. There was no rhyme or reason to a psychopath like Sophie Evers.
He slid into the worn office chair and found his reading glasses under a pile of unfiled paperwork. He did need some help around the place. O had been on him about expanding, hiring some people, making his jack-leg operation into something respectable.
Sometimes he wanted that, other times he was happy being able to take on the cases he wanted and walk away from the ones that seemed like too much trouble or not enough money. He'd missed the mark on this one, hadn't he?
His phone rang. Unknown number.
"Jim Bean."
"PI Jim Bean?"
"Yes."
There was a nervous pause. "This is Max."
Interesting. "Hello, Max. What can I do for you?"
"I was thinking. You know, about what she's been up to."
"Yes." Jim waited, but Max didn't say anything. He needed prompting. "About the night she attacked you?"
"Yes and no." A light cough. Clearing of the throat, a classic sign of trying to summon courage. Saw it in kids all the time. Jim bet the man was looking at his feet too. Maybe he'd had a drink or two before dialing the number. Maybe dialed and not connected more than once. This should be good.
"I wasn't exactly truthful with you and Agent Webb."
"No?"
"Not sure it's relevant but, I umm … I had … spent time with Elizabeth prior to that night." He waited for Jim to say something.
Jim decided to withhold comment, hoping for more information. This time it came without the prompting.
"We had seen each other several times over several months, I reckon. The thing is, I had broken it off three days before. You see, my wife found out. She gave me an ultimatum. You know, her way or the highway kind of thing. She was right, you know. It was wrong. Well, Elizabeth took it bad."
"So the harassment accusation against you at work …"
"Revenge for me dumping her." He paused again. "I think the … attack was to prove a point. One of the last things I remember was her saying that I shouldn't have ignored her. I shouldn't have treated her just like the rest."
Still didn't explain why she'd done the same to Jim, but it explained why she would give up her steady job and safe home. She got mad and snapped and made a mess in her own bed. But it left Jim no closer to figuring out where she was now or what her immediate plans were.
"Anything else?"
"It's all still really fuzzy. More now than then. But I remember something weird."
Weirder than getting raped? Jim didn't say it aloud.
"She said I was just practice anyway. For real life."
"Real life?"
"Yeah. It didn't make a lick of sense then, not sure it does now."
"Everything adds together to make a puzzle complete, Max. Let me ask you this. She ever talk about a favorite vacation spot, or someplace she wanted to retire?"
"Not that I can think of. It wasn't a talking, sharing kind of relationship."
A real personal relationship was probably way far outside of Sophie's skill set. "You think she was practicing while having sex with you?"
"She was real awkward at it at first. Kind of mechanical. Not to brag or anything, but she'd gotten much better. She'd learned to relax, explore some as we went."
"Thanks for the call, Max."
"Yeah."
That did help make sense of things. She left Texas because she'd fucked up with Max. She had to start all over. Create another life somewhere else. She was practicing on how to be a girlfriend or a wife, planning to build a life for her and Dan all this time. Too bad he wasn't in on her delusion.
Jim was sure Dan would decline that particular invitation. And surely Sophie knew that too. Maybe she'd been practicing with the drugs as well. How to kill versus how much to keep a man just messed up enough so he was willing and happy. Great way to build a relationship.
He pulled out his laptop. There had to be at least one more alias she was using. Jim had to find it. He logged into his database.
Mary Callas. Texas
Two came up. One, the mother. The other too old and in jail.
He tried a national search. Thirteen.
He searched through those not in Texas. No one close enough to Sophie's age or ethnicity.
Callas Mary, backwards as Jelissa suggested. None. He searched nationally. Zero.
He grabbed his phone. Had a hunch. It was a long shot, and she was probably still mad.
"Special Agent Webb."
"Agent Webb. Heard you were looking for me."
"Hold on." Her muffled voice came through the speaker like she was finishing another conversation. Maybe she hadn't headed this way. Sounded like she was in an office.
"Mr. Bean. You left town without so much as a goodbye. And after I bought you dinner."
"One that gave me food poisoning."
"You didn't take one bite."
"I needed a night in my own bed."
"Uh huh."
No more excuses. "I have a lead. I talked to an old pro out there in Dallas. Evidently our Sophie was quite the philanthropist to the streetwalkers. Taught them how she moved up in the world. How to make their lives better."
He heard her let out a long breath. "So there's more than one pimp killer?"
"Can't say for sure. By the way, I hope the very nice woman I met while in Texas continues to live a happy, federal agent–free life."
"I didn't send in the dogs, Bean. How does this help us?"
"Miss Jelissa also said Sophie gave her advice on how to hide her money in the bank. She told her to use her mother's name. I've searched but don't see anyone using an alias that fits our profile."
"Callas. Callas. Mom was Mary Callas, right? Damn. Elizabeth Stanton was a famous activist."
Jim leaned back, hoping the wheels in her pretty little brain were churning. He wished he could see her face. "Yeah."
"You have your computer in front of you?"
"I do."
"Look up Maria Callas instead of Mary. I can't remember, but that seems familiar. I bet it's someone famous too."
"You're really on it when it comes to women's history." Jim typed in the name.
"Yeah. Just don't ask me for anything about European history. Took the women's study class to get out of that."
Jim scanned the screen quickly. "Maria Callas was a famous opera singer. Looks like this chick had a rough time of growing up. Managed to come out a star on the other side." He typed in the name in his database. Twenty-two. Skimmed the basic info on the list. "Two of these have no previous address or known associates."
"Where are they?"
"One is in Washington, D.C. The other is California." He hit the expand search key on that entry. "Not much on this one. Address is a PO box in Bakersfield."
"I used to go skiing not far from Bakersfield with my grandfather. It's pretty secluded, not far out of town. Not surprised to see the PO box. If she's set up with an address, it might be more than a disposable identity."
"Great skiing." Jim had no clue about skiing or the area, but said it anyway.
"Oh, you've been?"
"I have not."
He enjoyed the silence created as she decided how to interpret the obscure statement. "Okay."
"I bet all those secluded cabins make it a great place to play a creepy game of house."
"Hang on. I'll be there in two minutes, we'll finish this in person."
Jim stood. Glanced around his house. He hadn't been there in days and the mess reflected that. He was still covered in the filth of Texas and traveling. "Where are you?" Why did he care?
"At the diner. I had my guys go back through the crime scene, just in case."
"You're checking up on Miller's investigation?"
He could tell she was moving around.
"Most locals like having Federal resources these days, Bean. It's no longer the Wild West out here. Any turf wars we get are due to ego, not politics. We have big labs and big budgets."
"I guess." He didn't care one way or another if it helped find Sandy. "That girl is my first priority now, Agent Webb." Dan was protected—two officers and Stephen were with him. "Sandy is out there. Alone with a lunatic."
"Understood. But let's do this within the boundaries of the law, Bean, so when we get Evers, we've got her."
Jim didn't immediately answer. Maybe that's why he never moved his business into the next level. The bigger the organization, the harder it was to play by his own rules. He liked his rules.
"I'm leaving the diner."
"Give me ten minutes." He wanted to clean up.
"Be there in five." |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 46 | An hour past sunset and it was still hotter than snot, but at least there was a decent little breeze. Perfect for her intentions this evening.
Sophie pulled the pack of matches from her homemade attack suit. It looked like a SWAT team Halloween costume with its black cargo pants and a long-sleeved black shirt with vented underarms to keep her cool. Or at least as cool as one could be in Nevada in August.
She'd bought a tactical vest on eBay and altered it so it fit like a second skin. The pockets and straps held all the tools she would need for this mission. As if there would be another one like this. This was the night.
Butterflies danced in her stomach as she struck a match. The thing cost her less than a penny and it would kick off the rest of her life. She fanned the little flames of her diversion, a paper grocery bag packed with dried twigs, leaves, and some thicker sticks she'd brought from the mountains. In seconds she had a nice little flame burning under a propane tank. These silly people had left that tank a little too close to the house. Accidents happen.
She backed off, heart pounding as she made her way through two backyards and settled behind a covered boat to wait for the fireworks. Her watch read 9:01.
She cleaned under her nails. Missed a bit of blood from the business with the homeless girl, Cat. She bit her lip and counted back. Number fifteen.
Her whole body shuddered with a tingle of pleasure as she remembered the rush of that struggle. That little thing fought harder than most of the men Sophie had X'ed out.
Seemed the drifter was far cleverer than Sophie had given her credit for. It was an actual fight. There'd been no drugs for her. She had to subdue the girl with a chokehold and split open her midsection instead of her throat. Messy. Very messy. The hotel room would never be the same. Oh well. She only needed it for a few more hours.
Sophie wiggled her toes inside the combat boots. They were a half size too big. Stupid tank should have blown by now. She stood and peeked over the back of the boat. The distant streetlight helped her make out a thin trail of smoke as it danced up the side of the house. No one would be alarmed by it. That house was empty. Neighbors on the far side were out as well. Everything was going her way. It wouldn't be long.
She sucked in a deep breath as she sat cross-legged and closed her eyes, visualizing a perfect future with Danny. The mountain house was amazing. They would enjoy peaceful, sunset dinners on the deck overlooking the valley, chilled wine, and the scent of the little blue flowers out by the lake. The positive visualization made her smile.
The PI will be coming for you, stupid. You had to go and hire him.
"Shut up. That's under control," she whispered through clenched teeth.
What if he doesn't care about that waitress?
"He'll still try and save her. Him and the police."
Your plan has holes in it.
"All plans have holes in them. Ever watched a movie? Of course you have. I suppose you've seen every movie I've ever seen."
You will fail. Just like you have always failed.
Sophie opened her eyes. She had to eliminate that chattering. She wanted to be free of that voice forever. She should stop engaging, ignore it.
How stupid can you be? I am part of you. I know you, your thoughts, and I know your failures … all of them. So many of them.
Sophie closed her eyes again and imagined making a toast with Danny while laughing over some overly decadent dessert. He loved plums, so it would be something plum.
The voice started laughing.
Louder.
And louder. |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 47 | Jim made it through the shower in record time. He was pulling on his pants when the bell rang. His front door. No one used the front door. This time he would have a shirt on. He had a couple clean black T-shirts left in his drawer. That was about all. Not that he cared.
She knocked again as he got to the bottom of the stairs.
"You impatient"—he opened the door—"Agent Webb?"
"As a matter of fact, I am." She pushed by him, scanning the surroundings. Her training was probably better than his. She'd have found the back hall, assumed it lead to another entrance.
"I've been out of town a lot." He was not sure why he felt the need to justify a bachelor's state of living.
She turned by the kitchen counter. "I'm aware."
Annie rushed onto the counter to investigate the new arrival. Webb bent down and let her smell her face. Annie approved and gave a fine flick of her tail.
"That's Annie."
"After Annie Hall or little orphan?"
Jim huffed. "Oakley. Annie Oakley. She was a tough little kitten. You think I'd name a cat after a character in a play?"
She shrugged. "You knew it was a play. And you have a pretty, long-haired, female cat. Not exactly fitting the macho image of a rugged PI."
"Of course I knew it was a play. I went to school." He decided to ignore the blow to his image. "Everyone had to sit through at least one mind-numbing middle school performance of that god-awful thing."
She laughed. Her face lit up. It made him glad she was here. Hated that. He needed to get back to business. With a hand motion he offered her a seat at his kitchen table. She took it.
"Beer?"
"Haven't eaten, better not." She pulled out her note pad.
"Water?"
"So I called into the office and asked for everything they could find on Maria Callas. We should get a call soon."
After putting a warm bottle of water in front of her, he sat across from her and showed her what he'd found. Not much. But he had been able to generate the fake social security number she'd been using as Maria.
"They probably already have it, but … " She texted the number to someone.
"So what all can you search that I can't?" He wasn't sure what data they could really get these days, post 9/11.
"Stuff. Taxes, banking."
"Can you find her phone number? Maybe trace it from her mother's phone? Assuming her mother called her after we visited."
She shook her head. "TV FBI can do that. I need a warrant or at least a subpoena."
Ely could track the phone number if they had it. Of course, that was supposed to be by consent too. But Jim was fortunate to have the freedom of not worrying about playing by the rules and not having to deal with the government restraints.
"We need this all above board, Bean. We have to be able to produce evidence that stands up in court."
He knew that. "It amazes me that she's killed at least ten people and we still need to build a strong case."
"She's been clean, given how messy the crime scenes are. It's like she's great with the crime itself, but then turns around and makes horrible decisions about how to go about daily life. She doesn't really fit a serial killer profile. She just kills when and where she wants. I think it's usually associated with the end goal of becoming a better woman for Dan, but not always. Either way, she's gonna implode when Dan doesn't live up to her expectations. Hell, I don't think she can live up to her own expectations, not sure how she expects a kidnapped man to do so."
Jim's phone chirped. It was Miller's ringtone. He grabbed it off the counter. "Talk to me."
"Fire across the street from the safe house." Miller sounded out of breath.
Webb's phone rang.
"Fire at the safe house," Jim said to her. Back in to the phone. "We'll be right there." |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 48 | The little fire finally generated enough heat for the tank to exceed its tolerance levels. The liquid of the propane turned to vapor faster than the release valve could handle it. The explosion was louder than she'd expected. The wave from the blast reached her even behind the boat. It blew the hair from her shoulders and made her scream just a little. The sensation thrilled her to her toes.
As people started moving toward the house and the fire, she crept around to the other side of the cul-de-sac. The officer from the front porch of the safe house was in the driveway of the burning garage. Something else exploded. She almost squealed in delight to have the help. Joy. It was elusive in her world, but she felt it as the house burned.
She reached the next-door neighbor's yard. They were outside too, in their driveway, keeping their child close. No one was looking her way as she skirted through the backyard. Someone else came out of the house as well. A big black man she'd not seen before. He ran toward the burning house. Must have medical or fire experience. No one else ran towards danger. They were banging on the doors, yelling, looking for signs of any possible occupants. By her best judgment, that would leave Dan and possibly one other cop in the house. It was time.
She jumped the short fence, her mind racing and her heart pounding. How would he take seeing her? It would be a shock. She had to remind herself that he would need time. She'd read plenty on Stockholm syndrome. She had all the time in the world to stick to the plan.
She emptied a potted plant from the back porch as she passed and made her way to the small bathroom window on the far side of the house. It was cracked open a bit. In her narrow experience, men like some air while they make a major bathroom transaction. They certainly don't want to leave the noxious aftermath of a big dump for others in an impersonal environment.
She jimmied the screen off and pushed the sash open as far as she could with her feet on the ground. The sill was too high for her reach to get it all the way open. But she would manage. She set the planter upside down under the window and was then able to work it up a few more inches. It was just enough.
She knocked a candle off the back of the toilet as she climbed over. She stood stock still and waited, listening. Only distant clamor from the fire. No noise from inside the house but the yelling from the excitement across the street grew by decibels as she opened the bathroom door.
She peeked into the hall. The kitchen and part of the living room looked abandoned.
Even though she preferred a knife fight, she gripped her blade in her left hand and pulled out the gun she'd bought last year. She took lessons for that as well. A little time and a good instructor and a girl could become proficient in about anything these days. Instructor said she was a natural.
She eased around the corner. As expected, all the occupants were looking out the front window, including the old woman in that same rolling office chair she'd used to wheel herself around the rest home. It was odd, but this was Danny's mother. She'd always been independent, strong-willed. Sophie had liked her for that even though it sometimes felt intimidating to a girl with few opportunities to express such qualities in her own world.
No way was she good enough to outshoot a cop, but she was smart enough to take one by surprise. She had a plan for that too.
She pulled one of the smoke bombs she'd bought off the paintball supply website. The things produced a huge amount of smoke in about twenty seconds. She pulled the pin and left it just inside the living room entry, backing away.
First to the hall was the female cop. Sophie tripped her as she ran past the hallway opening. The cop fell to her knees, losing her advantage. Sophie knocked her in the head with the gun handle and then used her blade to slice her tight throat. Sophie caught her slumping, jerky body.
Using the wall for support, Sophie eased the convulsing officer to the ground. Blood bloomed from the neck wound. She sucked in, inhaling the steely fragrance as the stain swelled and made its way down the woman's chest. The pathetic woman struggled to reacquire her dropped weapon, but her heart had slowed so much she had no ability to complete the intended movement. Blood was exiting her brain too fast.
Number sixteen.
She stood when she heard the heft of the front door slam into the wall. Danny came through, shouting about the fire department. He stopped suddenly. Looked at the body through the smoke and then up to Sophie as she loomed over her kill.
"Holy mother fuck, Sophie." He didn't look particularly happy.
That was expected and, frankly, part of the plan. Surprise always worked in her favor. She drew and pointed the gun at him. "Come with me."
"You really are insane."
"From you, that hurts, Danny. You'll understand. It's time to go home."
He turned and tried to back away, but the move did little more than back him against the kitchen counter. He was trapped.
She needed to be quick. The old woman rolled her chair into the area. Sophie pointed the gun at his mother.
"What do you expect to happen here?"
Sophie held up her free hand to calm him. "You'll understand everything soon." She pulled the auto injector from its pocket on her nifty vest and stepped toward him. "Turn around."
He didn't.
"I will shoot her."
As he turned, believing her words, he kept his head facing his mother as long as his strained muscles would allow. Sophie hit him with the big dose as soon as he was facing away. She got him right at the base of the neck under his ear. Her aim was good and she was sure she hit the carotid.
"I'm not going to do whatever it is you want me to do, Soph."
He said it the way he'd used to, back in Texas when she was a kid. Hearing him say it took her off guard. Made her weak in the knees. Her stomach fluttered. There had to be a chance for them.
"Let's go, Danny. It's time."
"I'm not going."
"What is this mess all about?" His mother was looking at the dead cop.
Danny eased in front of her. "Nothing, Mom. Go read your articles."
"Is there a fire here too, Danny?" She pushed herself off to the side, her chair rolling where she directed it with her dangling feet. "Something's wrong with Miss Edwards, Danny." She rolled right up to the cop, her wheels making tracks in the fresh blood. "We should do something."
"You do as Danny says." Sophie motioned with the gun toward the back of the house. "We're all going that way anyway. Move, Danny."
"Don't hurt her. She's so out of it today, she won't even know you were ever here."
Having his mom there to manipulate him with made things a little easier. It was all working out much better than she'd expected.
"I have no intention of doing that. If you come with me, you and I will be on our way and she'll be fine."
"Promise?" He pushed his mother toward the living room, the chair leaving an interesting pattern of blood behind. The cops would love that.
"Do you? Promise? You'll come with me?"
He nodded. His eyes were starting to glaze a bit. She needed to get him moving before he was too out of it to handle.
"I'd like some tea. Where's Stephen?" She looked toward the stairs "Stephen, we have company. Come make us some green tea!"
"Hush." Sophie still had the gun pointed at Danny, who shook his head. "Back up to me. Hands behind your back, but close together."
He stood there.
"Don't make me do something you won't be able to recover from." She let the gun's business end sway slightly toward his mother.
Man, that made him mad. He glared daggers her way. While he was making his mind up, her internal clock was thumping hard. She pushed the pistol close to the momma's head.
His face softened in resignation, marking the moment he understood it was best to follow her instructions. They needed to move fast. Back in the hotel room, she'd started a big loop in a tie wrap and attached it to her vest with a little duct tape. Now it easily yanked off when she needed it. She slipped it over his clasped hands and drew it in. When it was close to snug, she tucked the gun under her arm and used both hands to quickly yank it tight.
"Let's go." She pointed to the sliding glass door.
He lifted the safety bar with his foot and opened the glass. She followed. He stumbled a bit taking his step over the threshold.
Before she made her first step into the night, something slammed into the back of her legs. The impact was a hard blow to the back of the knees, like she was taken down in judo class. Her toes went tingly and she felt herself fall backward and over his mother's lap. Sophie landed uncomfortably and twisted onto the floor.
Dan turned. He tried to do something, but his bound hands and altered state made it impossible to do much more than fall on his knees.
Blows rained down on her head. Sharp, spiky pain lambasted her as she tried to stop the old woman. Four more good blows with the wood spoon landed on her head. Her temple smarted, but adrenaline was pumping. She didn't want to kill the woman after she'd promised Danny. He was doing what he said, even if it was because he was tied and drugged.
"Stop." Sophie tried to get up, but the crazy woman swatted her straight across the cheek. It stung like hell.
"Enough." Sophie grabbed another of the injector pens from a vest pocket and pressed it into the bony leg by her head. The old woman howled.
"Mom!" Danny got up.
Sophie met him and shoved him toward the backyard. The fire truck was getting close. The last of the sand had slipped through the hour glass.
"Go. Go." She pushed him.
"My mom …"
"It's just tranquilizer, she'll be fine. I didn't shoot her."
"Bitch!"
It was slurred. She forgave him for saying it at the moment. All he needed was time. Right now, this was traumatic, painful. For them both, really. Like a new life coming into the world. It was the birth of their new life. Nonetheless, they needed to hurry. Everything would be fine in time.
She looked back as the other cop rounded the corner of the kitchen. He was wide-eyed and sweating. Young.
She pushed Danny down and raised her gun. He had drawn his, but it was by his side. He seemed somewhat confused, looking over the scene, which made him a little slow to find his target. Stupid cop. Sophie was not slow. She inhaled and took an instant to aim and squeezed that trigger as she exhaled.
Bang.
She'd aimed for the chest, but managed to hit him square in the face.
Number seventeen.
The old woman lay in the doorway behind the faceless man. With any luck she would die. A dizzying wave of nostalgia threatened to ruin her plan.
Dan grunted. He was losing it. She pulled him from the ground and ushered him on. He was almost too groggy to make it on his own. His anxiety had expedited the onset of the drugs. She pulled him past one more house and then she caught sight of the van down the block. Her heart was thundering and her body pumping with adrenaline. She gave a look back to see if anyone was following.
She'd done it. |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 49 | "My car's across the street." Agent Webb headed for the door of Jim's apartment.
The rage in Jim's gut was back to levels he'd not felt since before his first anger-management class. At first he'd only gone because the court mandated it, but he soon realized the time with the group did him good. Like AA for people with shitty lives. But none of the stupid exercises were going to help with the absolute fury he felt brewing at the moment. When he got his hands on Sophie's knife he would be slitting her throat. Eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, and a slit throat and dust to dust.
"I'll meet you there."
Agent Webb hesitated but then flew out the front door. He calmly walked through his converted garage office and grabbed the small key hanging by the back door. His bike sat there, dusty and unridden for months. It roared to life with a turn of the throttle and a little ignition. He was closer to the neighborhood than Miller. He knew the back roads and the cut-throughs. The advantage of hour after shitty hour of surveillance in this town.
He whipped that bike through the side streets, ignoring stop signs, until he found a familiar path.
The dirt path cut from one subdivision to another. Kids used them to go from the smaller subdivisions and sneak into the pools of the larger. At the end of the third path was a narrow opening between fences. Six-foot chain link. He'd walked it before but his bike was bulky. At this speed, if it was too narrow, the consequences would be ugly. Pucker factor high.
He gunned it and zipped up the sidewalk and righted the bike as fast as he could so the machine would be straight up when he reached the gap. From this vantage point it looked like he was never going to make it.
He twisted the throttle. Grip it and rip it. The front wheel bounced when he hit the dirt.
"Never gonna fit," he yelled as he went through. A jerk yanked the bike to the right as the handle bar brushed the metal fence pole. The fishtail pulled the rear tire to the left. Gripping the bars like his life depended on it, he did his best to minimize the oversteer. The dusty path didn't help, but he'd made it.
Without slowing, he kept going, popping out at an intersection close to the new safe house. Cut a good five miles off his journey. He slammed on the brakes in time to skid up to the driveway. There was a fire truck across the street. People lined the sidewalks, taking pictures with smart phones. Everyone wanted the shot to post on their Facebook or Instagrams.
He rushed in. First thing he saw was a female face-down in her own blood in the hall. Must be Miller's plainclothes girl. Jim stopped to check her pulse. None. He moved into the open living area.
Stephen was holding up Lynette's limp little body. Her chair was lying on its back next to them. The back door was open to the night.
"Is she … " Jim didn't want to say it.
Steven was crying but shook his head. "She has a thready, weak pulse. I called for help."
Miller and his team came in with guns up, ready to shoot.
"Officer down. Repeat, officer down," Miller shouted when he saw the woman on the floor bleeding out. He glanced at Jim. "Momma okay?"
"Not really," Steven said.
Miller signaled two men through the back sliding glass door. "See if they left a trail. Anything!" Two officers went into the night. He pointed at two others. "Check upstairs, see if Dan's up there."
Jim hadn't bothered to check. Dan was gone. He knew in his bones that Sophie had taken him. He was long gone. Along with Sandy.
"FBI agent down out here." Jim and Miller left Lynette's side. The officer checked for a pulse. Too dark to see the blood on his jacket. With the shake of the officer's head, they all knew the agent was dead.
Jim squatted back by the table. From that angle, he saw the young agent's face. No open casket for his family. Fresh blood ran in streams along the scores in the concrete patio. Lynette shuddered violently in Steven's arms. Her labored breathing got thicker with the struggle.
"Was she shot?" Jim didn't see any blood on or around her. Maybe she'd be okay. That would be a miracle from the looks of this place.
"Help me get her to the couch." Stephen lifted her upper body. Miller grabbed her tiny legs under the knees and helped move her. Sirens were approaching, but with all the commotion across the street Jim had no idea if it was the medics or more fire equipment.
Steven checked her over, careful not to cause any further damage to her frail body. "I don't see anything."
She coughed, gagged.
"Heart attack from the stress?" Miller headed back to the front room. On the radio. "Where's my medical? I need at least two."
"Could be something like that." Steven straightened her dress as she struggled to breathe. It was automatic for him to do his best for her, to make her comfortable.
Medics came rushing in.
It was too late.
The life had drained out of Lynette as the EMTs tried to assess her condition. They started CPR, connected a mask to help her breathe.
Then she was gone, right before Jim's eyes. Lynette Hodge's obituary would join the articles on the wall.
If Jim didn't find Dan, who would write her story? No more than seventy-five words. How could the life of a firecracker like her get wrapped up in seventy-five words?
Jim's rage shifted gears. Sorrow, deep and profound.
He sat back on the recliner across from the medics. The sounds of their voices muted. Miller was screaming away in the front room, but that was white noise as well.
One of the medics went out to check on the FBI agent lying just outside the door on the patio.
Agent Ava Webb walked slowly into the room. Her weapon was drawn but she quickly holstered it. She headed straight for her guy on the porch. The medic shook his head.
She said his name. "Foster." Ava knelt by his side. She touched her guy's back. She too was now wrapped in a wet blanket of sorrow. Anger.
Jim's anger slipped away, lost in yawning anguish as he watched Ava kneel there beside Foster and shed a tear for him. The medic returned and covered him with a sheet.
After a moment, Ava stood, her tears gone, her game face back in place.
Jim had moved in her direction without realizing. She found his gaze and looked down. Maybe she didn't want to share the moment of sorrow. He understood.
The carnage around him was raw, fresh. In his line of work, the closest he came to a fresh crime scene was when defense attorneys hired him. His arrival came long after the fact, often when the tape was gone and the area clean of all signs of bloodshed. His job was digging to uncover missed clues and follow up leads. Not this.
More police showed up. More FBI.
Jim made his way to the front room and looked out the window. The yard and the fire scene across the street were both being roped off with yellow and black tape. He wished he had a cigarette. Some scotch.
Miller came out. "How'd you get here so quick?"
Jim pointed to the bike. "Took a couple off-road shortcuts."
"You see her?"
"Nope." Jim leaned against the rail. "Didn't hear any shots either. She was gone."
"Dan wasn't upstairs."
Jim knew that. Didn't say anything.
They moved back toward the kitchen and the dead police officer on the floor. Ava approached and stopped before the bloody floor. Her body was slack with shock and pain. "She never used a gun before. With her profile, I'd have never thought she would." Ava looked back to the porch. "Foster had drawn, finger not on the trigger. She had to be damned good to hit him."
Miller tilted his head toward his officer, the woman on the ground with the slit throat. It was as if he didn't want to look back at her. To see her again. "Kahill was a marksman." He picked up the spent smoke bomb with a gloved hand. A burnt chemical smell lingered in the room. "But we'd said the perp was a knife wielder. And Sophie used the fire and smoke for cover."
"Dammit!" Ava kicked the side of the counter then paced the length of the small kitchen. "I have to go make a phone call I don't want to make. Foster had a wife and two young kids. I need to get someone to his house before this hits the news."
She walked away without waiting for a reply. Jim gave into the desire to follow. He managed only as far as the front porch, and then his legs stiffened. He hadn't the slightest clue how to comfort this woman. So he watched her climb into the big FBI car and drive away.
Miller walked up behind him. "Thank god my captain makes those visits."
A job Jim wouldn't want. He kept watching as Ava's car turned at the end of the street. "Lynette?" he asked.
"They think she was hit with the ketamine. Too much for her." Miller shook his head.
Jim's throat closed from the acrid taste of how much that pained him. Hard to breathe. All he could do was push that shock and sorrow to the back of his throat and try to swallow it down. He thought of Sophie Evers. Got mad. Anger was much easier to manage than pain. Always had been. |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 50 | The girl was crying. She was awake enough now to know she wasn't where she wanted to be. It was a pathetic whimper, really.
Sophie needed to pee. It was midafternoon and she'd driven for hours without a break. Dan would be rousing soon too. She needed to stop and manage all three.
"You ready to stop, baby?"
Carla jumped up from her comfortable pillow on the passenger seat.
"Okay. Give me a minute." She'd seen a sign a ways back for a rest area. "Should be able to stop in a sec." She patted the dog on the head.
You are more stupid than I ever imagined. Changing things up like this …
"Shut up. Shut up." They approached the exit sign. "It's only minor. Besides if Bean found my birth mother … our mother …"
No response to that taunt. The voice was not her. Or it was separate from her, but it was her. It had started with talking to herself as a kid. Trying to make herself feel better. It never worked. Eventually the internal conversations changed, and one day she couldn't turn it off. It was all very confusing. The kind of thing that could give a girl a headache. Pinching the bridge of her nose didn't help clear things up.
Sophie now figured the voice was her mother. At least the last few years it had been that cranky old shrew. Always there. Always nitpicking. That was a mother, right?
"It's better this way. Plan C."
If she could figure out how to do it, she'd get rid of the voice as well.
Nothing's ready at that house. It's all in Cali.
Sophie ignored the nagging and pulled off the highway, parking in the most remote spot in the rest area lot. Many cars were parked down around the bathroom and that meant lots of eyes.
She twisted to the back. The girl was still crying but out of it enough that she wouldn't be any trouble. Sophie put Carla on the leash.
"You go. Then I'll take care of our passengers."
The dog hit the grass and squatted.
"I wish I could do that."
After the dog was empty, Sophie did her own business, bought a vending machine coffee, and returned to the van.
"Where am I?" The girl was struggling to sit up.
Sophie patted her head. "Not to worry. We'll be there soon and you'll get to be in a much more comfortable position."
Dan also moved, probably in response to the conversation.
She touched his face. His cheek twitched. The movement was cute, like a mouse wiggling whiskers. He had a tiny bit of gray coming on his temples. Mrs. Hodge's hair was all white. Maybe the premature gray thing ran in the family. She imagined him salt-and-pepper with his rough face weathered and wrinkled from years in the sun. She smiled and carefully injected his neck with more of the tranquilizer. His eyelids fluttered.
Sandy whimpered again, breaking the tender moment with Dan.
Sophie chose another syringe and plunged it hard into the girl's neck. It was the third or maybe the fourth time. There would be a few more. Hopefully it wouldn't kill her before Sophie was able to play this out. It wouldn't work without the waitress, but Sophie'd had a great idea on the road that made the girl much more useful. Another change of plan.
Stupid.
"No. Genius." |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 51 | The meeting room would have been drab under the best circumstances given its tiny putty-gray tables and folding chairs with chipped brown paint.
The walls were decorated with a poster reporting some Vegas crime statistics, a picture of a missing kid, and several other memos. All taped to the wall. They reminded Jim of Lynette and her articles. It was downright depressing.
Ava looked ten years older than she had the day before. Yep, he was thinking of her as Ava all the time now. It didn't really matter. What mattered now was getting Sophie. But Ava looked beat. Her neat hair was in a ponytail and mussed a little on one side. She'd not bothered to fix her makeup from the tears.
But then again, Miller looked like he was in need of a good stiff drink, and a clean pressed jacket. The one he wore looked like it had been tossed in the back of the car more than once that day.
"We got a hit on Maria Callas." Ava tossed a sheet of paper on the table. "No address other than the PO box in Bakersfield, but we found an employer. Medical software. High-end stuff. I have the address."
California. Miller was stuck. Out of his jurisdiction.
"Our office has the address and a supervisor's name. I'm flying out in an hour."
"I'm coming." Jim figured that was going to be a no-go. Not that it mattered. At this point he'd find a way to get there on his own. He wanted Sophie himself and if he had to admit it, he didn't want Ava facing this freak on her own. Of course she was FBI, she wouldn't be on her own. But Jim didn't want her facing Sophie Ryan Evers without him.
She almost smiled. "There's an FBI flight scheduled. I managed to get you on as my witness. In reality, you are the only one who has seen her in person. My director wants a confirmation on her ID since this is such a high-profile case now."
No shit? He'd expected to be left on the tarmac as she flew off like the heroine in an old romance flick.
Miller looked pissed. Jim knew the drill. Las Vegas police had a dead Cynthia Hodge, a dead neighbor, a dead cop, and Sandy was still missing and all Miller could do was sit on his hands while the Feds chased down the out-of-state leads.
Jim felt for him but was once again happy that he could play by the seat of his pants.
Miller was stuck. He might not even get to prosecute Sophie for any of his warrants. Feds would choose the charges that would be the easiest to make stick. Probably not even in Vegas courts.
"When do we leave?"
She glanced at her phone. "Thirty minutes."
"That's barely enough time to get to the airport."
"Then we should go." |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 52 | MediBridge resided in a midsize building in Bakersfield. The receptionist was cheerful. The decor was a mix of bright orange and teal that gave the visitor the impression that the place was crisp, the business intelligent.
Jim leaned over and gave the receptionist his best smile. "Do you have pictures of your employees on your website, miss?"
She straightened her headset. "We do." She held up a finger. "Mr. Layton, some people from the FBI are here to see you." She paused to listen. "I'll tell them." She disconnected the call with the push of a button. "He'll be right here."
Ava moved closer. "Can you show us a picture of Maria Callas on the site?"
She typed away and then turned the screen in his and Ava's direction. A professional-looking photo of Sophie Ryan Evers took up the left half of the screen. Her credentials were listed on the right side. It was a boring picture. Hair pulled back so you had no idea how long it really was. Beige suit, white shirt. Not like the yellow she was wearing when she came to him and started this ride. But it was definitely her.
Ava asked, "That her?"
"Yes, ma'am." His stomach did a little flop. His brain immediately supplied the memory of the night in Texas.
Before he could get too worked up, a man came striding into the reception area in a very expensive suit. Jim was familiar. He'd seen plenty such on the big-time players on the Strip.
He greeted Ava first. "I'm Dave Layton. How can I help you?" Dave was typically handsome with a tight jaw and stubble just enough to make him look rugged. His fake, overly white smile and surgically perfect nose made Jim immediately think car salesman.
Ava was on her feet, showing her credentials and giving her name. Her suit was looking a bit better than it had that morning, but this guy and the receptionist had both out-labeled her for sure. Not that Jim gave a rat's ass about fashion. He didn't. In his business he would often use clothes to get a read on a person. See what they thought of themselves. How they wanted others to see them.
Jim was still in jeans and a black T-shirt and didn't care what anyone thought of his fashion sense.
"We're investigating a case and think one of your employees might be able to assist us," Ava stated as matter-of-factly as possible.
Dave's expression faltered for an instant. "Wow. The FBI? Really?" He glanced at the receptionist, who was still listening even though her head was facing the computer screen on her desk.
"We should pop into a conference room." He gestured through the glass doors separating the reception area from the rest of the business and led them to a small conference room with a table that would accommodate eight attendees.
They all stood. He took a position at the far end of the table.
"Tell me about Maria Callas," Ava said before he had a chance to ask her any questions.
"What about her?" He crossed his arms. Defensive.
"Where does she live?" Ava kept her arms limp at her sides. Relaxed.
He huffed. "Not sure how much I can divulge about her, you know, legally."
"I assure you that, legally, you can tell me her home address and her phone number." Jim wasn't sure that was true. But the FBI had more leeway than regular Joes thanks to the national security umbrella of changes.
"Not sure I want to." Dave was trying for tough, but he just looked smug. Jim wanted to punch this guy right in his perfect nose.
Ava strode over to him, stopping right in his face. "If I want to, I can charge you with interfering with a federal investigation, Dave."
Something told Jim that Special Agent Webb was not impressed with the pretty boy in the expensive suit.
"Harboring a fugitive." One side of her lip rose as if she were thinking hard. "Maybe even accomplice?"
"Hey!" Dave put his hands up as if to surrender and took two steps back before his butt hit the wall. "Not so fast. I'm just saying that HR might not like me giving out personal information. What's this really about anyway?"
"National security. Can't tell you." She opened her jacket. "Now am I arresting you, or do you have the information I've requested?"
"I have her number on my cell, but I'll have to get the address and shit." He dialed the speakerphone on the table. "Helen, I need Maria Callas's records in first floor, conference two, ASAP." He hung up after the woman confirmed the request. "So really, Maria is my best salesperson. Brings in about seventy million a year. Is she in trouble?"
Jim ignored the last part. "She works commission?"
"Oh yes." He grinned. "And she's good."
"You sell hospital supplies?" Ava asked.
"No." Dave's face lit up. "Software that integrates all systems in the hospital. Accounting, ordering, inventory, HR, even patient care and records. A portal. One-stop shop."
"But she's in hospitals all the time?" Jim asked.
He shrugged. "Yeah."
So she had plenty of access to drugs, assuming she had the talent to get by security. But then again she'd gotten by a cop and federal agent in the safe house and evaded getting caught for about umpteen murders.
Dave continued, "She travels all over the world visiting potential clients. She's gone all the time. I've only seen her in person maybe five times."
A woman knocked on the door. Another young, pretty, upwardly mobile person stood on the other side of the glass.
Dave opened the door for her and she beamed her whitened teeth at him. "Here you go, Mr. Layton."
"Thank you, Helen. That will be all."
She hesitated after seeing the strangers in the room with her personnel file.
"Really. I have this."
She backed out.
He opened the file. "Breckenridge." He made a surprised sound. "I didn't realize that. Strange, she never said she lived up there."
Jim figured it wasn't so strange at all. Lots of ski cabins up there. Lots of privacy to do whatever she wanted.
He read off the address. Ava typed it on her phone. Jim memorized it.
Dave also rattled off her number. Jim would remember that too.
"Her area code is Bakersfield?"
"Yeah. Company phone. Company car." He shrugged. "You make the sales she does, you get all the perks."
"How much you figure she earned last year?" Jim asked.
He looked up at the ceiling as if to add in his head. "Can't remember exactly. Probably close to a million."
Well. That was certainly enough to bankroll all her activities. "And she works her own hours?"
"I thought you said you wanted to talk to her as a witness. This sounds more like she's in trouble for something." His bright smile was gone, replaced by tight eyebrows that were also perfectly shaped. Jim wondered if he had them tweezed.
"If she calls, please don't tell her we were here, Mr. Layton. That would be grounds for charges. You understand?"
Dave nodded, his smugness exchanged for a hint of fear.
Ava handed him her card. "You keep the conversation to whatever normal business you'd conduct and then call me if she calls in."
"Is Maria in trouble?"
"You could say that." |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 53 | The road twisted up to Breckenridge. Back and forth, winding like a snake with a bellyache. It was summer, so there was no snow to fight, just vacationers in their oversized campers taking up both lanes. Jim supposed it should be a pretty drive, but the circumstances distorted the beauty of the scenery.
When she got a clear bit of asphalt, Ava pushed the Town Car along far above the posted limit. She bit her bottom lip and tapped the steering wheel with her index finger. Anxious. Worried. Pressured from her boss to get this psycho before she made more headlines.
No one had been told of the connections to past killings. The media was focused on the brutality of the Cynthia Hodge murder and was unaware of the depth and breadth of Sophie's killings. It wouldn't be long until someone leaked something. Secrets were not long kept in Vegas, no matter the city's slogan. It should be Whatever will make news in Vegas will make the news.
They came to the fork in the road. Ava eased left. Before long the pavement gave way to a white-graveled path that would take them to Sophie's hideout.
The driveway was long and tree-lined. Postcard material. The forest was too thick to make out any structure from there. Too dangerous to drive up to the house, and their backup was still on the way.
She pulled the car off just past the drive. Foot power from here on out. Ava opened the trunk, loaded, and cocked a shotgun. She offered it to Jim without words.
He considered it, then shook his head. "Not for me." He looked toward the house. "Shouldn't we wait for the SWAT team?"
"We're just going to take a peek. Assess the situation." He liked her style.
Twigs, pine cones, and other material crushed beneath his feet no matter where he placed his big boot. A particularly loud snap made Ava stop and glare at him. He cringed. How Native Americans used to be so quiet was beyond him. Maybe that was historic urban legend.
Sneaking up like this had his heart flopping around in his chest like a super ball. This much tension was bad. Made him nervous. Jumpy. It was dangerous. He attributed it to the fact that he wanted Sophie too bad and was worried over Sandy.
Personal investment was doubled down in this case. Bad mojo made for bad outcomes. Declining the gun had been a good idea. He was ready to jump out of his skin. And just like O said, a squirrel could run by and startle him enough to shoot Ava in her cute little ass.
She glanced back as if she heard his thoughts but pressed on. The sapling trees and vines tripped them up, slowing progress. A bead of sweat had rolled down his back and more would follow. He had his slap-jack in his right hand. Ava had her handgun at the ready and the shotgun hung over her shoulder.
She eased through the woods with a grace Jim would never possess, as if the branches and twigs were intentionally not in her way. That wasn't possible. The bottom line was his mass and momentum carried a volume hers did not.
She stopped and braced with her back against a tree. She pointed ahead. There was a narrow cabin at the end of the gravel. Two-story, given the height of the windows. Nice. Something a family from L.A. would rent for a week of skiing in December. He could picture a large Christmas tree covered in fat multicolored lights reflecting onto new snow through the wall of windows. Of course it was the middle of the day in August and nothing twinkled. Regardless, not the kind of place a murderer brought her victims to be tortured and killed. His gut told him something was off.
"No cars." It was a very low whisper.
"Maybe around back?"
Ava nodded. She pointed to the right and to him. "On three," she said without sound.
"What about the backup?"
"They'll be here."
Not what he meant. She held up one narrow finger. No polish. No rings. |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 54 | She would go to the left, he to the right. But the place looked deserted.
She didn't look back at him. Her brain was already on her mission. Jim's brain was deciphering what his gut was screaming at him. Would Sophie leave her hostages unattended after so much careful planning? |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 55 | Ava moved out. That left him no choice. He turned and headed in his assigned direction, skirting just inside the tree line.
The yard was narrower on his side, bringing him closer to the house. Glare from the sun blocked his view inside the tall front windows. A cheerful spring wreath with white birds on it adorned the front door.
Maybe this was the wrong place. Maybe she'd used a false address with her employer. That would make sense.
He crouched and ducked behind the front bushes to try for a glance inside. He stopped just short of the floor-to-ceiling windows. He peeked in quickly, saw nothing, and then waited a few seconds before a second look, this one longer.
Bright, open, and airy. There was cabin-themed decor everywhere. A bear rug and log furnishings with heavy plaid fabrics. The kitchen was at the back of the large two-story room. No one in sight.
He headed back the direction he'd come and continued to the back of the cabin. That side of the building was logs all the way up. One small window, shoulder height. Bathroom. It was covered by a curtain. Nothing to see. He made it around the back.
That was better than expected as well. Multi-level deck. Hot tub. Grill. Flowers decorated the area. It was only ten yards from a large pond. High-dollar for a hideout.
Ava stood at the back door, weapon lowered. "I didn't see anyone."
"Me either. Looks like we might be in the wrong place."
She shook her head. "I don't think so. May look pretty, but it feels creepy as hell."
He looked in the back door window around the drawn curtain.
She tried the door. The knob turned.
"Thought you wanted it all by the book?"
"That would be best. But …"
"Sandy's clock is counting down," he said, glad she was using his line of logic today.
She nodded. "Dan's not exactly safe either."
A low chirping noise repeated several times. Not a bird. Electronic. He looked down, following the line of the bottom rail of the deck. A small round device was screwed to the post closest to the door. That was some kind of trigger. Triggers meant things going boom.
"Motion detector."
"What?"
He grabbed Ava around the waist. No time to explain. He pulled her away from the door. Tangled legs made them both stumble down the two levels of deck steps. He recovered first and pulled her toward the pond. She caught her footing and started running with him. They were about five feet from the water when the world ended. |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 56 | No sound.
Jim was deafened. His legs were numb and he couldn't breathe. No way this was good.
He tried to breathe, drew in water. In a panic his lungs coughed out the fluid. Jim tried to move his arms. They answered.
In an instant his body returned to the normal responses to his mental commands. But his hearing was still off. He realized he was in the pond, one leg pinned under a large piece of timber. He sat up and his head was above the water.
Heat pressed against the back of his head. He twisted around. The cabin was ablaze. All of it. Immense logs of the framework had folded in on themselves like a Boy Scout campfire on steroids. The yard was littered with the shards, large and small, of the exploded timbers.
"Ava!"
He didn't see her. He dug in the mud, pulling at his leg. It didn't feel broken, only trapped. This was going to leave a mark. He held his breath to fold forward and dig at the mud holding him under the wood.
Ragged shards scraped his trapped leg. His foot twisted first, then his calf. He pushed up with all his weight and the timber rolled off. He stood in the water, testing his steadiness. His shin would carry a nasty bruise for a while, but he'd live.
"Ava!" Strange to listen to himself yell and not hear a thing.
He started out of the water and saw her sit up in a tall patch of reeds a couple of yards away. Her hair was a soaking-wet mess, her head was bleeding and her arm hung limp and twisted in an impossible direction. Her shoulder was dislocated or broken. Either way, she would be in a great deal of pain when the shock of the blast wore off.
Smoke billowed past, obscuring his path as he waded in her direction. The cabin burned like dry kindling.
"You okay?" He said it but was sure her hearing would be as dampened as his.
Her reaction was neither positive nor negative. But she did mouth something he could understand. Her hand went to her head wound first. She gently tested the cut and then inspected the blood it left on her fingers. Then she tried to move her left arm. He barely made out the screech of pain that accompanied the action.
"Keep it still."
He dug for his phone. Wet. No bars. No signal. They had passed several other cabins on the way in. Surely someone heard the explosion. Backup was on the way. He took off his shirt and wrapped it around her body, tucking it under her arm with the least amount of movement to her shoulder as possible. She cringed again.
"Sorry."
He tied it off, making a sling of sorts. Would hold it better than nothing. |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 57 | The cell phone on the dash started talking. A ring tone. The cartoon. Marvin the Martian. "Where's the Kaboom? There should have been an earth-shattering Kaboom."
No need to respond. It was an electronic message sent from the device planted under the cabin.
She closed her eyes, ignoring the road. The bastards had found her happy place. Her retreat. The thought was a soul-sucking wound in her stomach. There wasn't much she was attached to in this world. That cabin had been about it. Since they found her birth mother, Sophie had suspected Bean may be good enough to find her.
She was right. He would be punished.
She took in a yoga breath. Long, deep, it filled first her chest and then her belly with fresh air.
Good thing she had trusted her intuition and headed northeast.
"Fucking PI."
A horn blared. She opened her eyes. She was half in the right lane. Who cared? Calmly she steered the van back into her lane.
She envisioned the explosion. The creep she'd bought the C4 from promised spectacular. Even setting them up she'd been torn. That plan was a double-edged sword. If it worked, the cabin—her dream home—was gone.
Not what she planned. No.
Told you so.
"Shut up."
You should have just found Danny yourself.
"Not now."
The nag was right. There had been no lack of trying on Sophie's part. For months she had searched for Dan. She sat taller so she could see him through the rearview mirror.
He was sleeping, his body laid out on the bench as if he was in his bed, a peaceful expression on his angel face
Sophie sighed. She should have kept at the hunt herself. Instead, she'd lost patience and hired that irritating PI. Bean was supposed to be a loser only after a quick buck. He had even acted like a loser both on the phone and at that pathetic diner. No professionalism. No receptionist. No office building.
She gripped the steering wheel. With any luck Bean was right there when the house blew. Standing on her porch, or even better, inside. She closed her eyes again. She'd loved that house and had looked forward to living her perfect life with Danny there. Fucker. He'd been nothing but trouble.
She turned up the radio and let the music fill the rolling metal box. It was loud. Violins echoed off the walls. It was not a proper sound stage for Schubert, but it would help soothe Sophie's worn nerves. Carla raised her head for a moment and settled back down.
Let it go. Move forward. She tried to push the rage away. Send it down to that place where it disappeared in her gut in a tiny ball of shit to be flushed away. Anger did her no good. The house was just full of things. Nothing she couldn't replace.
The bigger problem was that Bean and his helpers were so close on her tail. Digging in her business. She wasn't used to people knowing about her, knowing her history or her details. A strange sense of anger and shame filled her. Not that she was shamed by any of her actions. No. Only the few loose ends she'd left behind caused her any embarrassment. One day she would go back and eliminate all those loose ends.
A situation like this called for going on the offensive. No running for Sophie Evers.
She glared at the waitress in the back. She didn't look as comfortable as Danny. She was sitting, her head at an awkward angle. Good. It was time to use that leverage.
The GPS unit said she had one hour, twenty-three minutes until arrival. Sophie needed to hold it together that long. She needed to get those two unloaded, count her losses, and then solidify a new plan. There was lots of stuff at the cabin that could be evidence. But she was sure there was nothing about Indiana. And if there was, the explosion and the incendiary devices should have destroyed all of it. Still, you could never tell with fire. It did what it wanted. |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 58 | A man came running around the back of the house. He was tall, red-headed, and had a dry phone in his hand.
He fell to his knees beside Ava. It was clear he was talking. Some sound was drifting through the haze of Jim's hearing. Not enough to understand completely.
Call maybe. Others? Jim shook his head no. At least he hoped there was no one in that cabin. God, he hoped Sandy wasn't in there.
Jim pointed to his ear and shook his head. The universal I can't hear you gesture earned a returned sign for I called for help.
The man opened up a fanny pack medical kit. Johnny-on-the-spot this guy was. He rinsed Ava's forehead with water from a squirt bottle. She closed her eyes to keep from getting fluid in them. The cut wasn't as bad as Jim had first thought.
Jim got up and strode to the burning structure. All he could think of was the bonfires his buddies used to throw in college. In his past life. Before his world fell to pieces. He'd gotten it together since then. Some. But now he found himself in the middle of what looked like a war zone.
Then it hit him that if Sandy was in that massive bonfire, his heart would break once again.
He was pushed back by a wall of heat as the front of the structure collapsed in on itself. Everything was burning. The place had been rigged to be totally destroyed if disturbed.
He heard the pop and searing of the wood push through the empty numbness of his ears. He could make out the muffled sound of a fire truck coming down the drive. The driver swung it wide, rolling through the shrubbery along the path, to spin it around so he could back closer.
Behind the fire unit was the ambulance. They followed, stopping short of the walkway. Jim's vision blurred as two men and a woman filed out, large plastic cases containing all manner of medical equipment in tow. Ava would be fine.
Behind them were three black SUVs. Backup. At last.
Jim felt a little wobbly. The female medic stopped by his side and tried to steady him.
"I'm good."
She pointed at the grass and pushed him into a seated position. Seemed reasonable. He let his legs give way; she eased him down. "Anything hurt, sir?"
"I couldn't hear."
"Explosion?"
Jim didn't say anything, just gave her a small nod.
She shouted, "Common. Should return fairly fast unless there's damage." She looked in his ear but didn't make any proclamation as to the future health of his eardrums. "Anywhere else hurt?"
"I just had a piece of wood fall on my leg. It's okay."
Without permission she cut straight up his pant leg, all the way to the knee, and yanked it open. There was a large round area that was trying to start a bruise already.
She felt around the wound. "Nothing feels broken." She checked his eyes and had him follow the path of her moving thumb a few times before she left him to go see if the others needed help.
The firemen worked in a choreographed dance with water and time to put out the flames. Jim watched for longer than he intended and then got up to go check on Ava. |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 59 | Agents, cops, and firemen were scattered over the lawn like ants. The house had burned hot and fast. His hearing came back in increments. The last guy Jim spoke to figured there was a large amount of accelerant expelled during the explosion. No one there was a bomb specialist, but that much was obvious.
He sat beside Ava on the tailgate of the fire marshal's truck, drinking off-brand bottled water and waiting as the crew searched the smoldering structure for any remains. Jim's gut told him Sandy and Dan were not in there.
Neither of them had spoken for a few minutes, both staring at the remains of the house.
Agents had found two other triggers. The bomb could have been set off from the front porch or a trigger by the pond. The entire property had been booby-trapped.
"That was close, Agent Webb."
She let out a little laugh. Her hair was free and dangling in her face. Mud drenched her white shirt. She'd lost one of her shoes. "Again, I think you can call me Ava. After all, you saved my life."
Jim said nothing. He wasn't sure how he felt about being on a first-name basis with her. He'd been calling her by her given name in his mind since the scene at the house. Out loud was another matter. She was strong, beautiful.
He took another drink of water. It was good. Soothing.
"Now what? Where would she take them?" She shoved her hair back again. It seemed to irritate her.
"Why not cut it off?"
"Cut what off?" She didn't look at him. Just watched the men moving around with hoses and long pry bars.
"If your hair bothers you, why not cut it off?" Easy enough. He liked it, but he could understand why a woman in her position would keep it short.
She looked down at her hands. "I don't want to come off too mannish at the office. I have enough trouble because of my job as it is."
"Trouble?"
"Never mind, Bean." She stood. The paramedic rushed over.
"You need to sit, ma'am. I wish you'd let us transport you. That's a bad dislocation." He'd iced and wrapped it but didn't have the skills—or the pain meds—to reset the joint. Agent Webb—Ava—had refused to go to the hospital until she was sure no one was in that house.
One of her agents approached. "For you." He held out the phone to Jim.
"Hello?"
"Hey, my man. Hear you're having a blast up there."
Ely always had a way with words. "Not funny."
"You guys okay?"
"Head hurts. Ava has a few cuts and a dislocated shoulder."
"Ava? Must be getting cozy."
"Shut up. What do you have?"
"Well, I think I know where she might be going."
Jim straightened. Ava turned her attention away from her agent and was obviously eavesdropping. He held the phone out some so she could hear.
"There's one little cross-reference from a car sale. Elizabeth Stanton sold a 2009 Toyota and traded it in on a cargo van. One like the caterers and shit use. The dealer remembered the picture I sent him because the woman said she was buying the van for her aunt. She insisted the title be put in the name Eloise Fowler."
He looked at Ava. "That name ring any bells for you?"
"None."
Ely broke back in. "It shouldn't. Eloise Fowler was a single woman, no kids, who died in a car accident four years ago. But I found where she got a ticket driving from California to Nevada last week."
Ava stood, holding her arm, and looked at her guy. "You find any of this?"
He shook his head.
"You have an address, Ely?" she shouted a little too loud at the phone.
"Why yes, I do, Miss Lady Fed. And for you, I have one other little treat."
"You do?"
"I found an online veterinary medical distribution. I called and said I was working for Dr. Eloise Fowler and needed some ketamine. That I didn't have my account log in. They wouldn't let me order, of course, but I managed to find out they sent a large shipment just last month to …"
This had to be where she went. It was her drop location. It may not have been her first choice, but Sophie had been numerous places. "Where is she?"
"Knoblesville, Indiana."
"Text the address to this phone." Ava was still loud talking. Evidently, her hearing wasn't all the way back.
"Yes, ma'am. Right away, ma'am!" The phone dinged. The text was there.
"Nice work," she said. "If you ever need a job, give me a ring."
"Already did my civic duty, ma'am. I like my … recreational activities way too much for government work."
Jim laughed. "You have Annie?"
"I do, indeed. She's sleeping on the eagle as we speak."
"Eagle?" Ava asked.
Jim eased off the tailgate. "Ely has some rather impressive hanging sculptures in his place. Annie likes them."
Into the phone she said, "Later, Ely. Let me know if you find anything else."
Jim paced away. "Sophie changed her plans. Why?"
"We got too close. This was her plan. To make a perfect home for Dan. She got spooked, took the waitress, and changed her destination. She's unprepared. Probably angry. My bet is Dan's not going along with her scheme. She's going to get off-balanced in a hurry."
"As if she's not now." Jim paced back.
"She's been calm and collected for years. Her killings had been planned or at least convenient. Now she's running. I bet she never considered what to do if we caught onto her. Psychopaths assume they are correct, even justified in everything they do. They have no respect for the police. Or you. Probably picked you because she thought you weren't capable of figuring her out—no offense. Now that we've tracked her, she's got to be in a panic. Or worse."
"That makes her even more dangerous." Jim thought of Cynthia Hodge, disfigured and dumped. The dead agent on the back porch of the safe house without a face. A limp Lynette Hodge in Stephen's arms. He didn't want to think of Sandy and Dan stuck with Sophie Evers as she fell apart.
And again, all because he'd found Dan for her. Fuck, he wished he hadn't taken this job.
Jim looked at the young agent standing beside Ava. "Can you get us a ride to Indiana?"
He didn't answer. Just looked over at Ava.
"Do it." |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 60 | Jim eased back in his seat. They should be getting close to the small town where they believed Sophie was holed up. Locals had done a drive by and someone was in the house. That's all they were asked to do.
The fruity smell of the Tahoe made his stomach turn. He was in the back seat. Maybe this had been a K-9 unit at some point. He couldn't narrow down the offending scent. Using stinky shit to cover the smell of stinky shit confused him. The vehicle was thick with the strawberry perfume. And not the fresh-picked strawberries like mom puts on shortcake kind of smell. No. It was the medicine-ish, kid's cough syrup kind of strawberry.
Ava's face was pale. A military medic on the plane had popped her arm back into the proper position. It had to hurt like a motherfucker. She now had a brace, a better sling, and a little pain medication. She'd refused anything stronger.
"You shouldn't be here."
"I'm the agent in charge, or have you forgotten?"
"Wow. Um, no, I have not. I was just worried—"
"Don't worry."
He looked out the window. A light rain. Clouds. That was good. Made it darker. Easier to sneak up. Of course, a SWAT team would be doing that.
It churned his gut being so out of control. What if they fucked it up and Sandy was hurt? But no one was concerned about his worries. They were all following some book on tactical and hostage situations. Jim wanted to follow his gut, go in there and strangle that bitch with his bare hands.
They pulled up into the parking lot of a long-ago closed gas station. How a gas station went out of business with the price per gallon so high, he'd never know. There were several police units, five FBI cars, and a tactical van there.
Ava climbed out gingerly and addressed the officer in charge of the Knoblesville police.
Jim hung back. She'd told him pretty clearly that she was in charge from here on out. He leaned against a police car and watched. Still within earshot, of course. The house was a doublewide, north of town. At least fifteen yards from any other structure.
"Well, brother. Looks like Lady Fed doesn't need the likes of us any longer." Double O strolled up and leaned on the car right next to Jim.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
He shrugged, put a toothpick in his mouth like a lollipop. "Was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by."
"The neighborhood?"
He shrugged, lit a cig, and handed it to Jim. He needed it. The nicotine wouldn't ease his problems, but it sure made them easier to swallow.
"Ely called. I was at the airport, changed flights." It was good to have one person he could depend on. "The SWAT team decided to wait until full dark to go in."
"Great idea. As long as you aren't being held hostage by a maniac," Jim muttered.
"Look at that. Fifteen cops, at least that many agents." O spit out the toothpick. "The crazy bitch will see all that coming a mile away. She was smart enough to booby trap the house in Cali, she'll have done the same thing here." O situated his jeans by pulling up then down on the waistband. "You know, a couple smart guys could probably get in there quieter and easier than that big SWAT team."
"You think?"
"I do.
"Rental's back there." O motioned behind the mess of official vehicles. "Got GPS and the address."
Ava would kill Jim if they moved in first and messed up her perfectly planned rescue. Only, her plan left one thing to be desired: the element of surprise. Sophie Ryan Evers had time to prepare for it.
"Let's go." |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 61 | "Oh my, but you do looked pissed."
The waitress had been awake a while. She'd screamed her fool head off for about an hour. Now she was quiet, her red-rimmed eyes hard. Her cheeks flushed with fear that Sophie guessed was quickly turning to anger. She didn't want the child to be resistant; she wanted her crying and pleading.
The girl didn't answer.
"I'll be killing you soon enough, no need to be getting yourself all worked up. I just need to make sure your friend doesn't show up and try to ruin all my plans."
She looked confused, but still didn't speak. Sophie hadn't asked her a question, had she?
"You hungry?"
She paled. So much ketamine would have been rough on her. Puke bucket Sophie had left nearby was half full as it was. She shook her head but still didn't speak.
"You have a bad-ass hangover, girl. You should sleep that off."
"How long?" Her voice was very scratchy, hoarse.
"Ah. No wonder you weren't speaking." Sophie had added it up on the way here. She'd kept the poor girl out for almost two days. She was surprised the girl survived even though Sophie had tried to keep the doses weak enough to keep her alive but strong enough to render her incoherent. "A long time. Too long. Your head will hurt and your stomach for a while. But I figure you'll be dead before you feel better, so you sure you don't want some food?"
Her bound hands shook in her lap as she sat on an old cot, her back against raw boards.
Dan was up at the trailer. Sophie had brought the girl out to the shed so Dan wouldn't hear her. Didn't want him distracted. He was stirring as well and she wanted to be there when he was in that twilight stage so she could give him just the right amount of the shit to make him accommodating.
You should have him kill the girl. Make an official bonding between you two. A marriage of sorts.
"Shut up."
The waitress looked confused again, but if she refused food, what the fuck? Less work for Sophie.
Seriously, if he kills her when he's under the influence, then he'll be better off staying with you because you can keep him away from the law. It's what you do.
It could work. He could use her blade.
Dan was moving a little bit when she got back inside. Trying out his legs, his fingers, but his eyes were still closed. That last dose had been a big one. It was all she'd had in the van. But she'd stored a good bit of the ketamine in the dreary kitchen of this shitty trailer. She'd used it as a warehouse of sorts, only coming here to restock. The neighbors thought Eloise dead, her relatives fighting over the land.
Pffft. The land wasn't worth a shit. It stunk. The thirty-year-old trailer was moldy. She'd passed herself off as a realtor and asked them to call her if they saw anyone hanging around. Now she was the one hanging around.
"What are you doing, Soph?" Dan's eyes didn't open.
Her heart stopped for an instant. He was still calling her Soph. Maybe … She was afraid to think of maybe. "Getting you some water."
His eyes opened. "Where are we?"
"Indiana."
He sat up, pausing to realize his leg was shackled to the bed and his hands were still bound. She helped him up then handed him the water.
He wiggled his foot. "Why am I tied up?"
She shrugged. This wasn't going too easy. She'd expected yelling. But his head probably hurt too much.
"You need to be this way to start. You'll see soon. You'll want to be here and … Then I can untie you."
"I need to piss."
Cowboys. She pushed an empty paint can closer to him.
"Really?"
"It's the best I have. This is not where I wanted us to start up, Danny. I had the perfect spot in the mountains, a little lake. It was magical."
"What happened to it?"
Rage filled her again. She needed to move. She got up and walked to the door and leaned on it. "That private eye. He found us. Well, it. He got there first. It's gone." Her belly knotted at the thought. "I hope he burned up with it."
Dan just nodded. He didn't look upset. He wasn't happy either. He was just there.
"Are you feeling okay?"
"I feel like I drank all the beer in Austin last night."
She couldn't help a hint of a giggle. The last time she giggled was when she was a kid. "I, um … I want us to be …"
"Happy?"
He looked her in the eye when he said it. She felt his sincerity, but she knew better than to trust it. Too many men had used that ploy on her before.
But for the moment she'd enjoy the possibility that he could love her without going through her treatment plan. The fear that the plan would fail and she would have to slash his throat had faded some. But she would do it if need be.
She remembered playing cowboys and Indians when they were kids. She was the Indian, of course. He tracked her down. He held that cap gun to her stomach. Looked her in the eye as he pulled the trigger. Over and over.
You shot me, she'd said. Easy to remember the hurt and surprise.
You've committed nineteen crimes against god and humanity, he'd replied with a smile. It's what I do.
And that was it, wasn't it? It was what she did too.
Looking at his stern face, she thought she might kill him anyway. He'd hurt her so many times. And all she'd ever done was love him. That was not how she expected to feel. She thought once he was here, he would fight and she would convince him … of what? That he loved her?
The cops and that fucking PI were closing in. Her throat was tight.
"Drink. You have to be thirsty."
He looked down at the glass in his bound hands. "More drugs?"
She gave him a small smile. "No," she lied.
If he killed that girl, that would make Sophie happy. She wanted to see him do it with the same smug look of the cowboy who shot little girls with crushes in the stomach.
"Are you happy to see me?"
He took a sip. Good. "I'm worried 'bout you, Soph. You've caused a truckload of trouble."
"It's what I do."
He nodded. Did he remember the words he'd uttered to her all those years ago? Did he remember that he'd laid his body on top of her and kissed her hard right after that? She'd felt his desire for her. Did he remember that? Did he remember acting like it never happened the next day?
"Talk to me." He took another sip.
"About what?"
"Why are we here? What do you really want me to do?"
His hair was a mess, his clothes rumpled and twisted on his body. She'd waited so long for this moment and now she wasn't sure what she wanted out of it. She'd pined for him. Wished for his attention. She knew he would complete something that was missing, some huge piece inside her. But now all she felt was …
"I want … wanted … But you're not."
"Not what?"
Not what I remember. Not what I really want. Not worth a shit for fucking around all these years.
She needed to think.
"Drink your water."
There was a soft bong like a doorbell several rooms away. She jumped. He tried to move.
"Stay put." |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 62 | "You stole a baton from a cop?" O shook his head.
They made their way past the property at 11103 Southwest Highway. Its driveway led into the dark. No way going in the front door was going to work.
They had gone to the next farm road and cut through the woods on foot. O held his gun at the ready. Jim had managed to find a police baton lying on the hood of a car before they left the checkpoint. "He left it laying around. You know how bad crime is these days."
"Right."
The SWAT team need not have waited. The forest was so dark Jim had a hard time negotiating the stumps and roots. Again, there was no way to be quiet about it when the damned blackberry bushes were reaching out and grabbing his clothing. Did not help going in stealth mode one bit.
They headed toward a couple of lights twinkling through the trees. They eased closer, doing their best to be quiet. Again Jim wondered how the hell he made so much more noise than everybody else. O had at least forty pounds on him and he was ghostlike as he moved around the trunks and over the dried leaves.
They stopped and hunched down behind a couple of downed trees. The trailer wasn't the only building on the property. Closer to them was a shed large enough for a car. A small outdoor light burned on the corner, revealing an ancient tractor rusting behind the shed. The seat and steering wheel were gone. The tires were flat and cracked by time.
For the second time in as many days, Jim was hit by the shockwave from an explosion. This one was smaller, farther away. In the front of the trailer. He and O both ducked for cover.
Jim peeked over the logs. Fire and smoke rose over the trailer.
"Cops came in the front. So much for waiting till dark."
Jim saw movement off to the side. Three men in assault gear were creeping through the woods, moving in unison around the back of the trailer. Jim suspected the formation was mirrored on the other side. They hustled into the yard.
Mistake.
Within seconds one stepped on a mine. The explosion was loud. Jim's not-quite-back-to-normal ears complained.
Guys came in and retrieved the screaming men and dragged them to the relative safety of the woods. They would fall back. Call for more help.
"They'll reconvene," O whispered.
"Probably send in a negotiator."
Ten minutes passed. Nothing moved. Not a curtain. Nobody crossed in front of the back windows. "You think it's another dead end?"
Jim thought about it. Remembered her smug look the morning after she'd … He closed his eyes. The sooner this ended, the sooner he could forget Sophie Evers and move on with his life. Dan wouldn't be so lucky. If he was still alive, he'd lost his mother and his sister to the crazy bitch.
"She's arrogant. She may have had one backup plan, but I doubt she has two." |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 63 | She chewed her fingernail. Dan was looking at her, his eyes sparkling as if he were amused. She considered slapping him for his smugness.
"You know how this ends, don't you, Soph?"
If she didn't know better, she'd say his expression had changed to pity. She didn't want his fucking pity. She was in control of this situation. Regardless of the number of police in her backyard. She peeked through the curtain.
"Why don't you turn off the lights if you don't want them to see you?" His eyebrows rose. "You know they'll cut the power soon anyway. Just like they do in the movies."
She spun back and slapped him. "This is not the movies, you bastard. I am in control."
No, you ain't.
She ignored the voice and rushed to cup his face. "I'm sorry. I have to think." She had nowhere to go. No way to get away from his disappointed gaze.
The party's over, stupid. Might as well slice these two. You have a better chance of getting out through the woods alone.
She didn't want to be alone. All the planning. All the struggle.
The whoring. Fucking old, ugly men. Those nasty pimps. You whored yourself all the way up to a cush job and still no one wants you. Your boy sure don't.
NO! Dan did want her. He was here. He wasn't fighting her.
He thinks you're trash.
He didn't. And she would prove it. He was on the bed. Sitting there with that water glass still in his hand. It was half gone, so he'd drunk most of it. He was a little fucked up, not all the way.
"Danny."
He looked at her.
She inched forward. Schoolgirl butterflies performed a complicated dance in her belly. Gently she cupped his face again. His expression was blank. She was sure that would change. She leaned forward, waiting to see if he did the same. He did not.
She eased down to her knees. She'd loved this man since she was nine. And this was the last chance they had.
Leaving her eyes open, she tilted her head and made up the distance to his lips. They were warm, soft. And she was sure he was kissing her back.
She pulled back an inch.
He was looking at her, face still blank. She was filled with joy and he was blank?
"That's the last time you do that." Cuffed hands and the water glass flew at her face. He faltered backward, flailing. Trying to get his hands around her neck. Comical almost.
She shoved him. "Asshole."
"Whacko." He kicked out at her.
Well, that settles that, doesn't it?
"It does." Her heart broke. There would be no time for the treatment. To convince him. She retrieved her gun from the counter. She unlatched his foot. "Move."
"Where to? The FBI is out there."
"So is someone I want you to meet."
She assumed he didn't remember seeing the waitress or he would have asked about her first thing, with his cowboy ways.
"You doing the suicide by cop thing?"
She laughed. "Hardly. I have insurance. And you'll probably like her. She's cute and young. She's our ticket out of this hellhole. If you're good, I'll let you watch me kill her. If you're not, I'll make her kill you." |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 64 | "Lights went out," O said.
"Time to move." Coming from inside, her night vision would be lacking. They'd have a few seconds before it adjusted. "Stay on the gravel path. Less likely to get blown up. She had to leave herself a path out of here." Jim hoped.
He went first, running low. Staying in line with the shack so she couldn't see him. Moving as quiet as his clumsy feet would take him. He made it to the tractor and realized the farm equipment was hiding a small car between it and the building. Some kind of all-wheel drive, all-terrain thing.
O pointed two fingers to the right. Jim went left. He made it around the corner just as Sophie and Dan closed the shack door behind them. Sandy screamed. It was worn, tired sounding.
He approached the door, O pointed the gun and just before Jim's hand landed on the handle, the door flung open.
Jim stumbled back. Sandy stood there, crying. Sophie was behind her with a long, shining blade at her throat.
"Hello, lover," she cooed at him. His skin crawled. "Come back for more?"
"You can put the knife down now."
"And then we'll talk about this? Hardly." She cut Sandy's neck, enough to make her screech and blood dribble from the wound. "You and your buddy will get up and walk away. You'll tell all your cop friends out there to let us drive away. Otherwise she dies." Sophie quickly glanced back. "Danny. Come here."
Dan stumbled through the opening and onto his knees. He was under the influence of the ketamine and she'd crudely taped something around his waist.
"I'll blow him up and cut her. By now you know I'm more than willing."
Dan tried to stand. He made eye contact with Jim. Winked.
He then stumbled forward, knocking Jim backward. Jim landed on something hard. Metal. The downed SWAT team member had dropped his weapon in the explosion. Jim easily scooted it behind his back and then helped Dan to sit back beside him.
Two hostages, cops, explosions: the scenario was too much for Sophie. He could see it in her fidgety eyes. She was losing control, her mental state degrading just as Ava said it would. |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 65 | Sophie tried to breath normally, to calm and assess. Dan was too far away for her to manage without dropping the knife. She had the detonator for the explosive, and the charge was large enough to take herself out with it. Maybe that was the way to go. Take them all out.
Blaze of glory, really? Stupid girl.
Rain started to fall. Hard. Cold. Running down her face, into her eyes. She didn't know where to focus. Her gaze darted from the PI to the big guy, to the girl, and landed on Dan.
"What other choice do I have?" Her voice sounded weak in her head.
O inched closer. "You can let the girl go and give me that thing."
She laughed. "Yeah. That would be smart."
Just do it.
Numb fingers curled around the detonator as if they were part of someone else's body. Under someone else's control. |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 66 | Dan staggered, struggling to make his way to his feet with his hands tied. He was still looking at Jim.
Jim mouthed, Now.
Dan flung himself backward, into the girls. Sandy screamed, probably assuming her death was imminent. Sophie scrambled up, still holding the detonator, and glared down at Dan. If she pushed that button, they were all goners. She hesitated, her face softened.
Jim grabbed the gun he'd been lying on. Prayed to the heavens there wasn't a safety on it—he had no idea where it would be—swung it, and aimed for her middle. He squeezed the trigger. Several rounds blasted from the barrel.
The force of the bullets pushed Sophie back a couple more steps. Her eyes went wide. Her arms slack.
She looked down at her stomach; it was blooming blood from her right side.
She dropped the detonator.
O grabbed it.
Agents and police rushed up, careful to remain on the path. They were shouting.
Sandy scrambled to Jim, crashed to her knees, and buried her head in his chest. |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 67 | Stupid girl. You should have killed them all.
"I couldn't kill Dan." |
19 Souls | J. D. Allen | [
"mystery"
] | [
""
] | Chapter 68 | Lynette Hodge died tragically Wednesday the 18th of August.
Born in 1928 in Austin, Texas, Lynette received a M.Ed. in Nursing Education from Texas Christian University in 1955. Hers was an entire life spent putting others first, even perishing to protect her son. Lynette was a beautiful individual, a jokester, Fitzgerald hater, and a dear friend.
She is survived by her son, Daniel Hodge, who brought her great joy and cake in her later years.
Dan read the text, nodded, and handed back the words Jim had scribbled on a legal pad. Had taken two hours to get the wording just right. It mattered.
"Seventy-five words. Perfect." Dan smiled, though his eyes were dull and lifeless. "She would love it. I've got to get going. Have a date with a mortician. Thanks. For this"—he held up the obit—"and for everything."
Jim stood as Dan did.
"My guess is I still owe you money even after that retainer."
Jim waved him off, not sure what to say. "You going back to Utah?"
"Yeah. I fit there and I don't have to hide anymore. So, who knows?" He saluted with the folded paper. "Anyway. Thanks again."
Special Agent Ava Webb entered the Coffee Girl about fifteen minutes later. She was in jeans and a dark blue T-shirt. Nothing fancy. Long legs were all the accessories she needed. Jim shook his head at himself. Always wanted the things he couldn't have.
"They'll be filing tomorrow. She's going up for nineteen murders." She eased into the booth.
"That's what Dan told me. But he put it a little more dramatically. He said 'nineteen crimes against god and humanity.' I think it meant something to him. Does it to you?"
"Nope. I like it, though. Sounds more applicable than Murder One."
They both sat for a moment, not speaking.
Nineteen souls gone, just so Sophie could try to play house with a boy from her youth. He wanted to ask about the rape charges and Max, but he kept his mouth closed.
Turns out his shooting did suck. He hadn't killed her. Once Sophie recovered, she would be on death row. What difference would an additional rape charge bring? He would deal with his mixed emotions on that subject at a later date. It might involve a great deal of scotch.
"Sandy doing okay?"
"They're going to keep her one more day, just to make sure there's no lingering aftereffects of the ketamine. It could have killed her."
"Should have."
Another waitress showed up. Her name tag read Lou but Jim was sure her name was Louise. She was new. "Would you like to see a menu?"
"No thanks. I'm not staying." Ava smiled at the girl and then looked back to Jim. "Flight's in two hours."
That was a problem too. Ava lived in Dallas.
"She's coming back to work soon, so you get your morning routine back?" Ava gave him a wink, as if knowing his routine was a major accomplishment.
"No. She's not. I talked to her last night. Offered her a job."
That brought a surprised look.
"She's almost through with school. The girl needs some real experience. I offered her an office management position with a reputable detective agency."
"Reputable?"
"Yes. Do I detect disbelief, Agent Webb?"
"If you mean like having the reputation of a guy who would move into a hostage situation, disregarding the tactical plans and orders from FBI agents and police officials, then no."
Dang, she was cute out of that suit and the pressure that came with it.
"It turned out I saved your ass out there and you know it. But I bet that's not what's in all the reports."
She gave him a shrug. "Did you manage to find a home for that dog, Mr. Reputable Detective?"
"I did better than that. I found its owners. Turns out Sophie stole her from outside a café. A young lady was very happy to have her princess back."
"Too bad I can't get the dog to testify."
"I think you'll make the case, Agent Webb."
She gave him a little grin. "If you're ever in Dallas, Mr. Bean," she said as she stood, "I would still like to hear your story. I have a friend with a similar one. I understand how tiny ripples can disrupt an entire pond."
She walked away.
Never looked back.
Damn, he liked her. |
20,000 Miles South | Helen Schreider | [
"nonfiction"
] | [
"travel",
"South America",
"1950s"
] | Chapter 1 | It wasn't until we met Captain Parker that we were discouraged. Others had told us it couldn't be done, but before it had been easy to rattle off glib answers to their doubting questions. To the ex-Army officer who had had an amphibious jeep sink from under him in a calm bay we had replied, "But ours has a watertight cab." To the sailors in Panama who warned of the chocosanos we had answered, "But we won't put to sea when it's stormy." But now, after four days of waiting for the weather to clear, marooned on a tiny island in the Caribbean, with the wind bending the palms horizontal and the sea piled in high mountains and the sand glaring white as salt under a black sky, those answers didn't seem like answers at all.
When a fishing boat took shelter in our cove, we swam out to her, eager for a few cheerful words of English. But what we heard was far from cheering. As I reached for the ladder, a large man leaned over the rail, yachting cap on his head and rat-sized fox terrier perched on his shoulder. In one breath he said:
"I'm Captain Parker of the Sea Horse, and I've got ten to one bet ya won't make it. If the storms don't finish ya, the reefs will."
I looked back at tiny La Tortuga parked on the sand spit. Our fifteen-foot amphibious jeep looked mighty small, and I wondered if he was right.
Later Helen and I sat under the whipping tarp by the jeep and thought about what he had said. This was not the way we had planned it. This month, May, was supposed to be the calmest time of the year in the Caribbean, just after the beginning of the rainy season and just before the chocosanos were due. The sailors had painted a vivid picture of those short but violent storms of near hurricane force that plague the coast of Panama after the middle of June. The storm around us was bad enough—what would the chocosanos be like?
We had allowed one month to bypass the third gap in the Pan American Highway, two hundred and fifty nautical miles from the Panama Canal Zone to Turbo, Colombia, where we could again reach a road. A month had seemed ample time to island-hop two hundred and fifty miles, even in an amphibious jeep. Yet it was already the twenty-fourth of May. A week had passed since we left the Canal Zone, and we had covered but twenty-five of those two hundred and fifty miles. While the rain cascaded in sheets, we again studied the charts, even though we knew almost by heart every cove and reef, every landmark and island in this section of the Caribbean. Repeatedly we stared at the frothing turbulence of Hellsgate at the far end of the island. We had already been turned back once by that channel.
On this pin point in the ocean off the coast of Panama the ten thousand miles that lay behind us and the ten thousand miles that lay beyond Turbo didn't seem to matter. Only the next 225 miles, the next few weeks, seemed important. We knew now that if we didn't make Turbo before the chocosanos came we never would.
No—this was not the way we had planned it. In California's Balboa Bay we had cruised confidently in La Tortuga, secure in the belief that we would never put to sea in anything but calm water. Despite her bright gray paint, La Tortuga was an ugly duckling among the sleek yachts. Neither car nor boat, but a little of each, she looked more like a Victorian bathtub with wheels. But, ungainly though she was, we were as proud of our amphibious jeep as the owner of the most deluxe cabin cruiser—or Cadillac. Her bunks were comfortable, her one-burner stove an adequate galley, and when the day's cruising was over we could pull up on the beach to the highway and drive home to the Palomar Mountains of San Diego County, California.
People laughed at La Tortuga. When California "dew" was falling and the streets of Los Angeles were flooded, motorists teased, "I know it's raining, but isn't that a bit ridiculous?" Others hailed her as a scout car from a flying saucer. And one night, a week before Christmas, when we pulled into a Pasadena service station, three attendants just stood and stared. One finally recovered sufficiently to stammer, "Is that for the Tournament of Roses?" Though I couldn't imagine La Tortuga bedecked with flowers, I guess it was a logical question. All Pasadena was busily preparing for the parade of roses that precedes the great football classic each New Year's Day. But when the champions of the Pacific Coast Conference and the Big Ten met in the Rose Bowl on January i, 1955, La Tortuga was on her way to Nogales, Arizona, and points south.
Four years earlier we had driven that same road in a different jeep. The plans we had made then had not worked out either—the plans that began in 1947, when Helen and I were both students at the University of California at Los Angeles. Married while still lower classmen, we couldn't crowd a honeymoon into the budget of the GI Bill or the busy curricula of painting and engineering, so we talked of a trip after graduation. Since dreams were cheap we could afford the best, and I thought a short jaunt by jeep to South America would make a fine belated honeymoon.
I don't think Helen took the dream seriously until one night when we received a telephone call at the home where we were renting a room with kitchen privileges. Perplexed, she came over to my desk and asked, "Do you know anything about a dirty jeep and a clean Oldsmobile?"
"Oh, that must be the owner of the little jeep I saw parked on campus today. But I didn't say anything about his jeep being dirty. I just left a note, in good used-car parlance, asking if he would like to trade his jeep for a really clean '36 Olds coupe."
"Well it isn't a he, and she said that just because her jeep had a few leaves in it was no reason to intimate it was dirty. She wants to see what a really clean car looks like."
The secondhand Oldsmobile coupe that carried us to classes was swapped for an equally secondhand jeep, and planning our trip to South America swung into high gear. We wrote to the Pan American Union and to the Bureau of Public Roads, and read everything we could find on the Pan American Highway. We learned that it was still a fable-impassable in many places, they said. There were still three gaps that necessitated transshipping vehicles by rail or sea at any time of year: southern Mexico, southern Costa Rica, and eastern Panama, and two other places that were passable only in the dry season, northern Costa Rica and southern Ecuador.
Undaunted, we expanded our planning to include pioneer equipment and enrolled in a course in Spanish.
About that time we added a third member to our proposed expedition, a huge German shepherd named Dinah who barked fiercely, frightened everyone she met, and allowed children to pull her tail. Not having the heart to leave her alone all day, I brought her to classes with me. She soon acquired the reputation of being the most informed BDOC.
Little by little our plans took shape. We frequented war surplus stores and watched for sales of camping equipment. In the pocket-sized notebooks which we always carried we jotted items as they came to mind, and on weekends practiced driving the jeep over rough terrain. At first the fire trails in the hills near Los Angeles were favorite proving grounds, but soon we needed more varied training. UCLA provided an ideal solution. The campus was having growing pains; everywhere new buildings were under construction. At night, just before dusk, while the campus cops were patrolling elsewhere, we drove the jeep to the construction area. The dense grove of eucalyptus trees around the Greek Theatre became our jungle, and when it rained the broken muddy ground where the law building would someday stand became our swamp. The excavation for the medical school made a fine canyon, and we practiced driving up and down and diagonally along the steep sides. As a practical problem in engineering, I computed just how far we could tip the jeep before it would turn over, but I never could get Helen to drive it at an extreme angle. No doubt she doubted the accuracy of my calculations.
In February of 1951, seven working months after graduation, we started on our belated honeymoon. Four months later we were back, disillusioned and broke. In that four months we had traveled six thousand miles across six countries. For eight sweating days we had struggled with machete through two hundred miles of jungle in southern Mexico to get through the first gap in the Pan American Highway. We had shivered in Guatemalan highlands and "ohed" at the white coffee blossoms of El Salvador. We had bounced across Honduras and Nicaragua, and skidded down muddy ravines in northern Costa Rica. In the south of Costa Rica the road dramatically ended at a wall of mountains where even a mule would have had difficulty. We saw that the only way to reach Panama was by sea.
Having bridged that first gap in southern Mexico, we could not resign ourselves to shipping over the rest of them. Those eight days had done something to us, and driving to South America under our own power had become a very real challenge. We couldn't say why we wanted to do it, but for the first time we understood why men climb mountains.
We sold the jeep in San José, Costa Rica, for passage home, packed our maps and equipment in cardboard boxes, and built a crate for Dinah. Helen's mother must have sensed the change in us. As we stepped off the plane she said, "You're going back, aren't you."
The first few months after our return were a frenzy of job hunting, apartment hunting, and jeep hunting. What we had seen of the mountains of Costa Rica and what we had read of the Darien jungle of Panama had convinced us that going overland through those areas would be impossible. But with an amphibious vehicle we thought it might be feasible to drive along beaches, skirting rock outcroppings by sea. It would, however, have to be a small amphibian to negotiate the jungle trails we had cut in southern Mexico.
In the Pacific during World War II, I had heard of amphibious jeeps, but I had never seen one. They were somewhat beyond the scope of my duties aboard a submarine. After the war, when surplus vehicles were sold, a Los Angeles company bought dozens of the diminutive sea jeeps and adapted them to serve as ice cream wagons. Some of them were still in use when we returned from Costa Rica. Every time I heard the tinkle of bells in the street I ran after the sound, but each one would have sunk in a puddle. I canvassed war surplus lots, but the only ones I heard about had served as ballast in the holds of ships coming back from overseas. They were crushed almost beyond recognition. Finally, after four months of searching, I located a rusted hulk in a junk yard. It had known three owners since the Army declared it unserviceable, and looked as if it had been through the Battle of the Bilge. Full of stagnant water, half dismantled, it wouldn't run. When I asked about it, the proprietor said it was going to be cut up for scrap, and then added, "If you want it, you'd better hurry."
"How much?" I asked.
"Two hundred and twenty-five dollars," he replied casually.
After some rapid mental calculations concerning the price of scrap iron and the weight of the jeep, I concluded that my eagerness must have shown. Rather expensive scrap. I tried hard to be casual too. The price was still $225. But it was the only one I had seen that had any possibilities at all. "I'll take it if you'll throw in some wheels so I can get it home."
Triumphantly I towed the relic to where Helen's family lived near the Palomar Mountains. Its reception was somewhat less than I had hoped for. Aghast, Helen stared at the rusty water trickling from the hull. It had sprung a dozen leaks in just the smooth ride home.
"We can't put to sea in that," she said flatly.
"I admit she doesn't look like much now, honey, but just wait a little while till we get her all fixed up—holes patched, motor overhauled, nice little cab." Then I added soothingly, "And we'll paint it any color you like." I had no idea it would be almost three years before it was in that condition.
The disassembly of the jeep was easy. With a little encouragement it practically fell apart by itself. Leaving the hull with the family, we brought everything portable to the garage of our Los Angeles apartment. One night as I rushed through dinner to get out to the garage, Helen said, "I never see you anymore. Why don't you bring that thing inside and work on it?"
That seemed like a good idea. I built a workbench in the kitchen and moved in two sawhorses, from which I suspended the differentials like chicken on a spit. I stood back and surveyed my labor with satisfaction. It made a fine workshop, though it left little room for cooking. I wondered what Helen would do when guests came for dinner, but I needn't have been concerned. After friends had run an obstacle course around Dinah at the door, Helen's easel in the living room, and part of what would be La Tortuga in the kitchen, we dined by candlelight, with my workbench shrouded under a white sheet.
In the months that followed I became well acquainted with all the automotive stores, war surplus vehicle yards, secondhand stores, and junk yards from Santa Barbara to San Diego. With the motor, transmissions, and differentials overhauled, the jeep was progressing nicely, but we couldn't say the same for our bank account. At the rate we were pouring money into parts, even with no labor charges, it was obvious that it would be many years before we would have enough saved to head south. Just about the time I was ready to begin the transformation of the hull an opportunity came for a higher-paying job with the Army Corps of Engineers overseas. Enthusiastically—and without warning—I presented the idea to Helen:
"How would you like to go to Alaska?" Before she could object I hurried on. "There's an opening for an electrical engineer in Anchorage. And they spoke of a job for you as a draftsman. Between the two of us we could double what I'm making now."
Helen looked around at our new apartment, at the drapes she had just finished, and at the still life she was working on. Sighing, she smiled quizzically. "When do we leave?"
Work on the jeep stopped; there was no time to finish it before we were due in Anchorage, so back to the Palomar Mountains to join the still rusted and battered hull went all the shiny, newly painted parts to await our return. Then the packing began, but that was easy since we were advised to bring nothing but our clothing. Our contract read "…two years…quarters and eating facilities will be provided." As we sprinkled moth flakes over the things we weren't taking, Helen laughingly held up our swim suits. "I don't imagine we'll be needing these in 'Seward's Icebox.'"
Our first glimpse of Alaska was just what we had expected; a cold sleet froze as it touched the ground when we climbed from an Air Force plane near Anchorage. Pulling oversized GI parkas up around our ears, we slid to the waiting motor pool car and rode to the transient quarters of Elmendorf Air Force Base. Next morning we were assigned to our permanent quarters, and later that same day we picked up Dinah. While we had squirmed in bucket seats of the transport plane, Dinah had flown first class in a Stratocruiser.
The temporary building that we called home for the next two years was a barracks covered with dull black paper. We shared our "tar-paper palace" with ten other couples—in separate rooms, but with common baths. There were apartments available, but our ten-by-twelve room was only sixteen dollars a month. The "eating facilities" provided were family style in the construction workers' mess hall, and, as Helen wrote home, "It's hardly candlelight and wine, but the food's good and there's plenty of it." She said nothing about the bedlam of kitchen rattle and long-arm scramble as everyone ate desperately to get his dollar's worth. After a month, during which time we almost grew into the oversized parkas that had been issued to us, we decided that it would be no hardship to eat half as much and bank the difference. Dinah, however, was of a different mind, and looked forward eagerly to the ten paper bags of meat scraps that were left outside our door each evening by well-meaning barracks mates.
Shortly after our arrival, huddled in heavy coats, with thick mittens like boxing gloves on our hands and our breath steaming, we made a tour of Alaska's largest city. Fourth Avenue, Anchorage's main street, once called the longest bar in the world, flashed with competing neon signs like a miniature Times Square. Although we had not counted on the streets being lined with igloos, we were not prepared for the fourteen-story apartment buildings, but we ogled even more the television antenna sticking from a log cabin in the same block. In front of the Northern Commercial Company, Alaska's oldest department store, we froze. But not from the cold. In the window, instead of parkas and snowshoes, we saw bathing suits and water skis in a setting of green paper palms and sugar sand.
With a shiver Helen said, "They must be advertising an all-expense tour to Florida."
But later we found that it was not a vacationer's dream nor even a window decorator's error. It was March 1952, and they were showing the latest mode for Alaskan summer.
With the honking of wild geese, branches spread forth their green shoots and the first iris of spring appeared. By the time the eighteen-hour days of summer came and the purple iris were crowded out by the magenta fire flowers, our illusions about Alaska had undergone a complete reversal. We joined the after-work crowd at nearby Lake Spenard for water-skiing—and its resultant involuntary swimming. But it soon became apparent that there was much more of Alaska than we could see trailing behind a motorboat, so, since Dinah refused to pull a sled, we bought a station wagon. Weekends that followed we spent driving along the jagged coast of Cook Inlet or Turnagain Arm, or camping in the spruce forests of the Kenai Peninsula. And each payday we deposited in the bank anything over our minimum living expenses and payments on cameras and the car.
Although moose occasionally invaded Elmendorf Air Force Base or chased cars through the streets of Anchorage, we wanted to see wildlife in its natural habitat. Our first vacation we spent in Mount McKinley National Park, pitching our tent in the shadow of the highest peak on the North American continent. In the valleys whistling marmots signaled our approach, and porcupines ambled clear of caribou that thundered over the hills. Loaded with cameras, we climbed to dizzy crags where white Dali sheep stood like bearded patriarchs. And we stalked the golden-and-black Toklat grizzlies that padded over the spongy tundra. With no guns allowed in the park, we armed ourselves with a coffee can filled with rocks and followed a huge male that was courting an only slightly smaller female. I had the cine-camera leveled on the tripod and was just ready to release the shutter when I heard the rocks rattling furiously in the can. Angrily I turned to Helen at my side. "Stop shaking that thing. You'll scare the bears."
"That's the idea," she quivered. "Look behind you!"
Less than twenty paces away, and standing upright, was a third bear. Our big male had competition for the affections of his girlfriend and we were right in the middle. We concluded our story of the three bears with a rattling good exit.
Winter came, the hoarfrost turned the trees to crystal, and the wind piled the snow in demon shapes. Strapping on snowshoes, we floundered through the white forests to some now deserted trapper's cabin. Dinah adapted herself readily to the deep snow, but I can't honestly say she took it in her stride. More often she took it in ours, and her attempts at hitchhiking on our snowshoes always resulted in our being pitched forward on our faces.
Time passed quickly until one gray overcast Sunday in January of 1954. When any sensible novice would have been at home with a book, I was skiing on the slopes of the Chugach Mountains near Anchorage. A combination of drifts, flat light, and overenthusiasm shattered my aspirations of becoming an Emile Allais overnight. After a month in the hospital I returned to work encased in plaster to my hip. Although I was hardly in the executive class, thereafter I enjoyed one of a boss's privileges—I could put my leg on the desk with impunity. But this was little compensation for the dragging months that followed.
At night I occupied myself with books and records, but Sibelius's Finlandia brought visions of snow-covered hills and Beethoven's Pastoral the green fields of summer. The skis in the corner, the sleeping bags and packboards on the rack near the ceiling, the piece of glacial driftwood, and even Helen's paintings on the wall were sad reminders that our outdoor activities had ceased.
But there was one kind of music that brought me from the past and cheered me with thoughts of the future—the gay guitars of Trio Los Panchos. One evening, about five months after breaking my leg, I was studying a map of the Western Hemisphere. Two places repeatedly caught my eye, Circle and Ushuaia. I wondered why I hadn't thought of it before. Excitedly I interrupted Helen's concentration on her still life. "Why don't we drive north to the little town of Circle and then all the way south to Ushuaia?"
"To where?"
"Ushuaia," I said, pointing to a tiny dot at the tip of South America. "The world's southernmost town."
"But it's on an island," Helen countered.
"That's all right. If we can get through the Pacific to Panama, and the Caribbean to Colombia, we can surely cross the Strait of Magellan."
Helen put down her brush and sat beside me. "It does sound like a wonderful idea, but——"
Before she could finish I continued, "No one has ever driven the full length of the Americas under his own power. What a thrill that would be. Let's give our notice now. Our contract has been up three months, our car and cameras are paid for, and we have almost six thousand dollars saved."
"But, Frank, you're still in a cast."
"But I'll be ready for a brace next month, and I can work on the jeep while my leg is getting strong."
The small town of Circle was as quiet as the broad Yukon that flowed silently beside it. As we watched two Indian children play in the lines of a river boat moored close to the bank, we found it difficult to imagine Circle as it had been at the turn of the century, a roaring tent city bursting with a conglomeration of men from all parts of the world, all after one thing—gold. When the madcap flurry was over, Circle settled back to enjoy the only distinction left to it, that of being on the Arctic Circle. But it was deprived of even that distinction: a later survey showed it to be slightly south of the polar meridian. Now nothing remains but a cluster of Indian huts, a few caches, and a Northern Commercial trading post. With the opening of the Alaska Highway, however, a new distinction was given it—Circle became the farthest north point in the Western Hemisphere that can be reached by connected road.
On June 21, 1954, from Circle, our second attempt to drive to South America began. At Eagle Summit, a few miles south of Circle, the longest day of the year was drawing to a close. The rolling treeless tundra was bathed in a pink mist, crimson streaked the sky, and the orange sun arced down in a long sweeping curve. Near the horizon it moved horizontally. Briefly the giant ball touched the rim of the world and then began to rise. Twilight, night and dawn fused into one; yesterday became today without the separation of darkness. When Alaska's midnight sun rose again, it was the twenty-second of June, our seventh wedding anniversary. Helen was twenty-eight, I was thirty, and Dinah was seven years old.
South from Circle the Steese Highway to Fairbanks followed the route of the early mail run, when dog teams were the only means of communication. Old log roadhouses, where prospectors once rested on their way to the gold fields, now had a sixty-year growth of grassy whiskers on their sagging sod roofs and served hot berry pie to the tourists. Near Fairbanks gold dredges sat like giant toads spreading warts of tailings on the virgin landscape.
From Fairbanks the Alaska Highway led through greener country, the yellow red of tundra gave way to stands of shimmering birch, and in marshy ponds moose splashed among yellow water lilies. When we crossed the Alaska-Canada border, nearly twenty-eight months had passed since we had stepped from the transport plane and pulled the GI parkas up around our ears. In that time we had come to love the wildness of Alaska and to feel its strength, and had developed an almost chauvinistic attitude that rivaled any Texan's love for Texas.
At Whitehorse we saw the great Yukon River again for the last time. Below the rushing Whitehorse Rapids faded unused stern-wheelers were pulled up on the banks. Once the lifeblood of the Yukon Territory, they now lay eclipsed by the float-equipped planes that landed on the water beside them.
Signposts were common along the road, but at Watson Lake there was a concentration of them, a reminder of the days when the Alaska Highway was new. During World War II thousands of men working together had opened it in a record eight months. Someone, perhaps a bit nostalgically, put up a sign pointing to his hometown, and others had followed suit. The one sign grew to a wild pincushion of boards pointing to all parts of the world. We added ours to the scores of others—a bright red-and-yellow sign that said "Cape Horn 17,000 miles."
While I reveled in the pleasure of bending my knee and timorously flexing my ankle, Helen dodged chuckholes in the wide gravel road and moved well to the side to allow other cars and trucks to pass that were in more of a hurry than we. On the open stretches I spelled Helen at the wheel, but for the most part I sat watching clumps of alder and aspen and scattered tamarack roll past—what I could see of them between passing cars. When Uncle Sam transplanted the Dust Bowl farmers to Alaska he must have brought all the dust with them and used it to surface the Alaska Highway.
Sporadic bursts of rain gave respite from the dust and restored the brilliance to the fire flowers that lined the road. In bustling wheat-belt Dawson Creek the Alaska Highway ended at Milepost Zero, and we turned south-west over the Hart Highway through pine forests to Prince George. Trees were larger, the country more rugged as we wound through the deep scar of the Fraser River Canyon to Vancouver and across the U.S. border.
Along the rocky coast of Washington, Oregon, and California the Pacific pounded the cliffs, its foam scouring every hollow. Though Helen had little to say, I knew what she was thinking. What would it be like out there? Would the jeep really be seaworthy?
The assembly of the jeep was somewhat more difficult than its disassembly—in the three years I had forgotten how it came apart. Beginning with the obvious, we dragged the hull from under the tree, where it had gathered three crops of walnut husks, and diligently flaked off the rust, patched the holes, pounded out the dents, had it sandblasted, and gave it an undercoat of red rustproof paint. Then, with the hundreds of parts and thousands of bolts spread out on the floor of my father-in-law's well-equipped workshop, we proceeded to fit together the puzzle, which was akin to getting a ship inside a bottle or a jeep inside a fifteen-foot boat. As each part was bolted into place, the space inside the hull grew smaller, and I had to amend my optimistic statement that I could work on the jeep while my leg was getting strong. I should have added, if Helen was handy to extricate me from some pretzeled position inside the hull or under the hood.
At the end of six weeks the jeep was as it might have been when it came from the Ford assembly line in 1942. Designed during the rush of war, the amphibious jeep was strictly a compromise—conventional jeep motor, chassis, steering gear, and six-speed gear boxes set in a steel tub. With two differentials and four wheels hanging from springs outside, power was transmitted by drive shafts through holes in the hull that were closed by heavy rubber seals. A propeller and a bilge pump driven from the rear of the transmission, a rudder connected by steel cable to the steering wheel, and a power-operated capstan winch on the bow turned the jeep into a boat. To cool the engine on land or in calm water, air entered through a hatch in the bow deck, passed through the radiator and out through a smaller hatch on either side of the windshield. In rough water all three hatches could be closed from inside the cockpit and, by means of an ingenious system of ducts, air was taken from under the dash, passed through the radiator, and then out through a fourth hatch behind the windshield.
All in all, it was a very clever little vehicle, but it had certain undesirable traits. Originally planned as a command car for squadrons of its big sisters, the amphibious "ducks," the sea jeep soon fell out of favor with some officers who objected to leading their troops from the rear. Not only was it slower than the "duck," but it had the unpopular habit of sinking with no more provocation than a ripple. After only a few thousand had been built they were discontinued.
With a shape that would turn a naval architect green, the sea jeep plowed through the waves rather than over them, and, with practically no freeboard, a few buckets of water over the side was enough to swamp it. But if we enclosed the open cockpit with a watertight cab and counted on the jeep's low center of gravity to keep it right side up, we felt—or I should say I did—that the jeep could take a moderate sea, which was the only kind I had any intention of being out in.
Making the jeep seaworthy and providing for extra fuel and water was only half the problem. Since our budget would allow us to stay in hotels only in the big cities, the jeep would have to serve as our home as well, and this entailed the additional requirements of sleeping and cooking facilities, and protection against heat and insects. Furthermore, we had but three months to complete the transformation. If we could leave no later than January 1, 1955, we could travel without hurry during the dry season and still reach Panama by May, the calmest time of the year in the Caribbean.
With oak and plywood we framed the cab, extending it a foot and a half over the rear. The stern of a boat was not an ideal place for a cantilever structure, but the extra length allowed room for two full-length bunks. To assure that the doors were watertight we wanted to make them as small as possible and still provide easy entry. After clamping wooden slats to the gunwale to form a mock frame, I called Helen, and we practiced getting in and out. We squirmed in feet first and crawled in head first, but the technique used for climbing on a horse worked best. After a half hour of practice we could swing smartly through the mock door, only seldom bumping our heads. But one thing still bothered Helen. The bottom of the door had to be above the water line, and since that was three feet from the ground how could she get in and out in a skirt?
I was concerned with more pressing problems, so I left that one up to her and concentrated on finishing the jeep. Stretching the days and working well into the night, we saw the jeep slowly take shape. For extra fuel and water, on the sides of the cabin above the water line, we mounted racks that held a total of eight five-gallon Jerry cans, two for water and six for gasoline. These, with the sixteen-gallon main tank inside the hull, gave us a forty-six-gallon capacity, enough for an estimated six hundred miles by land or a hundred and fifty miles by sea. While afloat, however, there was no way to transfer fuel from the Jerry cans to the main tank, and we would be limited to forty-five miles of water travel at one stretch. But since we planned to beach-hop, coming ashore each night to camp, we considered this no handicap.
For better traction we mounted oversized 7.60 x 15 tires on specially built wheels, selecting a conventional tread, which was more desirable for operation in sand than the mud-and-snow type. To reduce weight we converted the electrical system from twelve to six volts, eliminating one battery and exchanging the heavy generator for a lighter one. After a few miles of road test we decided that a heater would not be necessary even in the coldest Andean highlands. All we had to do was open the hatch behind the windshield to have all the hot air we wanted. It was more difficult to keep the cab cool, but insulating the fire wall helped some. The road test also showed the jeep to be underpowered, with a top speed of about forty-five miles per hour.
By the middle of December the jeep was complete. Inside the varnished cabin Navy-surplus blue-striped spreads covered the sleeping bags and air mattresses. Clipped over the windows and the emergency exit in the roof were detachable screens to keep out insects. Our main storage space was beneath the bunks, and above them were two cabinets that ran the full length of the cabin. These, along with the wedge-shaped space in the bow, comprised our ship's holds. For mountain curves we installed a blasting horn and for crowded streets a less obtrusive doorbell. For navigation (although we never intended to be out of sight of land) we mounted a small compass. In the sandwiched roof deck there was a two-inch blanket of rock wool insulation topped by a sheet of aluminum and a station wagon rack to complete the confusion. With light gray paint and red wheels, and her name and destination clearly marked on her doors, our seagoing jeep was ready for her salt water test. Christened with a Coke bottle, La Tortuga, the sixty-horsepower, two-and-a-half ton turtle, was born.
Our awkward hybrid caused considerable consternation that day, a week before Christmas, when she rolled down the small-boat ramp into Balboa Bay. One old sea captain pushed his hat back and scratched his head in disbelief. "Well I'll be damned!" he exclaimed. "It really floats!"
After three years of waiting for that moment, that was our reaction too.
While Dinah stood bewildered on the deck that was the cabin roof, we chugged around the harbor observing all the maritime rules of the road. We had little difficulty in keeping within the speed limit; when we clocked La Tortuga over a marked course, her top speed was just under six knots, and in reverse her progress was almost imperceptible. After maneuvering cautiously for a time we recklessly negotiated tight turns and deliberately ran through the wakes of the biggest cabin cruisers. Many skippers undoubtedly thought the side of a boat was a strange place for a spare tire, but one wag recognized La Tortuga for what she was. As he drew his launch alongside he shouted, "Why don't you get a sea horse?"
Though the test was a complete success, we were by no means ready to leave. There was still the matter of packing, and the notebooks we had been keeping were brimming. It would have taken a dozen jeeps to carry all the things we had thought of in seven years. Helen's great-uncle, a world traveler for fifty years, was contemptuous of all the paraphernalia we planned to take along.
"When I went over the Andes on a mule," he said, "I carried nothing but a pocketknife and a change of underwear."
"Yes, I know, Uncle Breck," I replied, "but it will take more than a boot in the rear to get this mule running again if she quits in the middle of the mountains."
Helen's father, an old hand at traveling himself, was more reasonable. He suggested a compromise. "Why not make three piles? In one put all the things that are essential, in the second put those things about which you can't make up your minds, and in the third, the items you would like to have along but can do without."
We tried his suggestion, but everything went into the essential pile. But it was still a good idea, so we tried again.
"We can prepare our meals on the jeep's bow." We discarded the folding table.
"After riding all day we won't want to eat sitting down anyway." We rejected the camp stools.
"What about this lantern?" Helen asked.
"We'll go to bed early." After working eighteen hours a day on the jeep the thought of lots of sleep was very appealing.
With little storage space and a wide range of temperatures to prepare for—requiring everything from a turtle-neck sweater to a Bikini—clothes presented a bit of a problem. Though we planned to be gone a year, we had to settle for no more than we would take for a weekend. For the cities we decided on a suit apiece and whatever else we could squeeze into two small suitcases, and for traveling whatever we could cram into one of the cabinets along with our pocketbook library. We had visions of some peaceful tropical island where we would sit under a waving palm and while away the hours with the Odyssey or the Oxford Book of English Verse, or perhaps we would feel adventurous and sail the stormy seas with Horatio Hornblower, or live vicariously Ahab's quest for Moby Dick. And for lighter moments there were the Thurber Carnival and the poems of Ogden Nash. There were a few practical books too—a Spanish dictionary, a dog-eared copy of the Bible that had been with us since we were married, and an Armed Forces publication with the portentous title Survival on Land and Sea.
It took three days to stow everything in La Tortuga. As each item was jammed into place Helen checked the list:
PORT CABINET— traveling clothes, library, sewing kit, first aid kit, folder of maps and folder of documents (passports, inoculation records, police clearance certificates, Dinah's health certificate, and jeep-ownership certificate).
Starboard cabinet (ship's galley)— one-burner paratrooper stove, coffeepot, dishes, and canned stores.
FORWARD BOW COMPARTMENT— spare parts, tools, machete, ax, shovel, anchor, rubber life raft, winch cable, and hand bilge pump.
Lower holds (under the bunks)— suitcases and three weeks' supply of emergency rations sealed in taped coffee tins including walnuts, dried fruit, powdered eggs, powdered milk, chipped beef, vitamins, and dog meal for Dinah.
When we were finished everything was stowed neatly out of sight except for the camera cases, typewriter, and portable radio on one bunk where they would be protected from road shock. We stored our photographic film in a large campers' icebox with silica gel for humidity control. But there was still one thing we had found no place for. I held up the life preservers. "What can we do with these?"
Helen, still skeptical, didn't hesitate. "We'll use them for pillows until we need them."
Dinah, with no such problems about what to bring, was waiting at the jeep several hours before we were ready to leave. Clamped between her teeth was the one thing she prized most—her green rubber dish. As we climbed into La Tortuga I noticed that Helen had no difficulty: she was wearing denim culottes. |
20,000 Miles South | Helen Schreider | [
"nonfiction"
] | [
"travel",
"South America",
"1950s"
] | Chapter 2 | A PORTLY man in a shabby green uniform and sporting a thick Stalin mustache greeted us as we drove over the border from Nogales, Arizona, into Mexico. Taking our identification and automobile registration, he led us to a tiny cubicle, where we proceeded to answer the questions of an even portlier man with an even bigger mustache. After he had written our names, birthplaces, and professions in the large book that covered the top of his desk he asked:
"Your destination, please?"
Unthinkingly I replied, "Ushuaia." His mustache twitched and I hastily corrected myself. "Mexico City," I said.
"Type of automobile?"
At my answer, "Amphibious jeep," his mustache twitched again and he reached for the telephone. There was nothing in his rule book about amphibious jeeps. I knew that if he called his superior it might be hours before we were cleared through customs. Again I explained. "It's just a regular jeep with a different type of body." That seemed to satisfy him, and then came the moment we had been dreading. He asked us to bring in our bags.
We had had nightmares over the thought of unpacking the jeep at borders. I thought of all the things in the cabinets and of the suitcases at the bottom of the hull under the bunks. I stretched a point. "But everything is in compartments."
"Compartments?" he repeated suspiciously. "Amphibious jeep? Ushuaia? This is all very strange. I must look into this matter myself."
That was the last thing I wanted. I was certain he would go through La Tortuga from bow to stern. I could see tools, spare parts, dishes, clothes, and cameras piled high in his office, but there was nothing to do but follow him to the jeep.
"This looks like a boat!" he exclaimed.
"Well, it is, more or less," I said. I showed him the propeller and the capstan winch on the bow, the bunks and the overhead hatch. He was so intrigued by the idea of a floating jeep that he forgot all about the inspection. He issued us our tourist cards, and with a cheery "Que le vaya bien" wished us a pleasant journey and sent us on our way.
Many of the cars that swished by us that first day in Mexico bore American license plates. Fishing poles protruded from the windows as sport fishermen drove to Guaymas to try their hands at the huge marlin and sailfish. It all seemed so familiar: adobe dwellings, shades of pink and sun-baked yellow spiked with elementary blue, mother and child one in striped shawl, burros barely visible under their loads of fodder, centuries-old churches with neon crosses and cloistered archways edged with violets, modern tractors in front of mud hovels, and buzzards floating over half-devoured carcasses beside the road.
That evening when no one was in view, we eased from the road and wound through the sage to a clearing where the tall organ cactus of the Sonora Desert pointed to a reddened sky. We had barely stopped when Dinah reverted to her old custom of scouting the area. Then, apparently satisfied that the camp was to her liking, she lay on the warm sand near the jeep to await her meal of canned dog food.
Our campsite was completely hidden from the road. Too many times on the previous trip we had awakened to find ourselves surrounded by faces, noses flat against the windows and eyes ringed by fingers.
While Helen stacked the cameras and typewriter in the middle between the bunks and turned back the sleeping bags, I lifted one of the five-gallon water cans from its rack and lit our small stove. In a few minutes coffee was bubbling. We dined sumptuously on fried chicken and fruitcake, cheese, chocolate chip cookies, and shortbread. Despite the banquet there was a mood of sadness. At home there had been no goodbyes, and as we finished the last of the goodies pressed on us by family and friends, it was as if we were severing that last tie.
"This hood makes a fine table," I said, trying to be cheerful.
Helen went along with my attempt at conversation. "And we don't need stools. I'd rather stand anyway."
While Helen and I washed the dishes, Dinah made a last-minute patrol. We heard a surprised yelp, and she came running to us with an apple-sized cluster of cactus spines stuck in her nose. She had forgotten that in the desert it was sometimes painful to be too inquisitive.
Less than an hour from the time we pulled from the road the three of us were climbing into the jeep for the night. Dinah, as usual, was the first one in and was already making herself comfortable on my bunk. "Oh no, Dinah, that's your bed only in the daytime and only when your blanket is on it. At night you sleep there." I pointed to the right-hand seat and Dinah moved reluctantly from the bunk.
"Camping in La Tortuga is almost luxurious," I said as I stretched out on the air mattress.
"It's certainly a great improvement over the first jeep. How I dreaded undressing outside in the Guatemalan cold." As Helen reached for the light overhead, Dinah was still trying hopelessly to make herself fit on the seat. "We don't need pillows. Let's fill the gap between the seats with the life preservers. Then Dinah can stretch out too."
Through the open rear window came the chill desert air and the tranquil noises of the night. I reached for Helen's hand over the pile of things that separated us and Dinah gave a contented sigh.
Almost a week later we checked into a hotel in Mazatlán. The occasion? A bath. In our room overlooking the beach happy sounds came from the shower.
"You're doing much better," I said. "On the last trip you insisted we check into a hotel after only three days."
"But I'm a hardened camper now," Helen laughed.
I recalled her first bath in Mexico four years earlier, when she was wetter from her tears than from the shower. There had been a freak snow and we had been cold for days. As we passed a sign advertising a new motel boasting hot water, Helen pleaded, "Can't we forget the budget just once?" When we stopped she could hardly wait to get under the shower—she was already undressing when I went out for the bags. I came back and found her quietly sobbing under a trickle of water. "It's cold," she cried. But I knew that it was more than the shock of the cold water and the fact that she missed her two baths a day. She was homesick.
There was plenty of hot water in the hotel at Mazatlán, however, and we showered once to get clean and once again just for the fun of it. The next morning we had had enough luxury to last another week and we drove to Camarones Beach, a few miles from town, to pay a call on an old friend, a Jamaican Negro named Manuel.
Manuel ran a small cantina near the beach. His kinky hair was a little grayer but his gold-toothed smile was as bright as ever. Near the cantina were palm frond canopies and he invited us to set up camp.
Along with his business of dispensing beer and soft drinks Manuel made drums. When business was slack he transformed bits of metal and hardwood into bongos or congas, diligently polishing them and tuning them with a sensitive ear. Afternoons, music-loving teen-agers congregated on the shaded patio with their instruments—guitars, trumpets, maracas, and bones. While they played, Manuel beat out the tempo on his drums. Little Armando, Manuel's son, who had been only a baby when we'd seen him last, broke into a mambo Arthur Murray would have envied.
Helen made me a present of a pair of the small bongos and I tried to learn to play them, but my efforts were disappointing. Patient Manuel tried to teach me. After several hours with no results he turned the task over to his son.
Six-year-old Armando began with an enthusiasm which quickly dwindled. Standing between my knees, he guided my hands in the basic beats—the bolero, the ranchero, conga, tango, and mambo, and then stood aside.
"Now you try it alone," he instructed. I did try, but he just shook his head. We went through it again, but as soon as Armando removed his small hands from mine the rhythm left me as completely as if I'd never heard it.
He looked up at me with sad brown eyes and said, "There is no hope, there is no hope."
Every time I heard a mambo or bolero I picked up my drums, but I was as lifeless as an Aztec idol. I kept trying. A few days later a ranchero was moaning from the loudspeaker and the bongos were clamped between my knees. When the music stopped, Manuel grinned approvingly and Armando danced with excitement at my progress.
"There is hope, there is hope," he shouted gleefully.
The paved highway from sub-tropical Mazatlán turned inland from the coast and wound through steep jagged cliffs so formidable that even the conquistadores bypassed them. We drove leisurely, waving to bus and truck drivers who nodded appreciatively at the name La Tortuga printed on the side of the jeep. Their own vehicles were decorated with painted scalloped curtains on the windows, curlicues on the fenders, and proudly named El Toro or Hurricán or, more affectionately, Lupita. The mere fact that we had bothered to name La Tortuga seemed to make us members of that great fraternity of choferes, a highly respected profession in Mexico.
There had been a mild interest in the jeep the one night we had parked in front of the hotel in Mazatlán, but we were not prepared for the reception she received in Guadalajara. On the outskirts of the city a child let his hoop roll unnoticed down the street and shrilled, "A boat." Pushcart vendors halted by the curb and drivers slowed their mad pace to ours and followed us to the same small hotel where we had stopped before. When we went out to the jeep for Dinah and our bags it was surrounded. Fathers were holding their children up to the windows, little boys were jumping on the roof, and two would-be mechanics were opening the hood. It was then we established the precedent that was to hold for the rest of the trip. Like Minos, I hid the monster in the labyrinth of a local parking garage.
In the hotel we asked for the same room. To my delight, the plumbing still worked. On our first visit to Guadalajara I contracted the usual, the turista disease, and for days I dared not leave the room. Afterward Helen never let me forget the eloquent speech that I so sincerely delivered while my condition was critical, "God bless them for the plumbing, God bless them for the plumbing."
Through the wrought-iron grillwork of the balcony window poured a medley of street noises—bicycle bells, horns, the squeal of brakes, and the shouts of lottery-ticket vendors. It was a discordant medley, but it was also part of the music of a new experience, and we were beginning to get in step. The Spanish we had forgotten was coming back, the drone of voices in the restaurants seemed less strange, and we mingled with more ease among the people in the streets or in the markets.
The tempo was easy. There was no hurry, and momentito could mean hours. It is said that the only thing that starts on time in Mexico is the bullfight, but in Guadalajara there was something else. At two o'clock sharp the bells in the old cathedral boomed, the stores closed, and the siesta began. Outside the restaurants the mariachi orchestras assembled, and the customers settled back to enjoy a two-hour repast.
Each day Helen and I tried a different café. In most places women were conspicuous by their absence and men looked up from their tables as we entered. Although we couldn't eat all six courses, the meal of the day was still the least expensive way to order, and we enjoyed lingering over dinner and listening to the music. One afternoon as we returned from lunch in a nearby restaurant we heard some exceptionally fine mariachi music coming from the hotel dining room. Through the open doors we saw an eight-piece band playing for a lone diner, who, from the number of empty glasses before him, was apparently taking his nourishment in liquid form. The musicians, resplendent in silver-brocaded sombreros, spangled jackets, and tight black trousers, stood in a semi-circle around their patrón.
"Let's not miss this," I said to Helen. "You go in and order some coffee and I'll go up to the room and check on Dinah."
As I came down the stairs I thought I was too late—the music had stopped. But as I approached the open door I saw that the entertainment had just begun. The fiddlers, guitarists, and trumpeters stood waiting while the gentleman who had hired them raised his glass in toast to Helen. The first musician was walking over to her table. Amused, I stepped back. This, I thought, is a good opportunity for her to practice her Spanish. I have to admit, however, that if her admirer had been young and dashing instead of fat and fortyish I might not have been so willing to further her linguistic endeavors.
The first musician reached her table and bowed. "My patrón requests that the charming lady make a selection."
Helen looked up from her coffee and smiled. "Please thank him for me, but I have no request." I thought she had handled that very nicely and was just about to enter when I saw that the gentleman was not to be brushed off so easily. There was a whispered conversation and the musician returned to Helen's table.
"El señor insists that the señorita make a selection."
Helen hesitated. Apparently all Spanish song titles had escaped her—all except one, that is.
It was an unhappy choice. The patrón's eyes brightened. He was obviously a firm believer in the very prevalent idea that American women are easily approached, and he took the song title as a direct invitation. Wobbling in Helen's direction, he beckoned to the mariachis to follow and the room filled with the strains of "Amor." Not satisfied with the vocalists, he took over the serenade personally, and with each line leaned a little closer.
Terribly upset at having been so grossly misunderstood, Helen moved farther and farther into the corner. Even in the guise of a Spanish lesson I couldn't justify my entertainment any longer. With a straight face I took the chair beside her and nodded to the startled patrón. "Please continue," I said. "It's our favorite song."
Every morning of our week's stay in Guadalajara we awakened to the whisk of the street cleaner's broom and began our daily wanderings through the city. Sometimes we rode in a horse-drawn carriage while the clippety-clop of the hoofs rang through quiet side streets. We caught glimpses of radiant gardens behind sterile walls or watched children leave for school, blue and white uniforms neat and books like knapsacks on their backs. Or sometimes we walked to the central market, where the commercial heart of the people beat its unchanging rhythm under the steel ribs of a block-square concrete building. With the crowd we pushed between shaded stalls outside, past the saddles and bolts of bright cloth, the sandals made from tires and the tinsmith hammering ladles from old cans. We watched a boy scrape the insulation from wire and a girl weave the wire into a basket. Nothing was wasted except time. On the corner a street magician chanted his patter to an indifferent audience while nearby an old woman shrouded in her shawl slept by the wares no one bought, her gentle snores accompaniment to the unceasing pat-pat of hands making tortillas. Through the iron gates of the market poured an overwhelming dissonance of smells. Meat, covered with flies, hung in strips, thick wheels of yellow cheese overpowered the fragrance of adjoining flower stands, and next to them vegetables formed high pyramids on the floor. Stems of bananas swayed in one corner and one giant variety was new to me. I asked its name and smiled at the answer. Another reminder of Mexico's emphasis on man.
In the church across from the market candles flickered on dark figures in front of a soot-grimed statue of Mary. Helen and I stood quietly and listened to the murmur of voices in prayer—until two tourists entered talking loudly and all eyes turned, expressionless, yet revealing.
Afternoons, when the cathedral bells pealed and the city returned to work, we sat in the parks near the fountains. It was a tranquil period, a time to assimilate the sights and sounds and the emotions of the day before the evening commenced with its new set of associations. Then, when the swift twilight turned to night, we strolled through the streets again, stepping around the outstretched feet of people sitting in doorways, past a man with puppies for sale, or a vendor of sugar-coated peanuts who swore kindly at the children who climbed on his cart. Paper cones of pink cotton candy echoed the neon of a Carta Blanca beer sign and a charcoal fire blazed where popcorn roasted—the dancing flames casting weird shadows on the face of the old crone who tended them. In the lee of buildings serape-enveloped shapeless figures huddled to sleep till morning, and in the dimly lit parks lovers made a single form.
Each night we returned to our room mentally exhausted, our emotions as mixed as the themes of Orozco's murals. The gay music of the mariachi band on the corner drowned the other sounds from the street but some still remained in my mind—the cry of a child, the whisper of a beggar, the scraping of the cripple who crawled on his hands and knees. When the musicians put away their instruments and the voices from the cafés dimmed, only the whistle of the watchman was heard as he signaled to his companion on the next street.
At the end of three weeks in Mexico our turtle was living up to her name—we had covered only eleven hundred miles. But our progress was not measured in miles nor our travels in days—at least not at that time. Instead we geared our itinerary to whimsy, our time schedule to fancy, and when the little town of Guanajuato was described as seldom visited, as well as picturesque, we plotted our course to Mexico City to include it.
Barely half of the less than two hundred miles from Guadalajara to Guanajuato were behind us when we reached another small town, San Juan de los Lagos. Crowds thronged the narrow streets, and at first I thought it was merely the local market day when the people from the surrounding countryside came for their weekly barter and banter session. At the outskirts on the other side of town, however, there was something that indicated it was much more than that. A stockily built youth was being led, blindfolded, down the road, his head crowned with thorns and his bare chest studded with cactus spines. Then a young woman, black dress gray with dust, inched forward on her knees while an older man laid blankets on the ground in front of her. Makeshift camps lined the highway, livestock stood listlessly, and people sat shaded from the sun by blankets or under the bellies of donkeys.
Farther on a solid mass of people blackened a field of at least two hundred acres, and through the pall of dust we saw the high feather headdresses of an Indian ceremonial dance. Parking the jeep, we uneasily worked our way through the crowd toward the center of the field, uncertain as to how the mob might react to strangers. The hard-baked earth burned through our shoes and the dust from thousands of feet filled our nostrils. Suddenly the crowd surged, and then parted, like the Red Sea before Moses, as two dozen Indians danced through the breach. Wooden spears clattered against wooden swords, pink and blue and brown feathers waved over silver papier-mâché helmets as spangle-caped Aztecs fought breast-plated Spaniards in a mock battle of the conquest. Behind them slowly walked a white-robed priest leading a medieval procession; drooping in the still, dry air, brilliant banners proclaimed the annual pilgrimage of San Juan de los Lagos. Women fell to their knees, faces wet with tears and caked with dirt, men crossed themselves as a glass-enclosed image of the Virgin of Guadalupe was carried past, followed by scores of young girls in once white confirmation gowns. And then came a cross section of Mexico—black-suited businessmen with a week's growth of beard, aristocratic women under veils of lace, blank-faced mountain Indians wearing short skirts over their knee-length pants, and bringing up the rear were the old, riding burros or carried on litters. All were barefoot, and all sang the same slow monotonous chant.
The pseudo Aztecs and Spaniards continued the battle in a queer shuffling dance—two steps forward and one back—whirling to the plink of tiny stringed instruments. Helen and I were carried along with the crowd as it rolled like a wave on either side of the procession. And then, as if at a prearranged signal, the mock battle ended, the procession broke up, and the crowd dispersed. It was time for the afternoon siesta. Soon smoke from hundreds of fires curled upward into the cloudless sky, and people sat in groups taking pieces of meat from blackened pots and deftly rolling beans into tortillas with one hand as easily as a cowboy rolls a cigarette. Over each group, like a Lions Club convention, flew the hometown flag. Some of the people had walked as far as a hundred and fifty miles.
The sight of the meat and beans reminded us that we had eaten nothing since early morning. Making our way back to the jeep, some two miles away, we continued toward Guanajuato, keeping our eyes open for a likely-looking wayside restaurant. Our daily traveling habits had changed somewhat. Instead of preparing three meals ourselves we had become accustomed to stopping for our large meal in the middle of the day and having simply coffee, fruit, and sweet rolls in the morning and at night. The change was partly due to the fact that Dinah's supply of canned dog food was running low and we had to stop every day at the market to buy her fresh meat. At the same time we filled our wicker basket with mangoes, oranges or bananas. But, more than that, we enjoyed stopping in the small eating places where we could practice our Spanish.
That afternoon it was too late for the meal of the day when we reached a nondescript restaurant on the outskirts of a tiny village. Pink geraniums grew in painted oilcans and a few chickens pecked hungrily in the doorway. As we entered I whispered hopefully to Helen, "With our dusty clothes and sunburned skins maybe we can pass for a couple of pilgrims today."
In the corner was the usual basin and a huge bar of blue soap. After washing we walked, hands dripping, to a table. The waiter, who needed a shave even more than I, quickly flipped his soiled apron to the other not so soiled side, grabbed a fly spray, and filled the air with DDT. Then, after rotating the tablecloth so that the soup stains were away from us, he said, "Now, what may I serve our American guests?"
Though we were disappointed at having been recognized, our appetites were undiminished. I pondered. Shall we have eggs à la mexicana or steak à la mexicana? Both were fried with onions and tomatoes, which would take the edge from our desire for fresh salads. Then I remembered the strips of meat in the market and the chickens in the doorway. I decided eggs might be the wiser choice.
"Huevos à la mexicana," I ordered.
Helen nudged me. "Ask him not to make them too spicy," she said. We had vivid memories of previous occasions when all the cold drinks in Mexico couldn't cool our fiery mouths.
"No muy caliente" I instructed.
The waiter hesitated a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and headed for the kitchen. There was a surprised protest when he gave our order to the cook, and a woman who obviously enjoyed her work squeezed into the doorway. They both studied us, looked at each other, and then shrugged their shoulders simultaneously. I laughed.
"They're probably thinking, Crazy Americans, they don't like chili peppers."
The aroma of frying onions floated from the kitchen, making us hungrier by the minute. We waited. Other customers entered, ordered, and were served, and still we waited. After a half hour the waiter placed two plates in front of us. At the first bite I put down my fork.
"These eggs are cold," I said. "And they're just as spicy as ever."
The waiter looked confused. "But that's what you ordered. 'Not very hot,' you said."
At the next table a man smiled and broke into the conversation. "If you will permit me," he said. "In Spanish caliente refers only to temperature. We say picante when we mean spicy."
Yes, we enjoyed eating in wayside places. And the Spanish we learned was seldom forgotten.
From the restaurant it was only a short distance to Guanajuato, but since it was almost evening we decided to save a night's lodging and made camp on a side road a few miles from town. After a none too restful night during which Dinah and a company of overly inquisitive burros joined in a symphony of barks and brays, we drove down the narrow main street of the city that was the birthplace of Mexico's war for independence. Guanajuato was a bowl of sun-drenched adobe cliff dwellings, of red tile roofs that made modernistic patterns of intersecting angles, of squares of flamboyant colors where clothes hung drying amid green cactus gardens.
A hotel had been recommended, but one look at the imposing castle-like structure that dominated the whole hill on one side of town was enough to convince us that our pocket-books would flatten less quickly at almost any other place. We decided upon a more modest hostelry overlooking the tiny triangular main plaza at the bottom of the bowl. The only drawback, after we found that Dinah would also be a welcome guest, was that there appeared to be no quarters for La Tortuga, and news of her arrival had already spread in the few minutes she was parked in front of the hotel. When I asked about parking space, the manager was crushed.
"But, señor, this is a modern hotel. We have fine parking facilities."
Thus reassured, we checked in, and the accommodating manager sent a boy named Pedro to direct me to the entrance of the parking area.
"It's a bit difficult to find," he explained.
It was. The boy led me down the main artery, a zigzagging one-way street, until I was sure I was on my way out of town. All the while he shouted, "This way, this way," and people popped their heads from windows, as excited as if the circus had arrived and the elephants were being paraded through the streets. We made a sharp right turn and headed in a different direction down an even narrower one-way street while burros scrambled up onto the high sidewalks. I was just about to tell the boy that the "fine parking facilities" were much too far away when he stopped, breathless, in front of the entrance to a courtyard.
"Here we are," he said triumphantly.
I was thoroughly confused. "Where's here?" I asked.
"Why, this is the back of the hotel," he answered brightly. By that time half the town was in the undersized alley giving conflicting directions as to the best way to maneuver La Tortuga into position. I looked at the doorway. It was just wide enough for a string of horses to pass through single file, which I presume was what it was intended for. But some ingenious stonemason had used his head. Three feet from the ground, about fender height, he had chiseled away the sides of the entrance so that it looked like a cartoon I had seen of a doorway designed for a bowlegged cowboy. It would have been all right if he had also cut a place for a ten-gallon hat since La Tortuga's projections, the gas can racks, were higher than the fenders of a car. While everyone chattered at once I unholstered my tape measure. By removing the padlocks on the racks we were just able to squeeze through. With a relieved sigh I stabled La Tortuga in one corner of the courtyard. As Pedro helped me with the bags he said winsomely, "I'm a guide too." We normally did not employ guides, preferring to wander by ourselves, but we were taken with ten-year-old Pedro from the first. When he showed up the next morning, his face scrubbed so it shone and his hair slicked back like a black skullcap, we hired him.
With him we climbed to the top of the town along cobbled streets that rushed precipitously toward the valley, past fountains where women drew water in earthenware jugs like Biblical Rebeccas, and over the old stone road where burros once trod carrying the silver that built Guanajuato. Once second in importance only to Mexico City, Guanajuato faded into relative obscurity with the closing of many of the mines. Now it maintains its colonial atmosphere with pride, resisting the intrusion of contemporary architecture. Only a few of the streets were wide enough for vehicles; built for burros and foot traffic, they would always remain so.
Here, on September 16, 1810, Father Miguel Hidalgo gave the historic signal, El Grito de Dolores (The Cry of Pain), that started Mexico's revolution against Spain. The Alhóndiga, a large rectangular structure in the center of town, first a granary, then a fortress, later a prison, and now a museum, played an important part in Mexico's war for independence. Pedro related the story of the town's hero, a miner named Pipila, who, by carrying a flagstone on his back as a shield, set fire to one of the doors, making it possible for the revolutionists to take the building. Later, when the royalist forces recaptured it, the heads of Hidalgo and three other insurgents were hung from the iron hooks on the four corners of the building.
The thing we liked best about Pedro was his unfailing good humor. Each morning he appeared at the hotel while we were having our Mexican breakfast of sweet rolls and a spoonful of coffee essence diluted with hot milk and told us what he had planned for the day. On our last day in Guanajuato he was a little late. With an impish grin he said, "I have saved the best for last."
I couldn't imagine what he had in mind. He had already shown us his favorite streets, the Street of the Leaping Monkeys, the Street of the Croaking Frogs, and the Street of the Kiss, an alley where the balconies on either side almost touched so that lovers were purported to kiss across the gap. And we had seen all the public buildings, the parks, and the dam at one end of town. "What is this wonderful sight that you have saved until last?" I asked.
"Today I will take you to the cemetery."
Helen and I were not disposed toward cemeteries, but at Pedro's insistence that this was a very special cemetery we agreed to go along. When we reached the iron gateway in a high walled area Pedro didn't hesitate but, leading us through the crosses and headstones, he headed for a large concrete crypt where he pointed to a tiny spiral stairway that led down into a black hole. "We go down there," he said mysteriously.
Helen must have recognized the gleam in Pedro's eyes as being the same as we had seen in the eyes of a wrinkled old man who had shown us the catacombs under another cemetery four years earlier. Like Pedro, he, too, had had a sense of humor. With only a flickering candle for light, he had led us through a dank tunnel, all the while mumbling incessantly about the founding of the church in the sixteenth century. At the end of the tunnel he ceremoniously raised the cover of a box and invited us to look. Glaring from within, as if angry at us for disturbing its rest, was a horrifying mummy. "This," the old man said, "is the founder of our church." We declined his invitation to see other treasures of the church and climbed out of the dark cavern as fast as we could. But the old fellow wasn't through with us. He insisted that we see the choir loft, a dimly lit balcony over the altar. There we became so engrossed in a beautiful hand-illuminated choir book that we momentarily forgot about the old man. Suddenly he cackled, "Look, there's our founder." Helen and I both dropped the book expecting to see the hideous mummy come clattering across the floor trailing its moldy wrappings behind. The knarled old fellow laughed insanely and pointed to a lifelike wooden image sitting in a carved choir chair against the wall.
Remembering all this, Helen said, "I think I'll wait here, thank you."
This pleased Pedro immensely. "You're scared," he said positively.
I was of the same mind as Helen, but after that I had no choice but to follow him down into the pit. There at the end of a long corridor, under feeble shafts of light from above, was something that rivaled Picasso's Guernica for its horror. Standing upright against the wall, their contorted faces grimaced as if in pain, were several dozen cadavers. Brown parchment-like skin covered the bodies, black stringy hair hung in wisps, lipless mouths disclosed yellowed and crumbling teeth, and vacant eye sockets stared into the gloom.
Pedro explained. All the bodies were natural mummies, preserved by the strange chemical composition of the ground. Because the cemetery was small, burial space was rented for a limited time only, and when that time was up the bodies were exhumed. Those that had mummified were stood at one end of the catacombs while the bones of those that had not were stacked neatly at the other end—leg bones, arm bones, skulls, etc., all in separate orderly piles.
"Aren't you just a little scared?" I asked Pedro.
"Course not," he scoffed. "They can't hurt me." But I noticed that he was the first to climb the spiral stairway to the flower-scented cemetery above.
Mexico City's wide Paseo de la Reforma was jammed with traffic moving at race-track speed. Driving in the capital was difficult at best, but in La Tortuga it was nigh impossible as demented drivers did a double take at our strange boatlike apparition. On the narrower streets La Tortuga's bow projected so far in front that we were halfway across the intersections before we could see if all was clear. After being trapped in a traffic circle and spending ten minutes on the merry-go-round before we could duck out, we decided to leave the jeep at the Willys agency and went on foot in search of a hotel. But the life of a pedestrian in Mexico City was not without hazard either. "He who hesitates is lost" was most appropriate and our motto became Stop, Look, and Run.
The hotel where we had stayed before was under new management. They would not permit dogs. After trying several other hotels and meeting several other unreasonable managers, we resorted to a taxi. The driver knew of a place that met all of our needs—the manager liked dogs, there was a nearby park where we could walk Dinah, the rates were reasonable, and it was near the center of town. With that Shangri-La in mind, we asked him to take us there.
Off we sped, the driver looking neither to left nor right, around the Monument of Independence like a ball on a roulette wheel, and down the Paseo as if our taxi were the only car on the street. After several near collisions I asked him what his secret was.
"Oh, it's no secret, señor. I just make sure I don't hit the car in front of me. If someone runs into me it's his fault."
With that illogical answer I concluded that the little image of St. Christopher affixed to his dashboard was on twenty-four-hour duty.
When we finally screeched to a halt in front of the hotel I didn't agree with the driver's conception of "near the center of town," but since all the other virtues were as he claimed we checked in.
Mexico City was our last big-city stop before the first gap in the Pan American Highway and Guatemala, and there were several important details to attend to. There was the jeep to service, including the reinforcement of her already sagging springs, provisions to purchase for the rough stretch ahead, and a visa for Guatemala to procure. Since many of the countries put expiration dates on their visas, we had decided to get them as we went along rather than before leaving home. But first there was mail at the U.S. Embassy and we spent hours reading it again and again over cool crisp salads in Sanborn's, Mexico's mecca for Americans.
Within a week our business was taken care of and we had seen the National Palace with its murals by Rivera, the Palace of Fine Arts, the Thieves Market, the new University City, and most of the other things tourists are supposed to see. On our last day we had nothing special planned, and Helen suggested we take Dinah for a walk through Alameda Park. Dinah thought that was a fine idea, hurriedly gulped her dinner, and ran to the door with her leash in her mouth.
The Alameda was bustling with afternoon activity. Clouds of balloons floated over their vendors, an organ-grinder played a tune while his monkey, in a tiny sombrero, danced, and the park photographers huddled under black cloths and pointed the eye of their cumbersome boxes at fidgety children. Dinah sniffed every flower around the Juárez Monument, ate a taco given to her by a vendor, and broke canine diplomatic relations with a dog of dubious ancestry who was a staunch advocate of the Good Neighbor policy. But the end of Dinah's stroll through the Alameda came when we were opposite the Palace of Fine Arts. Helen spied a sign proclaiming a new exhibit.
"But it's too late," I protested. "We don't have time to take Dinah back to the hotel."
"Let's take her with us. She looks like a seeing-eye dog." "That's real feminine logic. What would anyone with a seeing-eye dog be doing in an art museum?"
"Well, let's try it anyway. We won't have another chance to see the exhibit."
With that dispute settled, we entered the marble foyer and climbed the curved staircase to the galleries. No one paid any attention to us and I was beginning to believe I was wrong in objecting to Dinah's coming in. She heeled beautifully through the corridors lined with sculptures by young Mexican moderns and lay quietly while we studied the frescoes by Orozco and Siqueiros and the paintings of Tamayo. We were on the third floor before Dinah gave any indication that something was amiss. Apparently the taco had not agreed with her. She looked desperately for the nearest exit.
"What can we do?" Helen said in despair.
I wasn't sympathetic, but said, "Let's get her out of here."
We were not unnoticed as we flew down the stairs to the street. We reached the mezzanine, but she couldn't wait any longer. While an impeccably uniformed guard looked on in shocked amazement, Helen and Dinah made a beeline for the corner, where our mascot neatly deposited the remains of the taco in a gleamingly polished brass spittoon. With a sheepish but relieved expression she heeled and the three of us slunk back to the hotel and started packing.
To avoid the menacing traffic—or being a traffic menace—we left Mexico City during the early morning hours. Mexico's fine Pan American Highway took us across the green farmlands of the central plateau, past the still volcanoes, called by the Indians the Sleeping Lady and Her Watching Lover, over a ten-thousand-foot pass where pine forests crowded the asphalt, and then down to drier country of cactus and sage.
In Oaxaca, under shades of glaring white cloth, Zapotec and Mixtec Indians displayed for the tourists gaudy serapes and tiny clay idols of dogs, birds, and frogs. But eight miles away was a better example of the once advanced Zapotec culture, Monte Alban, already flourishing when the Renaissance was born. When we reached the top of a winding dirt road that climbed two thousand feet in but a few miles we found this burial place of priests and kings deserted. Some of the tombs had been excavated and had yielded treasures of gold and jade while others still lay beneath five centuries of dirt and scrubby growth. Alone, we wandered through the quiet pavilions and sunken courts, climbed the terraced pyramids, and poked our flashlights into dark caverns. On the walls Zapotec life lived in stone: shallow bas-relief depicted dancing girls, astronomers, and surgeons with their patients. Added to these rounded forms of Zapotec art were the angular inscriptions of their conquerors, the Mixtecs. These allies of the Aztecs represented the defeated Zapotec upside down. With a thrill almost as if we had discovered them ourselves we crawled on hands and knees through subterranean passageways that twisted between altars and pyramids, but the illusion was abruptly shattered when we passed under a glass and concrete skylight and popped, mole-like, into the bright sun to be greeted by a guide.
About twenty-five miles south of Oaxaca was another Zapotec site, Mitla, City of the Dead. Built as a resting place for the spirits, the temples and open courts were constructed of stone blocks weighing as much as twenty tons. The temple walls were embellished with mortarless stone mosaics in deep relief, horizontal rows of recessed geometric patterns in contrast to the representations of life that we saw at Monte Alban. Less fortunate than Monte Albán, Mitla had been known to the Spaniards. In keeping with their usual practice, they plundered and then erected a church on the remains of the temple. Beneath the main pavilion, in a dark underground chamber, stood a large stone cylinder, which, according to local legend, when embraced has the power to foretell life expectancy—the gap between the finger tips indicating the number of years one has yet to live. What a popular oracle this could be among twentieth-century gourmands.
Continuing south from Oaxaca, we headed for Tehuantepec, a coconut palm and sugar cane town at the edge of a brown river that flowed to the Pacific, about twelve miles away. Tehuantepec was on the proposed route of an overland canal where ships were to be carried by rail across the narrow isthmus that separates the Atlantic and the Pacific, but with the opening of the Panama Canal the plans were abandoned. Even before that, however, Tehuantepec had been important as a stop for caravans transshipping cargo from Spanish ships that plied the two oceans.
When we stopped to buy meat for Dinah and fill our basket with tropical fruit we found a fiesta in progress. In the sandy streets of this matriarchal town Amazons jabbered in Zapotec—even barefoot the Tehuantepec women looked seven feet tall in their pleated and starched white headdresses. According to one story, this custom originated when a ship carrying a load of baby christening gowns was wrecked off the Pacific coast. Not knowing what to do with them, the Indian women put them on the only place they would fit—their heads. Perhaps it was the added height of these headdresses that gave them their feeling of superiority. In any event, these almond-eyed Zapotec Ziegfield girls walked proudly in their square-cut velvet blouses and flowing gypsy skirts. They completed the regal illusion with velvet ribbons braided in their hair, earrings of Spanish coins, and chains of gold around their necks. With flowered staffs in hand and an authoritative manner they stopped us. They were conducting a sort of community chest drive, but instead of a red feather they gave us each a brand on the cheek. The red dye took days to wear off.
The market, also run by women, was literally a no man's land. Though I paid for the meat, the butcher lady ignored me completely, wrapped it in a banana leaf, and handed both the package and the change to Helen. I took the not so subtle hint and decided to wait outside while Helen finished the shopping. Stepping over three-foot iguanas that lay trussed on the floor, I threaded my way to the entrance between baskets of gardenias and roses and stacks of pineapples, papayas, and mangoes. Outside I leaned against a column under the eave of the building. That was apparently the correct thing to do, for I had company while I waited. A young Zapotec staggered over and thrust a bottle of murky yellow mescal, fermented cactus juice, at me and hospitably insisted that I have some. After one swallow I coughed and blinked back the tears; it couldn't have burned more if it had been molten lead. I wasn't partial to his choice of liquor, but I was very interested in his choice of conversation. He was in a mood to expound the virtues of Tehuantepec's matriarchal society, which, according to him, boiled down to this: We don't really mind if the women run things. They're so beautiful, and they're probably more efficient than we are. Besides, they outnumber us.
As Helen and I left the market, I wasn't surprised to see a pedestaled bronze statue of a woman centrally placed in the plaza, no doubt erected by the town mothers as a daily reminder to the men.
For a short distance out of Tehuantepec the road led through more palms and sugar cane, past whitened salt marshes, and then as it turned inland again the sun-baked land became the color of straw and heat waves made the horizon dance. Since Mexico City, La Tortuga had been riding high on her new springs. The extra leaves in the front and rear made her take the bumps like a tank, but the extra road clearance they gave her would be essential if we had to repeat the same route taken in 1951 to enter Guatemala.
Mexico claimed a completed highway from border to border. Guatemala made the same claim and, while both claims were true, there was still no connection by road between the two countries. Their respective roads touched the Mexican-Guatemalan border on opposite sides of a mountain range. The normal way to enter Guatemala with a car was to follow the road we were on some seven hundred miles from Mexico City to Arriaga and load the vehicle on a flatcar. From there a railroad ran for a hundred and fifty miles along the southern slopes of the mountain range to Tapachula, where a road continued south into Guatemala.
At Arriaga, in 1951, we had made our first departure from the normal route. Instead of loading our jeep on a flatcar we had continued another fifteen miles over a narrow dusty road to Tonalá, where we were flatly told that that was as far as we could go. As we sat on the edge of Tonalá and studied the map of Chiapas, one of the least developed states in Mexico, oxcarts clattered through the streets. One in particular attracted our attention. Driven by an old man, the cart was piled high, apparently with all his possessions and with his whole family riding on top. As we watched it disappear through a tangle of matted growth, the same thought came to both of us—there might be a cart trail to Tapachula.
Enthusiastically we had followed the cart over a pair of dust-filled ruts and asked the old man where the trail led. "Tres Picos," he replied. We checked the map again. Tres Picos was the next little town along the railroad. Hopefully we continued. Soon we learned never to ask for the trail to Tapachula—that was too far away. Instead we inquired from village to tiny village, developing an instinct for which path to follow when the pair of muddy ruts turned into a web of tracks. There were trees to fell, swamps to bypass, mudholes to fill with branches, and high centers left by four-foot-diameter cart wheels to cut down. At night, in the stifling heat, while mosquitoes whirred outside our screens, we had climbed into the jeep too exhausted to eat and fallen asleep to the sound of Dinah's heavy panting. Although it was only 135 railroad miles from Tonalá to Tapachula, we had traveled 220 miles in eight backbreaking days to get there.
As we left Tehuantepec the memory of those eight days was still vivid, and we had no desire to repeat them if there was another way. While in Mexico City we had heard encouraging rumors that Guatemala was working on a new highway to connect with Mexico's at El Ocotal on the north side of the mountain range. Before heading for Arriaga we wanted to see if there was any possibility of getting over the new route. Bypassing the branch road to Arriaga, we continued an additional two hundred miles to the border.
The drive took us north of the Sierra Madre range, home of the handsome, light-skinned Chamula Indians. Many of the men trotted beside the road wearing their ancient dress of short pants and broad-brimmed, flat-crowned hats of thick straw festooned with streaming colored ribbons. We heard two stories as to the significance of the ribbons. Some said they indicated the number of sons the man had, while others said that the ribbons declared the man was a bachelor. Perhaps they are both right.
At El Ocotal there was no sign of a highway into Guatemala. The Mexican road, paved right to the border, stopped at a barrier of heavily forested mountain. Two Guatemalan border guards told us that construction was progressing from the other end, and that there was still a twenty-five-mile gap. We could see that there was nothing but a footpath, and the guards added that even a motorcycle had been forced to turn back a few months earlier.
With some misgivings, but with no alternative, we retraced our way along the main road to the cut-off that led to the lowlands and Arriaga. We made camp on a dry plateau amid the squawks of parrots, incongruous in the barren land of spiny cactus and stunted trees with only a few stemless gourds affixed to their naked branches. While I lubricated the jeep, Helen transferred the coffee tins of dried fruit and nuts, powdered milk and eggs and other concentrated foods from under the bunks to the cabinet above.
Arriaga, a town of blinding whitewashed adobe, was only slightly above the level of the Pacific, fifteen miles away. The air was heavy with humidity, and the Chinese storekeepers stood fanning themselves in front of their stalls. Arriaga had not changed in the four years since we had last seen it. Insistent railroad workers followed us through the streets—as they did any vehicle alien to the town—wanting to load us on a flatcar. The only visitors Arriaga ever had were those who were shipping to Tapachula by rail.
Tonalá had not changed, either, despite the fact that where before there had been merely a rude trail from Arriaga there was now a rough gravel road. Before hitting the oxcart trails again Helen and I stopped for a cooling refresco. The temperature was no in the shade, and children played naked in the street. But the old lady who ran the open-air cantina evidently had delusions of grandeur. She disdainfully refused to serve us until Helen put a jacket over her sunback dress and I exchanged my knee-length shorts for a pair of soggy long pants.
While Helen sipped a lemonade and I took lingering swallows of good Mexican beer, La Tortuga was subjected to her usual inspection. One man, about thirty-five, wearing khakis and a ten-gallon hat in place of the usual straw sombrero, noted with interest the license plates. Ordering a beer, he pulled up a stool and in only slightly accented English said:
"I see you're from the States. I used to visit Texas once in a while. Where're ya headed?"
"Tapachula," Helen answered.
"You're in the wrong town. Arriaga is where you load your car on the train."
I explained that we were not planning to take the train, that we were going to follow oxcart trails to Tapachula.
"Ha, that's a laugh." After gulping a long swig of beer he pushed his hat back and said, "Well, kids, see ya in Arriaga."
We watched him swagger away. "He must have done more than just visit Texas," Helen commented. |
20,000 Miles South | Helen Schreider | [
"nonfiction"
] | [
"travel",
"South America",
"1950s"
] | Chapter 3 | FOUR years before, in the same town and in much the same way, we had been told the same thing: "You can't drive to Guatemala; the only connection is by rail." We knew now that, in a regular jeep, it could be done. But La Tortuga was a little higher, a little wider, a little longer, and had considerably less road clearance than a regular jeep, and size was all important.
With clouds of dirt billowing inside the jeep and branches crackling beneath the wheels, we again followed the pair of dust-filled ruts through brown underbrush. It was near the first of March, the height of the dry season; for months there had been no rain. And yet there was evidence everywhere of the four rainy seasons that had passed since 1951. The six months of tropical downpours each year had wrought a great change. Nothing seemed familiar.
The trail led into more open country, over arid hills and down into barrancas where the ruts were deep from erosion and countless generations of oxcarts. For a while we wondered if we were on the right path. When the trail forked, our only guide was the knowledge that we were north of the railroad, and that the trail should turn in that direction somewhere near the next village. Once we lost the tracks completely at the top of a rise where the sun-baked earth was like granite. Backtracking to another fork, we came upon one of the high-wheeled oxcarts lumbering along behind two immense hump-backed beasts, their driver sound asleep. As we pulled up behind him, he raised his head wearily and squinted his sun-wrinkled eyes. We had learned before never to phrase a question so that it could be answered simply "Yes" or "No." Instead we asked, "Where does this trail lead?"
The wizened old man had the uniformity of age; he could have been the same man we asked four years before. Scratching his grizzled beard, he thought a moment and then slowly answered, "Tres Picos." As we thanked him, he prodded his oxen up on the bank so that we could pass, and called, "Que le vaya bien [May things go well with you]."
The going was rougher as the trail led again toward the railroad down to lower country, through a dry river bed where green bushes lined the steep sides. In the rainy season it would have been impassable even to oxcarts. Of each person we passed we asked the same question to make certain we were still on the right path. One friendly coppery-skinned native on foot was going in our direction so we invited him to ride with us. Although Pablo could have made more progress walking he seemed to enjoy jouncing over fallen trees and around stumps in our "boat-car," as he called it. Repeatedly he assured us that we were "muy cerquita," very near, Tres Picos, but we recalled the time we had traveled for three days in this same area looking for a town which was supposed to be "muy cerquita." Twenty minutes away, they had told us, but they neglected to say it was twenty minutes by train. After two hours of Pablo's "muy cerquita, muy cerquita," when we came to a clear stream we decided to make camp. Pablo continued on foot.
The sun was low in the sky as we nosed La Tortuga down a steep embankment to a moon-shaped gravel bar. On the other side of the stream overhanging branches reflected yellow green in the water and tiny fish flashed to the surface after insects. Brushing the accumulated dust from the rear window, we set up camp while Dinah waded aimlessly in the stream, changing it from a liquid gold to a murky brown. After almost two months of living in La Tortuga we had our camping procedure well-organized—in less than an hour we had bathed in the tepid water of the river, the bunks were ready, the screens were clipped over the windows and top hatch, and we were eating our supper of packaged mushroom soup, powdered coffee, and dried fruit topped off with salt tablets, vitamins, and Aralen for malaria. Over the insect noises we heard the creaking of oxcarts as white-clad natives came to bathe. They nodded and went downstream around a bend in the river while their oxen drank thirstily. Then in the purple twilight, with their black hair still dripping, the men stopped to chat, politely, almost casually inquiring where we were from, where we were going, and why. The first two parts of that trilogy were easy to answer, but how could we explain the "why," the challenge, when to them it was challenge enough to exist, or that we liked to travel when many of them had never been ten miles from their homes? But it made no difference to them that we couldn't answer that last question; as each one left he waved and bid us sleep well.
Early the next morning the same creak of oxcarts awakened us and the same white-clad figures came again to bathe, greeting us with a bright "Good morning." We were feeling very cheerful—we had traveled fourteen miles in only five hours the day before. While Helen was making up the bunks and taking down the screens, I was debating what to fix for breakfast.
"Let's try our powdered eggs," I suggested.
Accordingly, I opened a can, poured the yellow powder into a bowl, added a little water, and whipped it into a foamy lather. Once it was in the frying pan we soon had the most appetizing-looking omelette anyone could wish for. "How's this for camping out? Come and get it," I called with culinary pride. Helen and Dinah both answered my summons.
"Hmm, this looks good," Helen said, taking a hearty mouthful. Her mouth puckered disapprovingly. "Have you tried it yet?" she asked.
After that reaction I hesitated, but felt obligated at least to take a bite. My fine-looking omelette had the consistency of an old inner tube. "Well, never mind," I said. "It will be good nourishing food for Dinah. Here, girl."
Dinah looked on suspiciously when instead of her usual tidbit I ladled the whole omelette into her rubber dish. She sniffed it cautiously.
"Go ahead, Dinah, eat your breakfast," I coaxed. Trustingly she took a bite—and promptly spit it out, looking at me with an expression that clearly said, "It shouldn't happen to a dog." As we ate our substitute breakfast of dried cereal and powdered milk I wondered what I could do with the equivalent of nine dozen eggs.
As it turned out, Tres Picos was muy cerquita—less than a mile away—but it took almost an hour to get there. News of our coming had preceded us, especially news of Dinah. Bare little boys ran after us as we rolled between the two rows of grass huts that comprised the town.
"Reen Teen Teen," they shouted in unison, "Reen Teen Teen." There were no theaters, no movies; how they knew of Rin Tin Tin I have no idea, but to them Dinah was Reen Teen Teen and they wanted a good look at her. We obligingly stopped the jeep and opened the door. Dinah put her front feet on the back of the seat and grinned just as if she were Rin Tin Tin acknowledging the homage of his fans.
"Hola Reen Teen Teen," they cheered, but when Dinah jumped to the ground they clambered up a nearby tree, hanging and chattering like little brown monkeys from the branches. At our assurance that Dinah wouldn't hurt them, one by one they climbed down and stroked her gently, murmuring all the while, "Reen Teen Teen."
From Tres Picos the trail headed again toward the foothills of the mountains, where the country was more open, and for a time the going was a bit easier although our speed never exceeded five miles per hour. There were always rocks to clear from the path and lightning-struck trees to bypass, and in the arroyos Helen stood like a tank pilot in the hatch to direct me when the long bow of La Tortuga cut off the view of the ruts. The jeep became a furnace. Our thermometer registered 120 degrees Fahrenheit inside. The floor boards became so hot that Dinah whimpered when she touched them as she was thrown from the bunk by a sudden jolt.
Back and forth we zigzagged over grassy hills where hidden stumps battered the bottom of the jeep and where sometimes we lost the trail completely, backtracking, finding it, only to lose it again. By mid-afternoon we were heading toward the lowlands once more. Close to the railroad the ruts fell into deep ravines or climbed tortuously up steep banks. With one wheel in a rut and the other on high center we crawled forward in the lowest gear, slipping sideways into erosions and straining even the safety factor I had included in my calculations of the tipping point. We crossed the tracks for the first time, bouncing over them and down the embankment, cascading the contents of the cabinets to the floor of the jeep. On the other side we plowed like a tank through dense growth where branches dragged across the top of La Tortuga, dropping hordes of stinging ants inside. And then the digging began. The still heat hung like a blanket. We cut down high centers and filled in ruts, rubbing our hands in the dirt to keep the handles of the shovel and pick from slipping from our grip. By nightfall we were still digging. With the jeep hemmed in by tall wiry grass, we mounted the screens and sprayed the inside with insecticide. Without even a thought to food we stripped off our sodden clothes. We had covered only ten miles since Tres Picos.
By midmorning of the next day we had dug our way along another mile. Leaving Helen to drive slowly behind, I walked ahead clearing away boulders too big to pass over and whacking down limbs that blocked the trail. With each step the forest became denser. Long snakelike vines hung from umbrella-top trees, translucent blue butterflies flitted ghostlike over elephant-eared plants, and frequently as I leaned over to pick up a rock I was startled by a slithering in the undergrowth or by the beady eyes of an iguana doing push-ups on a rotted moldering log. To everything clung the dank smell of decay. And then, with no way to bypass it, the trail became a narrow canal, an eighth of a mile of steaming marsh. Where I could reach I prodded with a stick. The water was about eight inches deep, but the bottom seemed firm enough. With four-wheel drive engaged we eased into it. After twenty feet the jeep came slowly to a halt, all four wheels spinning futilely. Quickly, before they could dig in, I put La Tortuga in reverse and backed out. We tried it again, hitting the mud as fast as we could, sending the thick black water streaming to the sides. Twenty feet, forty feet, and then, our momentum gone, relentlessly the jeep began to sink. We watched helplessly as the axles were covered, then the tops of the wheels, the black ooze creeping toward the doors until only the buoyancy of its boatlike body kept the jeep from sinking still deeper.
"What do we do now?" Helen asked hopelessly. "Wait six weeks for the rains to float us out?"
"This is what we have a winch for," I answered encouragingly, though I knew it was never designed for anything like this. There were several trees within reach of our two hundred feet of half-inch-diameter Manila rope. With one end securely lashed to a trunk I took two turns around the capstan. "Engage the winch gear," I called to Helen in the driver's seat. As the rope tightened, the jeep moved forward slowly, pushing a wall of mud before it. Straining against the rope, I kept it taut so it couldn't slip on the capstan, and inch by inch La Tortuga crawled ahead. We had moved only a few feet when the rope snapped and I fell backward, sprawling into the dark mire. I thought it was only a weak spot in the new rope. I spliced it. We tried again, but it broke in another place. Again and again the rope parted, and again and again I spliced it until my fingers ached. Perspiration burned my eyes; black slime covered my clothes. Each time I moved the slippery rope to another tree ahead it became a greater effort. With each splice the rope grew shorter until after four hours it was reduced to less than three fourths its original length and we were only halfway through the swamp.
I tried doubling the rope. It held but continually snarled as the two strands piled up on the capstan in a hard ball and I had to cut them free. Pulling, cutting, splicing, with painful slowness we moved forward, the rope becoming shorter with each foot of progress. A hundred yards, fifty yards, then with barely enough rope to reach to the closest tree we were within fifteen feet of solid ground when the right wheels rode up on a submerged log.
"Cut the power," I yelled. But it was too late. Sickeningly the jeep leaned over, the jelly-like mud coming nearly to the door, where Helen sat operating the winch and throttle.
"Jump," I shouted. Relieved of her weight, the jeep tottered a bit, slid off the log, and then straightened out. Helen scraped the foul-smelling mud from her jeans and climbed back in to engage the winch while I leaned against the rope for that last fifteen feet. Weak and shaken, we reached firm ground once more. As I coiled the remnants of the rope and threw them on the bow, I felt neither elation nor relief, only a numbness at the thought that there might be more of the same ahead.
It was late afternoon and we continued only far enough to get away from the clouds of insects that swarmed over the swamp. We stretched full length on top of the jeep, trying to avail ourselves of every bit of air. I barely moved my head when Helen told me someone was coming.
A white-haired man walked along the trail whistling, as is the custom in Chiapas when approaching a stranger. The old fellow doffed his hat, and the usual questions and answers followed. When Helen asked if there was a river nearby, he shook his head.
"No, not for many leagues. But I have a well and I live only one league from here in Joaquin Amaro. You may bathe there and spend the night with me."
As inviting as was his offer, even after two days without a bath, the thought of traveling the additional three miles to his home was too much when we had covered but a little more than half that distance all day. We thanked him, and he went on his way.
Dinah slept outside that night, seemingly preferring the mosquitoes to the hot interior of the jeep. As we lay on the damp bunks we dimly heard through a pink haze of exhaustion the omnipresent singing of insects, the discordant squawk of parrots, the rustle in the undergrowth as some small animal scampered away, and toward the mountains the cry of a jaguar and the frightened jabber of a monkey.
We slept late the next morning, and as we were getting up we heard the same tuneless whistle and a soft voice calling our names. It was Señor Cabrera, the old man who had been so kind the evening before.
"You must not leave your dog out at night," he warned. "Several cattle were killed by tigres a few nights ago near my village." He waved his hand in the direction in which we were headed. "I have told my wife to expect you," he continued. "My house is the first one on the right side as you enter Joaquin Amaro. Please refresh yourselves before you go on."
Thanking him, we eagerly accepted his invitation. He joined us for a cup of coffee and a few pieces of dried fruit, and, after repeating his warning about mountain lions, went on his way.
The three miles to Joaquin Amaro were made in record time, considering the speed we had averaged the last few days. Slightly larger than the other villages through which we had passed, Joaquin Amaro was situated on the edge of a salt water lagoon several miles from the Pacific. It was a tropical Venice; long dugout canoes were being poled over the tranquil water. White fish nets draped from bleached poles like a Eugene Berman stage set. The green of the surrounding jungle was accented by pink shrimp drying in the sun, orange hibiscus, and purple bougainvillaea that grew along the sides of grass huts. We stopped at the first dwelling on the right, where spread on the bushes to dry was a white flounced petticoat. Even before Señora Cabrera stepped from the doorway we knew she was a Tehuana woman. Her brown face seemed even browner under her silvery hair, and although her ribbons and square-necked blouse were faded she still walked with an air of assurance.
"I have been expecting you," she smiled. "My husband told me you would like to bathe."
It was nice of her to say that before she took a good look at us. Covered with mud, we were certainly in need of a bath. We followed her to the bathhouse, a three-sided palm-thatched stall, shoulder high, with a stone table and a tin pail from which we ladled water with half a gourd. While I formed a one-man bucket brigade between the well and the bathhouse, Helen scrubbed off the dirt industriously with an estropajo, a fibrous vegetable sponge that soon brought a rosy luster to her skin. Then Helen took her turn at carrying water for me while I scrubbed. Musical accompaniment for our ablutions was provided by the metallic ringing of water in the pail and the happy snorting of two fat pigs that wallowed luxuriously in a soupy mudhole nearby. I knew just how they felt, but I hadn't derived the same pleasure.
Much refreshed after more than an hour of cool water, we put on clean clothes. Along with the children who had been watching us curiously all the while, we joined Señora Cabrera under the overhanging eave of her home. Like the other huts in the village, it was of mud and thatch with no windows. The dirt floor of its one room was swept clean, from the walls hung several hammocks, and in one corner were a few rolled reed mats. Across the room was a tiny blue shrine with a lighted candle flickering in front of a picture of the Virgin of Guadalupe.
Helen and I swung in a hammock in the shade of the eave outside where the señora was making tortillas, grinding the limewater-soaked corn on a large flat stone, flattening the meal between two banana leaves, a Tehuantepec custom, and lining the inside of a bowl-shaped clay oven with the round flat patties. When they were done she handed us each a hot crisp tortilla and a handful of dried shrimp. For the first time we realized how hungry we were. We had eaten nothing but powdered milk, coffee, and a little dried fruit since Tres Picos. As we sat there cracking the shells of the shrimp between our teeth, savoring the little bits of white meat, we answered the eager questions of the señora about Tehuantepec. Only a hundred and fifty miles away, she hadn't been back there since her marriage forty years before.
Lazily enjoying the idleness, we swayed back and forth in the hammock for a while. More children came, shyly looked, and left. The only thing that kept us awake was the antics of a scrawny chicken that flapped to the table top intent on a kernel of corn, only to be thwarted by the señora. I almost forgot that there were still almost two hundred miles ahead of us to Tapachula. Though Señora Cabrera invited us to spend the night, there remained several hours of daylight in which we could travel.
"Thank you for everything, and please give our regards to your husband."
"Que le vaya bien," she called as we drove off, and then hurried to shoo away the chicken, which had taken advantage of our distraction to land in the earthenware crock of corn.
The rest of that afternoon and the days that followed were one continuous nightmare of digging and cutting until blisters formed, of more swamps where our rope grew shorter and shorter, of fording rivers, of hacking down trees and levering out rocks that had lain undisturbed for centuries. Scouting ahead of La Tortuga, we searched for a path through tall grass, where ticks covered our clothes and, despite our precautions, many mornings we awakened to find some of them, bloated and gray, clinging to our bodies. And there was the dulling heat that drove from our minds everything but the thought of the next obstacle and water. We looked forward eagerly to the type of vegetation that indicated the presence of a stream, many times only to find it clouded with mosquitoes and covered with green scum.
But there were interludes when we found clear-flowing streams, and, stretching full length in the shallow water, we let it play over us, for a time bringing relief from the heat. Lying with only our faces above the ripples, we watched flocks of parrots or long-tailed birds of glistening blue or yellow in the canopy of trees that overhung the bank. Elongated leaves, like huge African war shields, flicked from side to side, changing color from blue to yellow green as abruptly as the reversing of a Venetian blind. Purple morning glories bloomed from tangled masses of vines, and if we looked intently we could usually see a tiny green lizard sunning himself on a vein of a giant heart-shaped leaf. Dinah, completely in harmony with the jungle fantasy, peered from between feathery ferns like a Rousseau lion.
The rivers, where we could bathe and wash our clothes and replenish our supply of drinking water, were as important to us as they were to the people who lived there. Our river camps became a meeting place of two cultures. While I serviced the jeep surrounded by curious natives who had left their oxen and horses to drink in the river, Helen washed our clothes amid amused but friendly women. They looked askance at her two-piece bathing suit; although they worked bare from the waist up they would never think of exposing their legs. But Helen's attire was no barrier, and the women patiently tried to instruct her in their efficient but none too gentle methods of washing clothes. Standing knee deep in the water, long skirts clinging to their ankles, they whacked the clothes resoundingly on the rocks while Helen, attempting to imitate them, produced only a feeble squishing sound. They demonstrated the finer points, kneading together balls of homemade black and white soap in the proper proportion according to the degree of dirt and rubbing soiled spots vigorously with a handful of grass. The native women, rather than carry each piece to the riverbank as it was washed, coiled the clothes on their heads, allowing the cooling water to trickle down their faces and backs. The last time Helen tried this she dropped the soap, and with clothes piled on her head she waddled unsteadily downstream to retrieve it. The comedy ended, and so did her efforts to acquire this very practical art, when she slipped on a mossy rock and tumbled headlong into the water. The soap and several of my socks drifted on to the Pacific.
While the women scrubbed their clothes and spread them to dry on nearby bushes they shared their mangoes or papayas with Helen and chatted, always asking the inevitable questions—where she came from and where she was going. But more, they asked about her family and her home. Once, laughingly, Helen pointed to the jeep and said, "That's our home. We're gypsies." An old woman looked at her with compassion. "You have no home?" she said. "Then you must come and live with me."
When their work at the river was done the women bathed and combed their long black hair before piling the gleaming white clothes on their heads and returning to their village. The men on their way home from the fields always left with us a cluster of bananas, or coconuts, a pineapple, or thirst-quenching stalks of sugar cane. Then, alone at the river, we bathed and watched the sun redden and sink behind sleek tall trees.
Sometimes when we were digging out stumps or filling in ruts we were only a few yards from the railroad tracks. As the train passed we waved to the engineer and looked longingly at those who sat reading in their vehicles aboard the flatcar. Mirage-like, we remembered the billboards that lined the California highways with the Southern Pacific slogan "Next time try the train." And sometimes as we jacked up the wheels to clear a rock we couldn't move, puzzled natives asked why we didn't drive over the rails as the oxcarts did when they couldn't pass. It was difficult to explain to them that to us that would be the next thing to putting La Tortuga on a flatcar.
As discouraged as we became at times there was always something to buoy our spirits. With the sun high in the sky and our water cans hot to the touch, we were digging our way along a ravine at the bottom of the railroad fill when we heard the put-put of a tiny rail car pass us. Then we heard it coming back again. Loaded with seven or eight smiling railroad workers, it stopped directly above us. One of them jumped off and slid down the embankment, bringing with him half of an ice-cold watermelon. Nothing I can remember, before or since, ever tasted as good as that icy bit of pink and green ambrosia.
And there was the time when a few minutes of unseasonal rain bogged us down again in a small swampy area with nothing within reach of our short remnant of rope. All our digging, piling brush in the mud, and letting air from the tires accomplished nothing but sank us deeper. I had decided to leave Helen and go in search of some oxen when six men, their clothes fresh and clean, walked by on their way home from a bath. Without a word they plunged into the mud to push. When La Tortuga was clear they would accept no payment, but with a "Que le vaya bien" they returned to the river to bathe once more.
Meeting Tomás again was a real boost to our sagging determination. We had met him for the first time on the previous trip when at dusk we had been unable to find our way around a marshland. Returning to a cluster of grass huts in a jungle clearing, we had asked an old woman for permission to camp there for the night. Making us welcome, she offered us food, water, and hammocks, and that evening we met her oldest son, Tomás. He was about my age, slender and dark, with bright smiling eyes. He told us that there was no trail to the next village, but after hearing our story he said, "Well, I know of a river bed. Perhaps we can make a way."
At dawn we had followed behind Tomás as he cut a path through grass and reeds, through dense growth, felling three-inch-thick trees with seemingly effortless blows of his machete. Down a steep bank and along a dry river bed he guided us, and up the other side, where the earth gave way and the jeep almost tumbled over backward. We inched behind him as he sliced through vines making a tunnel in growth so thick the sky above was hidden. By evening we had detoured five miles around the marsh to reach a trail again.
This time we met Tomás on the trail several miles from his home. Proudly he told us of his wife and new baby, and then just as proudly said that the path he had cut around the marsh was now a regular cart trail.
"You'll come with me to see my mother and my family, won't you?" he asked.
I looked at the threatening sky and hesitated.
"Yes," he said understandingly, "the rains will be early this year. We expect them in a few days. You must not delay. I will go with you again over the trail."
For the second time we followed Tomás as he lopped off new growth that La Tortuga couldn't clear. At the end of the five miles, while Tomás was washing his hands in a small water hole, I said quietly to Helen:
"I wish there were something we could do to show our appreciation. The last time he was offended when we offered him money."
Helen thought a moment. "You're about the same size. Why not give him one of your shirts?" She reached into the cabinet and pulled out the gray-and-white knit sport shirt she had given me for my birthday. When I handed it to Tomás his face clouded.
"Is this in payment?"
"No," I answered. "It's in friendship."
Thoughtfully he unfolded the shirt. Beneath his big straw hat his eyes brightened again. "Then in friendship I accept it."
After leaving Tomás we continued to jolt over the crude oxcart trails, moving rocks and fording rivers, under the constant threat of darkened skies, knowing that even one day of rain could keep us from getting through. At the end of nine days we had covered but two thirds of the distance from Tonalá, but we knew that if we could make it to Huixtla, some twenty miles away, there was a fair truck road from there to Tapachula. Helen had been quiet the last few days; I thought it was just fatigue.
When we inquired in the small town of Acepetagua about the cart trail to Huixtla we received the unexpected good news that there was now a new route over which trucks passed carrying coffee from the mountains down to the railroad. I was elated at the thought of being on a road again, but surprisingly it didn't make much of an impression on Helen. We followed the road through banana plantations, and then high into the mountains, where coffee bushes clung to the hillsides and waterfalls thundered to the valleys below. Trees poked through the mist like green lace on white absorbent cotton. Higher and higher the road twisted. It began to rain. Desperate to reach Huixtla, I drove recklessly, skidding around slick clay curves and bouncing over loose boulders. It rained steadily for an hour, and finally we began to descend only to find that the brakes, filled with mud from the swamps, wouldn't hold on the steep grades. Braking with the lowest gear, we slid down the narrow road, keeping the jeep as close as possible to the side of the mountain. By nightfall we were back in the lowlands again and learned with relief that there had been only light showers there. We also learned, however, that we had made a thirty-mile loop that had brought us but five miles closer to Huixtla, still eleven miles away. We made camp on a gravel bar in the middle of a river and the next morning continued over a good cart trail to Huixtla. As we drove that last twenty-five miles to Tapachula, through some of Mexico's richest coffee land, we felt the same elation that we had known four years earlier. After eleven days and 240 miles, and nearly fifty gallons of gas, we arrived that night, the tenth of March, in Tapachula.
The night life of the city, with its neon lights, juke boxes, and speeding automobiles, seemed almost unreal to us after the bright stars, humming insects, and creaking oxcarts. Blissfully we rolled along the smooth pavement looking for a hotel. Leaving Helen in the jeep in front of the Gran Hotel Internacional, I threaded my way through the lobby, where a group of fastidiously dressed men stood idly fanning themselves. No doubt I looked like a Steinbeck character. After one disdainful look the desk clerk said there were no vacancies. I was annoyed. While the men in the lobby whispered "loco americano," I explained to the clerk in my halting Spanish where we had come from, and after an uneasy glance at the guests in the dining room he reluctantly assigned us a room—with the pointed suggestion that we bring our bags around the back way.
With La Tortuga safely in the courtyard parking area, we were grateful for the darkness as we unloaded huge bundles of dirty clothes, cameras, suitcases, typewriter, and almost everything movable preparatory to working on the jeep the next morning. "Make Dinah heel," I warned Helen. "I was afraid to tell the clerk we had a dog too." Discreetly we climbed the service stairs to our back room.
The next morning I left Helen trying to persuade the laundress to take our heaps of dirty clothes while I took La Tortuga to the Willys agency. Agency is a rather misleading term for the open shed on one side of a fenced dirt rectangle where I supervised the removal, cleaning, and lubrication of La Tortuga's mud-filled wheels. While I hopped around keeping track of the parts being scattered all over the ground, the maestro, or head mechanic, sat in one corner and straw-bossed the activities of two men and three small boys. One by one I added my own tools to their inadequate supply when they used pliers and chisels instead of wrenches. Promptly at two o'clock they all dropped everything right where it was and knocked off for the afternoon siesta.
I took stock of the damage that La Tortuga had incurred in the last eleven days. Although Helen and I would regain the ten pounds we had each lost, La Tortuga would never be the same again. Her sides, back, and bottom were pocked with dents from rocks and stumps, paint was missing in long gouges where branches had dragged, and both gas racks were bent from the steep sides of ravines. In addition, while we forded a river, some twenty gallons of water had entered the hull through a punctured rubber seal. We had spare seals, but the dents and scratches were honored battle scars and we left them as they were.
Shortly after the men returned to work a green jeep drove into the shed. Too engrossed in making certain that all of La Tortuga's pieces went back where they belonged, I didn't pay much attention to it until one of the workers tapped me on the shoulder and said, "A countryman of yours."
Then I noticed the California license plate and, what surprised me even more, the University of California seal on the side. A tall young fellow with sandy hair and a crew cut and wearing a T shirt and khaki pants unlimbered himself from behind the wheel. With a big smile he said:
"So this is what had everyone so excited all the way from Arriaga to Tapachula. I'm Ed Markell."
"I'm very happy to know you," I said, looking again at the UCLA insignia. "If you had said you were Dr. Livingston I couldn't be more surprised. What brings you to Tapachula?"
"Well, I am a doctor," he laughed. "I'm doing research on tropical diseases for the university medical school. When I came through on the train, every time it stopped someone would tell me that two crazy Americans were trying to drive a strange apparatus through the jungles. I thought they were kidding me. I should have known it would be a couple of Californians."
"It wasn't easy," I said. "How about having dinner with us tonight? I'd like you to meet my wife." He seemed surprised that the other "crazy American" was a woman.
As it turned out, Dr. Markell was staying at the same hotel, and that night the three of us sat around a table having a regular school reunion. When Ed brought us up to date on the recent architectural developments at UCLA, I couldn't resist saying, "We consider ourselves almost alumni of the medical school too—we learned to drive there."
"You did what? I've heard of law schools being accused of teaching ambulance chasing," he laughed, "but this is the first time I've heard that a med school taught driving."
"Well, this was sort of a pre-med course. We used the excavations for the building to practice our jungle maneuvers."
"And," Helen added, "it was a very valuable course."
That was the first comment she had made all evening. A little later she asked to be excused. It wasn't like her, and I was concerned.
"It's nothing, my stomach's a little upset. I'll be all right in the morning."
"Where you've been, it's little wonder," Ed said. "I have some pills upstairs that should give you some relief. I'll be leaving in the morning, but if you don't feel better in a day or so you'd better see a doctor. Best of luck, Bruins."
The next day I left Helen resting in the room while I went back to finish the work on La Tortuga. That afternoon I received a telephone call from the hotel:
"Your wife is sick. Come quickly and bring a doctor."
Leaving everything, I called the doctor recommended by the hotel and rushed back to Helen. It was a hot, sticky afternoon, but she lay shivering in bed. The doctor took her temperature, and as well as I could, in Spanish, I answered his questions. When he left, I followed him into the hall.
"Your wife has a high fever," he said. "I think it's typhoid."
Stunned, I returned to the room. For the first time I realized that Helen's listlessness and lack of enthusiasm the past few days had been due to something more than fatigue.
But how could it be typhoid? We had boiled all our water, and we both had had all the inoculations. I told the doctor that when he called the next morning.
"My diagnosis is typhoid," he said. "It may be that the inoculations will prevent the symptoms from being so severe, but in any event it will be some time before you can travel again."
Each afternoon of the days that followed rain flooded the streets. Constantly I sat by Helen's bedside watching her temperature rise, recede a bit, and then climb still higher. I kept the covers on her when she tossed in fever, filled the hot water bottle when she shook with chills, and listened to her talk of home, of swamps, insects and flowers. How grateful I was that we had reached Tapachula when we did.
Each day the doctor came, prescribed more medicine, but each day Helen's temperature climbed higher. At 104 degrees it leveled off. She lay still, pale under her dark tan; several days passed before her fever broke. With relief I heard her ask for food, and when she made a few feeble puns, I knew she was going to be all right.
While Helen was gaining her strength back, I finished the jeep and stocked it with supplies, including two hundred feet of quarter-inch steel cable for the winch. When we left Tapachula, Helen was still weak, but anxious to be under way. We both knew that if the rains were early farther south, too, we were due for trouble. |
20,000 Miles South | Helen Schreider | [
"nonfiction"
] | [
"travel",
"South America",
"1950s"
] | Chapter 4 | WITH new mental pictures of the jeep's contents strewn about a customs inspector's office, Helen and I approached the Guatemalan border. We had a few nervous moments while officials eyed with suspicion the many bulges and hollows of La Tortuga's contours, but then, apparently believing that no self-respecting smuggler would travel in such an outlandish contraption, they stamped our passports without so much as a look inside.
The cool mountain highlands were a blessed relief from the humid heat of Tapachula. Dense forest that admitted little light covered the hillsides, wild orchids clustered to the bare lower branches of trees, and as we climbed still higher there was the paradox of evergreens and banana palms side by side. In the blue distance ridge upon ridge was differentiated by haze; in the valleys far below us tall trees projected from a mass of green, their slender trunks and leafy tops looking like tiny frayed toothpicks. As the afternoon mist settled, everything was bathed in an ethereal glow; delicate ferns and large leaf plants, a yard across, quivered gently under the droplets of moisture. In the mottled sky overhead the sun tried vainly to force its way through, edging each scudding cloud with gold. How good the cold rushing streams felt when we stopped briefly to bathe, and then hurried on. And what a pleasure it was to snuggle in our sleeping bags in the chill night air.
Neat little villages, their streets cobbled, lined the dirt highway. Every dwelling was brightened with flowers, the sharp petals and delicate stamen of poinsettia, lazy undulant circles of bougainvillaea, and the riotous color of hibiscus. Extremely steep grades wound in hairpin turns, requiring all the turtle power the engine could muster. In spite of the fact that the low-octane Mexican gas made the motor sound as if there were a panful of marbles somewhere inside, we had filled all our tanks. Gas would be forty cents a gallon henceforth instead of the thirteen cents we had been paying.
Along the coil-spring road to Chichicastenango, Indians on their way to market looked like a string of multicolored beads. Each one carried a burden that would put even a burro to shame. It was Saturday afternoon, and although we saw them twenty-five miles from Chichicastenango, their seemingly slow trot brought them there in ample time to set up shop for the Sunday-morning market.
The next morning the plaza at Chichicastenango was swarming with Indians, their handiwork and livestock crowded under the shade of purple jacaranda trees. Unglazed earthenware pots were piled like cannon balls, lacquered chests were stacked high, and there were pigs on leashes, chickens in baskets, the ever present dogs searching hungrily for a scrap of food, and the red combs and wrinkled necks of turkeys bobbing in tempo to the walk of little boys who carried them under their arms.
Near the church steps Indian women sat surrounded by baskets of pink and yellow rose petals. The colors of the flowers paled beside the women's scarlet embroidered blouses and headdresses. Obscuring the whitewashed façade of the church, smoke billowed up from fires on the semi-circular steps. Kneeling Indians prayed in a monotone of dialect, swinging censers tirelessly, the heavy-scented smoke of burning incense swirling around their dark faces. Their red turbans sooty, their black embroidered jackets and short black pants dusty, they moved up on their knees, pausing on each step. Inside the church they kissed the feet of an image of Christ dressed in the feathered ceremonial garb of the Indians. They sprinkled rose petals on the floor and backed away to continue their prayers in front of a stone altar on a hill above the town.
The rains that had started prematurely in Tapachula had not followed us into Guatemala, but Helen and I both knew that we could not tarry. We worked out a rigid schedule, one which allowed little time for sight-seeing, and decided to travel as many hours each day as Helen's weakened condition would permit, and as fast as the combination of the jeep's low power, the sharp curves, chuckholes, and washboard road allowed. In Guatemala City we stopped only long enough to procure a visa for El Salvador, and then speeded on to the border, constantly shifting gears and steering around slides and boulders on the ill-kept road.
After having crossed two Mexican borders and two Guatemalan borders with only a few minutes' delay and with no inspection, we were full of confidence when we braked to a stop in front of the Salvadorean customs house. Before us was the longest stretch of paved road we had seen for almost a month and we were anxious to see how La Tortuga would perform at a speed better than twenty miles per hour. But the officials had other ideas. Perhaps it was just that it was close to siesta time and a hot sweltering afternoon, but our statement that everything was in compartments made no difference. Besides, the chief of customs was tired and it was all of thirty feet from his desk to the jeep. So we spent the next few hours carrying our things in to him. When everything was in order the chief of customs wanted to send one of his boys along with us to make sure we didn't sell anything, but he couldn't get any volunteers when, at our encouragement, Dinah made a very convincing show of her teeth. As it turned out, it might have been better if someone had gone with us—we might not have been stopped by police every few miles on our way to the capital.
El Salvador is the smallest, but most densely populated country in Central America, and one of the two countries in all of Latin America that has its portion of the Pan American Highway paved. Principally a coffee country, almost all of its wealth is in the hands of a few large producers, and it is said that there are more Cadillacs in its capital than in Beverly Hills. El Salvador has had a relatively peaceful revolutionary history in comparison with its neighbors, probably because of the government's policy of keeping taxes just low enough so that it is cheaper to pay them than to buy guns. On our first visit we had entered on tourist cards, similar to those of tourist-wise Mexico. Apparently the El Salvadoreans had found that too simple a solution. They had reverted to the more bureaucratic and complicated visa system. I noticed, too, that the chimbimbo, our American dime, was still in circulation. I had been considerably confused on the first trip when I was handed a dime in change. The next time I bought something worth ten cents, I handed the clerk two nickels, but he wouldn't accept them. Later I learned that our dime was their official twenty-five-cent piece; their own contained too much silver and had disappeared from the market.
In San Salvador, the capital, Helen and I checked into the Hotel Internacional—there is always a Hotel Internacional—for a bath before making the rounds of the Honduran, Nicaraguan, and Costa Rican consulates for visas. We hired a cab for the morning. It turned out to be for the day. Previously our meetings with the consulates had been painless; it had never taken more than a few minutes to obtain our visas. It came as a shock, therefore, when an owlish-looking gentleman at the Honduran consulate peered over his glasses and said that there would be a ten-day wait.
"But," I protested, "we can't wait that long. Ten days could make the difference in being able to reach Costa Rica before the rains begin. We'll be in your country only a few hours. As much as we would like to, we can't even take time to stop in your lovely capital."
With that glowing reference to Tegucigalpa he warmed up. "Under those circumstances," he said, "I can issue a transit visa immediately—if you first have a visa for the next country on your route, Nicaragua."
I saw a strange gleam in his eyes when I said, "Fine, we'll be back with the visas in a half hour." We learned the reason for that gleam when we arrived at the Nicaraguan consulate. There would be a two-week delay for visas to Nicaragua. It seemed that Somoza, Nicaragua's dictator—or pacifier, as he preferred to be called—had just dodged a bullet. He was personally approving all visas. The fact that there were more than a thousand miles of unpatrolled border where anyone with evil intentions could slip across with ease didn't matter. Anyone entering by the one patrolled highway was under suspicion. After an hour of explanation, persuasion, cajolery, and flattery we had gotten nowhere. There would still be a two-week wait.
We were desperate. In the trees outside of town thumb-sized beetles were praying for rain. According to local superstition, this particular type of insect begins to sing about two months before the rainy season, and had already been praying, so we were told, for about six weeks. We had to be in Costa Rica before those prayers were answered.
Again we explained to the consul how critical timing was. The consul agreed to cable for permission, but added that it would still take at least seven days. Another hour passed while we went through the whole story again. Tired of arguing, the consul finally said, "I'll give you a visa under one condition—if you can get a personal recommendation from the American Ambassador."
To us this condition seemed tantamount to bringing back the Golden Fleece. Except for one unofficial and embarrassing contact in Nicaragua four years earlier, our experience with the American diplomatic service consisted of calling for our mail. Not quite encouraged by the Nicaraguan consul's compromise, we walked glumly out to the still waiting taxi and directed him to proceed with all haste to the American Embassy. We were met there by a very courteous secretary who listened sympathetically to our tale of woe and then informed us that the American Ambassador was in the United States. I could hear the thunder and lightning already. It was not at all difficult to picture La Tortuga engulfed in a sea of mud in the Guanacaste area of northern Costa Rica.
Just then a tall, slender, impeccably dressed Hollywood version of a young diplomat came down the stairs in time to catch the last act of the melodrama. He introduced himself as D. Chadwick Braggiotti, chargé d'affaires in the Ambassador's absence. In many subsequent encounters with the U.S. Foreign Service we never met a man who grasped a problem more quickly or with greater understanding than Mr. Braggiotti. Even though he was already late for a state function he took time right there to call the Nicaraguan consul and to instruct his assistant to draft a letter. He asked us to come back and see him later that afternoon.
By 4:00 P.M. we had all our visas, and also our permit to leave El Salvador, an item which normally would have taken two days to acquire. At the American Embassy later that same afternoon we were ushered into Mr. Braggiotti's office. A conversation followed that was to be of great consequence to us. He asked if we would do him a favor. Anything, I thought.
"You two are following closely behind Vice-President Nixon's goodwill tour of the Latin-American nations," he explained. "One of the purposes of that tour was to promote interest in the Pan American Highway, and I believe that news of what you are doing to get through the unfinished portions could do a great deal to help that cause. I would like to introduce you to our United States Information Service officer, have a few pictures taken, and get some background material on your trip. If you have no objections."
After the interview with the USIS officer we were given a letter of introduction to other USIS officers along our route.
The next morning the insects' prayers were still unanswered as we left San Salvador for the Honduran border, 112 miles away. We arrived there in a few hours, but it took another few hours to get through customs. The officials were tired there too.
Honduras is the only country in Central America where the Pan American Highway does not go directly to the capital. There was a fine paved cut-off to Tegucigalpa, but we passed it by with reluctance. Now every day counted in our race against the rains. We were anxious to cross the ninety-five miles of Honduran cactus and sage and enter Nicaragua before nightfall.
In Managua, Nicaragua's capital, we ran into another snag—Somoza also had to approve exit permits. We were told at the immigration office that the only way to avoid the delay was to see Somoza ourselves. We weren't eager to climb the hill to his imposing palace, especially in such a tank-like vehicle as La Tortuga; however, without her we felt we didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of seeing him. On top of a prominence overlooking the city of Managua and Lake Managua his palace was a combination Forest Lawn and Fort Knox. Since the attempt on Somoza's life the guard had been doubled, and it was with considerable difficulty that we reached the gate. Accompanied by a platoon of twitching soldiers bearing submachine guns, we were escorted to the Captain of the Guard, who told us that His Excellency was out of town. We asked to see his secretary, and, after three offices and three subsecretaries, finally we were led into a lobby-sized room with overstuffed leather chairs. After waiting only a few minutes we were introduced to a stocky, well-set gentleman in a white linen suit. Quietly he asked our business and made a telephone call. We were advised to pick up our exit visas at the immigration office within the hour.
Managua had been an experience on the first trip too. Though we had had no difficulty procuring an exit permit, we had had trouble enough in other respects. Mostly money, or rather the lack of it. Arriving in Managua with just enough for a hotel or a meal, we chose the meal, and then picked up our mail. We were expecting an income tax refund. But apparently my slide rule had slipped; instead of a check there was a bill. Taking up residence in the park on the shores of Lake Managua, we were pondering what to do when an angel appeared in the form of a little round man who approached us with the air of a street peddler selling pornographic post cards. He was not, however, a peddler; he was a buyer. Did we have any nylons, women's underclothes, cameras, tools? He would buy anything. We had only one thing we could sell, but in a dictator-run country where anything more lethal than a water pistol was under government control we were a little hesitant to mention the .22 rifle we had smuggled across four countries. However, since it wasn't digestible in its present form, we decided to transform it into cash, and our little round friend was sworn to secrecy. He said he would call at our hotel that night. "Where are you staying?" he asked. When I told him that we were staying right there on the shores of the lake, he grew very impatient. Finally we convinced him, and although he could not understand Americans not staying in the best hotel, or at least some hotel, he told us of a park high above the city where we could camp in relative comfort. "It's cooler, there's running water and no mosquitoes."
With that Elysium in mind we followed his directions, given in Spanish, to a road leading out of town. We found the two lights, the guard, the high fence, just as he had described. With superb nonchalance we told the astonished sentry that we would like to make camp there for the night. With somewhat less composure he made a telephone call from inside his post, and then opened the gates. "Pick any place you like," he said.
We spent a heavenly night, sleeping among hibiscus and roses. The next morning the gardener asked if we would like to bathe. What hospitable park commissioners, I thought. After a refreshing bath in a trellis-shielded shower dotted with blue morning glories we heated the last of our coffee and, with a piece of Dinah's biscuit, had a breakfast fit for a dog. As I was rolling up the sleeping bags I saw a very impressive building away off on a hill. I asked the gardener what public building it was. "Oh," he said, "it's not public. That's the residence of the American Ambassador. You've been sleeping in his garden." We left an anonymous thank-you note with the sentry.
Baffled, we rode back to town, hoping that our black-marketeering friend was not also playing a joke on us with respect to buying the gun. When the transaction was completed, he asked us how we enjoyed the park. At my stormy reply he said defensively, "But, señor, you did not understand. I said go past the lighted gate, not through it. The park was just beyond." Our Spanish has improved much since then.
Our trouble over visas and exit permits this time was caused in part by the rather strained relations between Somoza and Costa Rica's President Figueres. Somoza blamed Figueres for the attempt on his life, and Figueres blamed Somoza for aiding the revolution that had been so recently foiled in Costa Rica. They were still on speaking terms, but the speaking was restricted to name calling. Tension was mounting between the two countries and there were reputed to be guerrillas in the mountains near the border. Our state of mind was not improved by a meeting with an Inter-American Geodetic surveyor.
"Don't stop for anything," he warned. "If you have a flat tire ride it on the rim."
With that comforting advice we left Managua, planning to cross the border that same day. But we overestimated the quality of the roads. True to the tradition of making it as difficult as possible to cross frontiers, the roads on either side of the borders in Latin-American countries are rarely maintained. We made camp near the shores of Lake Nicaragua, the only place in the world where there are fresh water sharks. But it wasn't sharks we were concerned about that night.
It was already dark when we finished supper and were ready to crawl in the jeep. Helen was the first to notice several bright lights moving very erratically across an open field several hundred yards away. They weren't coming from the road, so I knew they couldn't be automobiles, and besides, they were sweeping the country as if they were searching for something. It was with a decidedly squeamish feeling that we watched the lights get closer and closer; since we were only a few miles from the border, it wasn't difficult to imagine some overzealous patriot shooting and asking questions later. But there was nothing to do but stand our ground and hope they wouldn't discover us. We were overly optimistic. A stray beam glanced across the reflectors on the side of the jeep and they lit up like Roman candles. Simultaneously all the lights concentrated on us as if we were Sonja Henie at the ice show. Helen dove for the wings, and I took a bow.
"Good evening, gentlemen," I quavered. "We're friends. Turistas norteamericanos."
There was a stony silence. Staring blindly into the lights, I tried to make out if they were in uniform, but all I could tell was that there were six men on horseback, all armed like comic book gangsters. The silence continued, and I was beginning to think they were all either unfriendly or mute. Eventually one of them asked me in Spanish:
"Where do you come from?"
"Alaska," I answered. There was another pause, and then in perfect English he said, "Well, what the hell are you doing here?"
The lights blinked off and in a wink I was enjoying a cigarette with six sportsmen from Managua who were deer hunting. Hence the sweeping lights. Not a very sporting way to hunt, but I was in no mood to question their ethics.
The next morning we crossed the border into Costa Rica. At the wooden frontier post there were graphic examples of the activity of the preceding few weeks—not a pane of glass was intact and every square foot of the walls sported a bullet hole. We waited four hours for the captain of the small detachment of soldiers to return from hunting down guerrillas before we were permitted to pass.
The Guanacaste region of northern Costa Rica is wild country, a coastal plateau of canyons, rocks, and scattered dense vegetation. Devoted principally to cattle raising, it had a Wild West atmosphere in other ways too. As we drove along the narrow dirt track, every man put his hand on a concealed gun as we approached. It was the memory of the dry-weather trail in this area that had caused us to rush across four countries to reach it before the rains came. Although the first fourteen miles were still very poor, the rest of the eighty miles we had worried about was an excellent gravel road, thanks to the U.S. Bureau of Public Roads.
In San José, the capital, we asked a policeman for directions to the Pension Internacional, the new hotel run by our old friends the Ramos family. Being a very obliging fellow, he offered to take us there. Zipping behind our first motorcycle escort, without regard for traffic, we felt we had at long last discovered the answer to our city driving problem. Until we found ourselves in front of a big square building that said policía instead of pension. There followed a cross-examination of very leading questions that intimated that harmless La Tortuga might be a Trojan horse with Somoza hidden somewhere inside. Fortunately they permitted me to use the telephone before we were placed incommunicado and in a few minutes an indignant Señor Ramos was down to vouch for us.
San José, Costa Rica, was both an end and a beginning for us. Up to this point we had had past experience to draw on, but henceforth everything would be one great big question mark. We knew that no one had ever reached Panama in a wheeled vehicle under its own power, and that there was not so much as a foot trail over the mountains. The customary procedure for the Pan American traveler was to put his vehicle on a ship at the Pacific port of Puntarenas and disembark in the Canal Zone, Panama. We felt we had a new route mapped out. From San José we intended to travel south to San Isidro del General, where the Pan American Highway ended, and from there over a winding mountain trail down to Dominical on the Pacific coast. The practicability of our theory depended on several things which only an on-the-spot investigation could tell us. That there were beaches we knew from maps and charts, but what the jeep would do in water other than a calm bay was still in doubt. At best, our plans would mean traveling two hundred miles along an almost uninhabited coast from Dominical to Pedregal in Panama, the first seaport where we could again reach a road. Our maps also showed that the beach was broken by river mouths and rock outcroppings which would have to be skirted by sea, and we were depending upon the availability of protected coves from which to land and take off. We estimated conservatively that the trip would take two weeks and, allowing for the worst possible conditions, would consume seventy gallons of fuel.
One of the first things on the agenda in San José was to get as much firsthand information on coastal conditions as possible, and Mr. Lee Hunsaker, the USIS officer, was of great help in arranging appointments for us with everyone who knew anything at all about the area. With Mr. Honiball of United Fruit Company, Mr. Paris of Union Oil, and Mr. Harshberger of the U.S. Bureau of Public Roads we studied maps and aerial photographs, but most of the available material was on the interior. Little was known of the coast line between Dominical and Pedregal. We were advised to look up Tommy Brower, an American who ran a small hotel at Dominical and who was supposed to know more about that part of the Pacific coast than anyone else. But when we left San José we still had nothing more concrete than an untried amphibian and a theory.
With scurrying around seeking information, procuring provisions, servicing the jeep, and searching for extra fuel containers the few days we spent in San José, Costa Rica, were busy ones. There was also the matter of a visa to Panama. At the consulate a white-haired gentleman cheerfully asked the necessary questions, but when he came to the one about mode of transport he automatically wrote down, "By air." I informed him we weren't going by plane. Before I could clarify that statement he scratched it out and wrote "By ship." Again I hastily corrected him.
"Well, how are you going?" he queried.
At my reply, "By amphibious jeep," he scratched out the whole question and just signed his name.
Mr. Hunsaker and his vivacious wife Jane took us under their wing during our stay in San José. Their gentle hospitality was a refreshing interlude after life in La Tortuga. Mr. Hunsaker arranged an interview for us with Costa Rica's President Figueres, a cultured MIT graduate who asked keen questions about our plans for getting into Panama, but who was just as dubious as the others as to La Tortuga's ability to get us there. As far as the President was concerned, La Tortuga's crew consisted of just captain and first mate. We discreetly avoided any mention of our mascot because of a quarantine law which she was dodging. Dinah usually accompanied us to the Hunsakers' home and was very fond of their young daughter, Shelly. On one occasion, however, upon the arrival of the President's limousine Dinah was relegated to the kitchen. Dinah hated to miss out on a party, but Shelly, excusing herself periodically, kept her well supplied with hors d'oeuvres.
It was Palm Sunday, 1955, when we left San José for San Isidro over the hogback highway that skims along the top of the Talamanca range. A good portion of the distance was at elevations of between nine thousand and eleven thousand feet, and on clear days one is supposed to be able to see both the Atlantic and the Pacific oceans. The mist obscured everything that day, however, and by the time we had covered the seventy miles to San Isidro, rain was beating on the top of the jeep. We decided to accept Mr. Harshberger's invitation to stop at the Bureau of Public Roads encampment and spend a dry night before continuing to Dominical. If the hull had sprung as many leaks as the roof, we wouldn't get very far toward Panama.
Noon the next day found us at Dominical, a tiny group of ramshackle wooden buildings and an equally ramshackle hotel owned by Tommy Brower. We had some difficulty distinguishing which among the natives at the bar was Mr. Brower, but when we did we plagued him with questions about the coast line, only to learn that he knew little more about it than the people in San José. He did tell us, however, of a place three miles south along the beach where the surf was not so bad. It was obvious that we could never go through the breakers in front of the town. They towered twenty feet at the crest. We had heard their roar long before we had seen them.
Threading our way between trees and skirting patches of rock at the water's edge, we drove the three miles to the end of the beach and set up camp in a cluster of coconut palms. The beach was blocked by a shale cliff that jutted a half mile into the sea. Behind us was a dense impenetrable forest. There was no way around the cliff except through the breakers.
The rest of that afternoon we spent preparing La Tortuga for her maiden voyage. We repacked her with heavy things low down in the hull for stability and arranged our food into a daily menu. Topside, in a waterproof bag, I stowed the emergency gear: first aid kit, knife, a canteen of fresh water, three days' supply of food, insect repellent, mosquito netting, and extra socks. I inflated the one-man rubber life raft and put it on top, and tightened the lashings on the twenty-gallon drum of gas topside, which, with a five-gallon can inside and our regular supply, gave us the required seventy gallons. Underneath the jeep I inspected each of the rubber seals and checked for holes in the hull. The life preservers we kept handy inside.
Tommy Brower had told us that low tide should be about 6:00 P.M., and that it would be one hour later each day. When the jeep was ready, we strolled along the water's edge. The beach was hard, but there were hundreds of boulders awash in the ebbing tide. The rocks would complicate things when we took off but, being able to choose a path, we thought we could avoid them. However, on landing we would have no choice, and we decided it would be advisable to land at high tide, when there would be plenty of water to get us over the rocks to the sandy beach beyond. Mr. Brower had also told us that the sea would be calmest in the morning and to limit our travel to those hours. Consequently we planned our first day on leaving at low tide at seven the next morning and making twenty miles to Mala Point, landing at high tide around 1:00 P.M.
That night coconuts mingled with the rain that pelted the top of the jeep as we lay on our bunks listening to the constant thrash of the waves onshore. It was not the quiet lapping of wavelets I had described to Helen in answer to her vivid word picture of combers thundering on a rocky coast. In Alaska, nine thousand miles away, I had tried to reassure her, saying we would surely be able to find a secluded cove from which to take off into the sea. In quieting her fears I had oversimplified the whole thing to the point where I believed it myself. We would merely drive along the beach until we came to a rock outcropping, then take to the sea in a calm bay that would be conveniently close, continue in the water to another stretch of beach, and so on until we reached a road in Panama. Lying there that night, neither of us speaking, we both knew that my theory was not very realistic. So certain had I been, however, that we had never even tested the jeep in surf.
At seven the next morning we were waiting at the edge of the water knowing no more about taking a jeep or even a boat through the surf than what the engraved brass plate on the dashboard instructed: "Approach at full throttle and steer course at right angles to the waves." In a very short time I learned that I wasn't the only one addicted to oversimplification. The engineer who wrote those instructions should have tried it himself.
Somewhere I had read that there is a rhythm to ocean waves, that a big one is followed by several smaller ones in a definite cycle. Sitting tensely in the jeep, we studied the supposed rhythm, but they all looked big. With the windows and hatches tightly closed the heat from the radiator poured into the cab, turning it into an oven. When what seemed like the biggest wave had passed, we eased into the sea, four-wheel drive engaged, propeller spinning. As we went deeper the wheels lost power; the jeep wavered slightly, yawed a bit, and we were afloat. Quickly I shifted the wheels into neutral, pressed the throttle to the floor, and steered directly for the line of breakers. The first comber was already spent when it hit us, but La Tortuga shuddered from the force and foam covered the windshield. Ignoring my instinct to step on the brakes, I kept the throttle floored and headed straight into the wall of water that rushed at us like a bull at the Plaza de Toros. The breaker curled its crest into a white froth as the jeep plunged into it. La Tortuga reared like a horse, Helen grabbed for the dash, Dinah was thrown to the back, and I held grimly to the wheel. I flinched as the full force of the ten-foot-high comber crashed against the windshield, and we were slammed into the trough that followed. The next one crashed down on us, swallowing us. And then another. Then, past the breaker line, we were rising and falling smoothly on the long ground swells.
It was several minutes before we recovered enough to notice that we were listing heavily to starboard. Shifting Dinah and everything movable inside, we tried to trim ship, but it wasn't enough. Already a half mile from shore, we would have to turn back and move the drum of fuel topside.
With the hatches again tightly closed and the jeep running at full throttle we headed for the same place from which we had taken off. Once inside the breaker line, there was no turning back. The first swell swept under the jeep; with the water traveling in the same direction as we were, the rudder had almost no control. Closer to shore the next wave lifted the stern, the bow pointed down, and we surfboarded toward the beach, fighting the wheel as the jeep yawed from side to side. With absolutely no rudder control we rushed along at what seemed terrific speed, tipped crazily on the crest of the comber, white water thrashing on either side. I felt the wheels touch bottom, I shifted into gear, and we rolled up on the sand.
By the time we had relocated the heavy fuel drum the tide was halfway in. There were only three hours left before high water. We decided to shorten our run to Uvita Point, some ten miles away. The surf was considerably worse when we took off the second time.
Once safely outside the breaker line and clear of the rocky point, we plotted our course for Uvita Point and tried to enjoy the novel experience of driving an automobile on the Pacific Ocean. At first, when the giant swells rolled toward the jeep, towering over us like mountains around a valley, we whipped the rudder around and tried to meet them head on. We soon realized that they only swept harmlessly beneath us, lifting us gently and then lowering us into the trough again. If we could ignore the feeling of insecurity, the knowledge that only a thin piece of steel and a few rubber seals kept out the fathoms of water below us, it was not much different than driving a jeep along the highway. The controls were the same, but the response was sluggish. The motor was making as much noise as if we were moving at thirty miles per hour, but instead of road shock there was a gentle rocking motion. The rumble of the propeller replaced the tire hum, waves slapped in the fender wells, and instead of a thirty-mile-per-hour wind there was only the three-mile-per-hour gurgle of the wake.
Our navigational aides were simple. We had a clock to check the tides, binoculars to check the shore, a hydrographic chart surveyed by the U.S.S. Ranger in 1885, and a compass which we had no intention of needing.
Our theory had already undergone several changes. We could see stretches of beach, but they were short ones, and the time saved in driving along them was not worth the risk of an unnecessary landing. Our revised plans were to stay at sea until nearly high tide, landing south of any outcropping of rock. Then, while waiting for the next low tide, we could drive along the beach to the next obstacle.
We followed the coast line about two miles out, avoiding masses of drifting seaweed. With the binoculars we scanned the shore line, trying to identify the landmarks and check them off on the chart.
It was almost high tide when we made out the turbulence that marked Uvita Point, a long sand spit that projected into the sea. The water looked calmest just south of a high headland that dropped into the sea about two miles nearer to us. Steering at right angles to the waves, we headed in that direction. When we had gone back at Dominical, there had been no indication of the height of the waves from the seaward side. It was the same as we approached the beach at Uvita.
With the accelerator floored we entered the breaker line. There was the same surge toward shore as the first unborn breaker passed under us, and then the same thrust from the stern. The bow nosed down. Again we surfboarded out of control. Standing almost on her nose, La Tortuga rushed forward, caught on the crest with the trough twenty feet below. I felt as if we were in the front car of a roller coaster at the top of the first drop. Terrified, thinking we were going stern over bow, I let up on the gas, hoping the comber would slip under us and we would straighten out. Instead, with no propeller wash past the rudder, we lost the last bit of control. La Tortuga spun broadside to the waves, heeled over on her side. The engine sputtered and died. For an eternity we hung there while wave after wave slammed against the bottom of the hull, wondering why the jeep didn't go over, praying it wouldn't and knowing it should. The whole portside was completely submerged, water streamed in through the seals around the doors. Dinah and Helen scrambled for something to hang on to and tried to keep out of my way as I frantically worked the throttle and ground on the starter.
Miraculous is a word much overused, one that is often applied to many things with common-sense explanations. But for us that day at Uvita Point it is the only word that explains the sudden lull in the waves, the way the jeep wallowed right side up, and the starting of the gasoline-flooded engine. On the deserted shore we climbed limply from the hatch and stared back at the surf. It was every bit as high as in front of the hotel at Dominical.
The rest of that afternoon we sat under the palms that edged the shore, our mouths dry, our hearts pounding. Red crabs played at our feet, the beach was strewn with coconuts, a few of which helped to quench our thirst. That landing caused a complete reversal of our by now thoroughly shaken theory. We were determined never to land at high tide again. Perhaps if we landed at low tide the surf would be less severe. This opposite approach, however, imposed other problems. During that week low tide came early in the morning and after dark at night. It would be necessary to start as soon as it was light enough to see and to plan on the very short runs we could make in the few hours before the morning low tide.
At 5:30 A.M. the next day we headed for Mala Point, some ten miles away, planning to land there shortly after low tide at 8:00 A.M. Staying as close to shore as possible, we scanned the beach and the water, straining to make out details in the early morning light. Through the muting haze we could see several rock islands ahead. The chart located these islands about two miles out and showed a string of smaller rock pinnacles on either side, but it indicated a clear channel between them and the cliffs onshore. We debated whether to go out around the string, which would mean an additional five miles. We decided to trust the chart and head for the channel rather than land two hours after low tide.
Thrusting from the blue water to heights varying from a few feet to 116 feet, the string of rocks formed an arc from shore like a funnel, with the channel at the far end its neck. We cut the throttle and watched the birds nesting on the massive bare crowns of the rocks and the white froth blending with their chalky bases where the sea had left rings of salt. There was no indication that the chart was in error until we were almost to the channel. In the trough between swells we saw jagged fingers of stone break through the surface of the water. We were too close to turn around. Reverse gear had little effect. In slow motion we drifted toward the rocks. To give the rudder more control I floored the throttle. Almost blindly I picked a space between the fingers. Like an ant between the teeth of a saw we crawled through on the crest of a swell. Dumbly I gripped the wheel long after we were clear. How long, I wondered, would Lady Luck ride as supercargo?
Landing at low tide gave us the same chill as before, but we reached the beach safely about 8:30 A.M. With the next low tide coming after dark that night, we couldn't put to sea until the following morning. To the south we could see a long stretch of beach that curved to join the flat horizon of blue and brown. Behind the beige strip of beach were salty marshes and mangrove swamps. The chart showed fifteen miles of shore line broken by only a few river mouths. Keeping on the hard sand near the water's edge, we drove as fast as twenty miles per hour until we came to the first river mouth. It was a wide shallow delta of brown water, choppy from the meeting of the current and ocean swells. Following the shore line to the narrowest part, about a half mile across, we eased down the slick bank unaware that one of the side radiator exhaust hatches was ajar. There was no direction to the waves, they slapped on all sides as we churned erratically toward the other side. Near midstream an extra-large wave splashed through the crack in the hatch that was ajar, flooding the engine with salt water. With the jeep drifting helplessly, the hood open to any stray wave, I worked nervously on deck, drying the spark plugs and distributor. I signaled Helen to press the starter button. The motor would not respond. She threw me another dry towel, and I wiped everything again. With relief I heard the engine cough and take hold. I secured the hood and quickly climbed over the windshield and through the open top hatch into the cab.
By the time we were across the tide was in, and the beach was too narrow to drive on. With her front wheels awash, we parked La Tortuga among the debris of bleached driftwood and took protection from the sun in the only shade, under the rear overhang of the jeep. There was no sound but the thrash of the sea; we wondered what else it held in store.
When the tide receded, we continued along the beach, getting stuck in the black mud of river mouths and in the soft uncertain sand of the shore. For one stretch of several miles a six-foot wall of sand kept us driving partly in the water. At high tide the wall would be covered. When the wheels fell into a soft patch of sand and I winched out to a buried log, I thought of what would happen if the tide caught us between that wall and the sea. At dusk we reached the widest river mouth and made camp, planning to cross in the morning.
That night a fisherman approached our camp, the first person we had seen since leaving Dominical. A young fellow, he reminded me of Tomás in southern Mexico. Curiously, and hesitantly, he asked where we had come from. Squatting on the black sand in the white moonlight, he described the coast line ahead. He could not understand how we had gotten so far, but he said that what lay ahead was worse. He suggested that we go back. But going back was out of the question.
Since that time I have often wondered what would have happened if we had not met that fisherman. I have cursed him for what happened and blessed him for saving us from what might have happened, but always I have wondered. If he had not come to talk to us that night, the next morning we would have continued as we had been, feeling the same sickening chill when we entered the surf, the same numbing fear when we landed. Maybe we would have reached Panama as planned, maybe we would have turned turtle on some desolate beach, or maybe we would not have been so lucky at steering a course through a maze of rocks. I wonder.
The fisherman returned the next morning as we were picking a spot to cross the river mouth. He asked to see our chart. Running a calloused finger over it, he said:
"Up this river fifteen kilometers there is a United Fruit Company plantation. When I worked there five years ago, there was a road to a little town called Piedras Blancas, where the Rio Esquinas flows down to the Golfo Dulce." He traced a course that would cut off a hundred miles of sea and beach travel around the Peninsula de Osa.
I don't know why I believed him. Officials of the United Fruit Company in San José had said there were no roads. The fisherman swore he had seen one. We should not have taken the chance, but we were both too unnerved by what had happened and too afraid of what might lay ahead. We were ready to grasp at any straw, no matter how slim. We reasoned that just as there was a forgotten trail in southern Mexico there could be a forgotten trail in southern Costa Rica. We changed our plans again and headed down the steep bank into the river and upstream toward the banana plantation.
The incoming tide pushed La Tortuga up the sluggish brown river. The sound of the sea grew fainter; we felt almost as if we had been reprieved. Keeping close to the deep-cut bank, we steered clear of the flotsam that drifted by. On either side mangrove trees sat like giant spiders on their spindly roots, and in their branches black-faced monkeys played. Overhead brilliant-plumaged parrots filled the sky with color and the air with their raucous cries. As the river curved back on itself, we watched for the merging tributaries the fisherman had described. A few stilted grass and cane huts spotted the gray shore with yellow, and below them on the muddy banks of the dark river were long dug-out canoes.
After five miles or so the water appeared fresh, and we thought of a bath, the first in fresh water in almost a week. Dinah reluctantly parted with her pan, and Helen crawled out on the bow to dip water from the river. Just from the way she scrubbed I could see how relieved she was; I felt the same way. When she had finished, Helen took the wheel and I took my place on the hood. I was still covered with soap when a sharp jolt nearly threw me over the side as the jeep came to a squishy halt. We had gone aground.
"Some navigator," I jibed. Scrutinizing each log and shadow on the bank for the alligators the fisherman had warned of, I jumped in and pushed off. As we continued up the river, the dark green jungle banks gave way to the yellow green of banana palms. Approaching the plantation, we heard the foreign sound of another motor. A small launch with a surrey-like shade of palm fronds drew alongside with four astonished plantation workers aboard. After they had asked the three questions, one of them tossed me a can of beer from an insulated box under one seat of the boat. All this and cold beer too! The one dismaying factor was that none of the men knew anything about a road to Piedras Blancas. But they said there might well be one and suggested that we ask at plantation headquarters.
The tide was full when we reached Puerto Cortés, an outpost on the edge of the plantation. It looked like an easy ascent up the riverbank to firm ground, and with all wheels driving and the propeller engaged we hit the bank. The jeep buried its wheels in soft gumbo clay that had the consistency of wet cement. With confidence I secured one end of our new steel cable to a big palm tree and engaged the winch. The cable tightened, the jeep moved a little deeper into the mud, and with a twang like a guitar string the cable snapped. I tried to back up, but we were stuck fast. Doubling the cable, I tried again. The jeep moved forward a bit, and then a loud clatter came from the winch housing. Something inside had sheared, and I had no spare parts for the winch.
With the tide at its highest and the winch out of commission, there was no way to get out by ourselves. A plantation dump truck tried to pull us, but it just sat and spun its duals. One of the men put in a call to Palmar Sur, plantation headquarters a few miles away, and in a half hour what must have been the granddaddy of all tractors rumbled into view. As easily as a pair of tweezers picks up an insect the long crane on the front of the tractor picked up La Tortuga and set her on the firm bank. I'm afraid that we rather disrupted the work at the plantation that afternoon. By the time we were clear, scores of natives had come from the fields to watch.
On either side of the gravel road to Palmar Sur were forests of banana palms. Hiding among their shiny drooping leaves, stems of green fruit hung pendulously, accented by the deep red of their heart-shaped buds. Tractor-pulled low-bed trailers carried the burlap-wrapped fruit to the sheds where they were washed, sprayed, and covered with clear plastic bags before being shipped immediately to the U.S. markets.
We had been advised to see Mr. George Newell, the general superintendent at Palmar Sur. Covered with river mud, unshaven, I hesitated even to walk up the flower-lined path to his home. With an expression something like shock Mr. Newell greeted me at the door. I tried to make my story as brief as possible, and then asked about the road.
"Yes," he said, "there is a road, but it goes only twelve miles. And even if you could get to Piedras Blancas, the Rio Esquinas, which you plan to navigate, is just a rapid-filled rocky stream. Good for fishing, but that's all."
It was late afternoon when we received that disheartening information, and Mr. Newell suggested that we put up at the Palmar Sur guesthouse, have a good dinner, and talk about it later.
Palmar Sur was an amazing example of what good organization could do. The United Fruit Company had turned a jungle wilderness into a model community of neat houses, parks, and gardens, where roses and shower of gold bloomed prolifically. In the stilt-elevated guesthouse overlooking the golf course Helen and I bathed under a strong hot shower, refreshed with a cool one, and made repeated trips to the refrigerator for ice water. Later that evening, looking more presentable but no more cheerful, we sat in the Newells' living room. Over cool drinks Mr. and Mrs. Newell listened sympathetically to the story of the trip, but their only suggestion was a flatcar on the United Fruit Company railroad to Corredores, some fifty miles away.
"From there," Mr. Newell said, "a bulldozed trail leads over the mountains to Volcan, Panama, where you can again catch the Pan American Highway. We'll be happy to make arrangements for a flatcar to take you to Corredores."
I thought of southern Mexico and what we had done to avoid taking the train. "Thank you, but we can't do that," I said. "In the morning we'll go back down the river and continue along the coast."
"Why don't you think about it? Tomorrow's a holiday, Good Friday, and, according to tradition, nothing moves in Costa Rica. Even the banana company shuts down. We couldn't load you on a flatcar until Saturday anyway—Good Friday is the one day in the year the trains don't run. Take it easy—the Pacific will wait for you. Think it over."
I was thinking. A whole stream of thoughts. That was pretty big talk about going back to the beach. With a useless winch what would I do if we got stuck in the sand again and the tide rolled in? Good Friday. The only day in the year that trains don't run. It would mean a compromise which we were not willing to make in southern Mexico for even a few yards, but we would still be traveling under our own power.
"Mr. Newell," I asked, "would it be possible to drive over the railroad bed to Corredores? If it's only fifty miles I'm sure we could do it in one day."
Mr. Newell thought a moment. "I'm sorry, but the company would never give permission. Besides, the tracks are unballasted. They're on a fill, narrow-gauge, with a drop off of eight to ten feet and more on either side. Your jeep would be pounded to pieces."
"After what the jeep has been through, I'm sure it could take it, and we promise to be off the tracks before the trains start running again."
Still not convinced, nevertheless, Mr. Newell made a telephone call. When he hung up the receiver he said, "The head office will not give permission. But, since there will be no traffic tomorrow, they will not prohibit you from trying—provided you're off the tracks by midnight." He brought out a map of the railroad. "In the morning I'll go with you and put you on the right track. For the first fifteen of the fifty miles you will have a dirt road, so that leaves only thirty-five miles on the railroad bed. Now I think you had better get a good night's sleep."
The next morning we checked over the jeep, drained the sea water from the differentials, and left Palmar Sur along the dirt road that paralleled the tracks. The Costa Rican police garrison, for some unknown reason, insisted on sending a soldier along with us. Poor Humberto, he was about to have the roughest duty he would ever see.
We made a strange caravan that Good Friday morning, with the Newells leading the way in their car through the plantation camp. In one of the open fields the natives were hanging an effigy of Judas Iscariot. Inside the jeep was a huge picnic lunch packed by Mrs. Newell, and our gallon thermos jug was filled with ice. Full of hope, we followed to the end of the road, where a flat area made easy access to the tracks. The Newells were still waving as we bounced off toward Corredores, thirty-five miles away.
Mr. Newell had been right about its being a rough roadbed, but I had no doubt as to La Tortuga's ability to take it for a mere thirty-five miles. With the ties sitting on top of a fill, set twelve to eighteen inches apart, and with no gravel ballast between, the jeep bounced along like a marble on a washboard. The jeep's tread was too wide to fit between the rails of the narrow-gauge track, so we rode with the left wheels between and the right ones rubbing against the outside of the rail. To make things worse, the jeep's wheelbase was of such a length that both front and rear wheels were between the ties at the same time. At very low speeds we dropped between each pair of ties; at high speeds we skimmed over the top of them, but with no steering control. We found ten miles per hour a fair compromise, and the springs and shock absorbers took most of the shock. However, dozens of switches and spur lines prevented us from maintaining that speed, and time was consumed in getting over each one. There were unguarded trestles over chasms with rocky streams below where we crept along with only a few inches of tire riding the end of the ties. Each time we were forced to stop there was the agonizingly bumpy period of getting up to speed again. The inside of the jeep became a shambles as the contents of the cabinets showered to the floor. Cameras, typewriter, large chest of film, everything almost floated with the constant jolting. After a few miles of this the drum of gas topside cut its lashing and we jettisoned it beside the tracks. I had the steering wheel to cling to, but Helen, Humberto, and Dinah just floated along with everything else, hitting their heads on the ceiling and being slammed against the sides.
When we stopped for switches the wheels lodged between the ties, the hull clanged against the rails, and it was only with low-range, four-wheel drive and Helen and Humberto pushing that we could rock free. At one spot we slipped sideward and hung over the edge of the fill. Just the left wheels caught on the rail kept us from sliding to the bottom. An inch at a time I maneuvered for over an hour, following Helen's frantic signals, before we were back on the tracks.
By two o'clock in the afternoon we had covered but ten of the thirty-five miles when all four shock absorbers failed. They had become so hot that all the oil had boiled away. After that there was no speed at which we could stay on the tracks; on every tie the jeep was flung to the side, once coming down diagonally across the rails. Getting back consumed more of our dwindling time. Unable to continue with all four wheels bouncing on the ties, we maneuvered the two left wheels up on the rail so that at least half the jeep rode smoothly. With the upper part of my body hanging from the open door I drove looking down at the wheels and steered blindly, listening to Helen's directions.
As long as the track was straight or there were only left curves, I could keep the wheels on the rail, but at spurs, switches, or right curves the jeep slid off. The clutch began to slip a little, and a queer click came from the transmission. At dusk we were still moving ahead slowly, the headlights boring twin holes in the mist that crept down from the mountains. The moisture made the rails slippery and we slid off more and more often. We had covered another ten miles when the right front tire blew out—the constant rubbing against the rail had worn completely through the sidewall. The right rear tire was through two cords and the left rear had a big piece torn from it. They could never last the remaining fifteen miles to Corredores.
With one spare, the other three tires barely holding air, the clutch slipping, something amiss in the transmission, and with no shock absorbers, we had but four hours until midnight, when the trains would start to run again. I knew we could expect another blowout at any time, and when that happened it would be impossible to get off the tracks. I thought of reversing the tires, but I knew I was kidding myself. It had taken all day to come twenty miles. Allowing at least an hour to switch wheels, how could I hope to go that last fifteen miles in the dark, and in less than three hours? At the first wide spot we turned around and limped back a half mile to a plantation camp, where we called Mr. Newell. Humberto slept that night in the camp while Helen and I lay sleepless in the jeep. A little after twelve the first train rushed by.
The next morning we left Humberto with battered La Tortuga beside the tracks, and Helen, Dinah, and I climbed aboard another train for Palmar Sur. The conductor said no dogs, so the three of us rode in the baggage car. Technically we were out of bounds there too. A sign on the wall read, "Only those accompanying the sick and the dead are allowed in the baggage car." But as we sat dejectedly back to back on a packing crate we felt that we met that requirement well enough.
In Palmar Sur, Mr. Newell met us as we walked sadly up the walk. "I'm sorry, Frank. I thought sure you'd make it. Come on in and make yourselves at home."
That night we didn't stay in the guesthouse—the Newells invited us to stay with them, and did everything they could to ease the sting. I still couldn't accept the thought of a flatcar, but orders had come from the head office that under no circumstances could we continue on the ties. With the jeep full of holes, she would sink in a minute even if we could get her back to the sea. We had but two alternatives—leave her where she was or build a ramp and take her to Corredores by rail. I asked Mr. Newell to make arrangements for a flatcar.
The next day, Easter Sunday, we rode with Mr. Newell in a rail auto to where the jeep sat. The efficient United Fruit Company railroad had already built a ramp of old ties, and a flatcar was waiting. But poor tired Tortuga just couldn't make it up the steep incline without help. With the whole crew pushing, she finally groaned onto the car and was lashed securely in place with her own broken winch cable.
The train that hooked on to the flatcar later that day took us only a few miles, to Coto Junction, where we spent the night. Of all the places we camped on the whole trip I think the most depressing was on that flatcar. Another train picked us up the next morning and carried us to Corredores. I adjusted the clutch and broke out our supply of tire-repair material. Avoiding the use of the noisy second gear, we headed for Volcán, Panama.
The mountain trail over which we drove had been bulldozed and forgotten by the Army engineers during World War II. Maintained in places by a colony of Italian immigrants, nothing more than a narrow dirt path in others, the trail clawed along the sides of the mountains, dropped into dense forested valleys and over unbridged streams. Less than seventy-five miles from Corredores to Volcan, it took two days to get there. It was another two days over the part-gravel, part-concrete Pan American Highway to Panama City. |
20,000 Miles South | Helen Schreider | [
"nonfiction"
] | [
"travel",
"South America",
"1950s"
] | Chapter 5 | Barely in the Canal Zone, we were just beginning to enjoy the feel of smooth concrete beneath the wheels when we heard the wail of a siren, and a big unsmiling Zone cop pulled us over to the curb.
"Ah, civilization," Helen commented. "I wonder who they think we're hiding this time?"
The policeman parked his motorcycle ahead of La Tortuga, walked over, and leaned against the door. His stern look changed to a sheepish grin. "That was a mean trick," he said, "but when I saw this thing going by I just had to get a good look at it."
Helen and I both let out a whoosh of breath. "Look all you want, Officer." He asked a few questions, and then I asked one. "Do you know where we can get a good hamburger and a chocolate malt?" We had been looking forward to that bit of Americana for a long time.
With that welcome to the Septic Strip and a warning that Dinah really should be in quarantine, we continued over the bridge across the Panama Canal to Panama City, about the quickest transformation it is possible to make from the United States to Latin America. At the Ford agency we unloaded La Tortuga, and with the back of a taxi crammed with her contents we went to the hotel recommended by Señor Ramos in San José. It might have been a fine hotel when it was built fifty years ago, but since that time nothing obvious had been done in the way of maintenance or cleaning. But it did fit our pocketbook, an important factor since it had taken quite a beating from the flatcar charges and would be even flatter before the jeep was in condition again.
At the desk a buxom woman, whose reddish hair was uniformly gray halfway from the roots, looked apprehensively at Dinah, then in all directions about the lobby, under tables, and behind the wastebasket. There was nothing big enough for her to hide behind, so I reassured her:
"Don't worry about our dog. She's as gentle as a puppy."
"It's not your dog I'm worried about. It's my cat."
"We always keep Dinah on a leash. We won't let her hurt your cat."
"But you don't understand. I'm afraid my cat will hurt your dog."
I could not imagine even the most anti-dog cat going out of its way to attack one-hundred-pound Dinah, but we found out that this was no ordinary cat. The next day as we were taking Dinah for a walk we saw it—a battle-scarred, gray-striped tom with ragged ears and a super superiority complex. He clearly believed that he was a direct descendant of Leo the Lion. Lying on the hotel desk, he surveyed his domain with an expression that defied man or beast to usurp his place. Even Dinah was impressed and backed away. But that was not enough. Carefully the cat stretched, flexed his muscles, and unsheathed his claws, all with premeditated and leisurely assurance. With a yowl that would make a Zulu cringe, he leaped. The three of us stood frozen. The quick-thinking manager made an off-the-fence, one-handed catch and grabbed him by the tail. For the balance of our stay there we took no chances. Helen scouted ahead to make sure that the cat was not around, then Dinah and I sneaked out.
Our room was a long narrow cell on the third floor, and from the balcony window—we always asked for a balcony room so Dinah could sun herself while we saw the town on foot—was a view of the old cathedral. Near the waterfront on a point of land jutting into the bay, the hotel was in one of the oldest sections of Panama, an area of odd-shaped blocks with wooden and tin-fronted buildings. Overhanging balconies seemed to provide the residents of the town with their main source of recreation, watching the activities of the street. A few blocks from the hotel was the palace of the President of Panama, a white stone building where tame egrets strutted around a fountain in the mother-of-pearl mosaic foyer. Crossroads of the world with the Panama Canal, the city had an international air: shops with names like Sun of India, Bazar Hindustani, Tahiti, and French Bazaar lined the main Avenida Central, displaying luxuries from almost any country one can name. One thing, however, was the same as in all Latin-American sheets, the snail's pace of the pedestrians.
When we called at the USIS office in Panama City we found that Mr. Casier and Mr. Rambo were expecting us. Mr. Hunsaker had written to them from San José. They asked what our plans were from Panama. On a large wall map I traced our proposed route. Between Panama and Colombia there is nothing but mountains and the impenetrable Darien jungle. Someday the Pan American Highway will run through there, but at that time not even a survey had been made. As in Costa Rica, we planned to bypass this last break in the highway by sea.
"So far," I said, "this is still only a theory and, as I learned in Costa Rica, my theories don't work out too well. In the Pacific the eighteen-foot tide and the heavy surf caused most of our difficulty. That's the main reason we have chosen the Caribbean with its foot-and-a-half tide to reach Colombia. Also it is the shortest route, some two hundred and fifty nautical miles. At Turbo, Colombia, there is a connecting road to the Pan American Highway. This time we plan to see the coast line first by plane. If there are protected coves not more than twenty miles apart, with luck we should be able to make it."
Mr. Casler shook his head. "That part of the Caribbean is some of the worst water in the world. It's thick with coral reefs, the San Bias Indians are reputed to prohibit white men from spending a night on their islands, and storms come without warning. How about your jeep? How seaworthy is it?"
"Well, right now it's not seaworthy at all, after the beating it took on the railroad. But I can make it seaworthy again. I'm looking for a place where I can work on it. I have my own tools, and what spare parts I don't have are standard jeep parts. I can get them at the Willys agency."
"Let me call a friend of mine," Mr. Casler said. "He might be able to help." He lifted the phone and asked for Albrook Air Force Base, public relations officer. "I have a couple of people in my office who are traveling the Pan American Highway the hard way—in an amphibious jeep. They are planning to take to the Caribbean in it to get to Colombia."
I could hear the "You're kidding" across the room.
"No, it's the truth, but their jeep took an awful beating in Costa Rica. They have all their own stuff to do the job, but they need someplace to work on it. How about sticking them away in some corner of the vehicle maintenance shop on the base? Fine, let me know when you've found out."
Mr. Casler put down the phone. "He's going to call me back." Continuing, he said, "One of our jobs here is to disseminate information on Latin-American affairs, and the Pan American Highway could use a little publicity. Would you mind giving an interview to the English-language press?"
Later that day we learned that permission had been granted to work on La Tortuga at the Air Force base, the first of many wonderful things that the armed forces did for us during our stay in Panama.
The next day held several surprises. The first occurred in the afternoon when we were trying to sneak Dinah into the hotel past the sleeping cat. Waiting in the lobby was an old friend.
"I almost dropped the paper when I picked it up this morning and saw you two staring from the front page. How about moving in with me while you're in Panama?"
It was Lee Slick, with whom I had worked in Alaska. An electrical engineer, a bachelor, and a jolly fellow with a keen sense of humor, he was now working for the Panama Canal Company. We thanked him for his generous offer, but declined.
"We'll be in Panama for quite a while," I said, "and two extra people and a dog would be more than a crowd in a small apartment."
"That's all right," Lee grinned, "I like dogs. I'll be down to move you in at six o'clock Monday morning."
And that was that.
The second surprise came when we went up to our room. I saw a torn scrap of paper lying on the floor in the dark hall. I don't even know why I picked it up. On it was scrawled, "snider admerl 5 auto," and a telephone number. The Negro maid was nearby, and I asked her if she knew anything about it.
"Wha, yes suh," she said in her lilting Jamaican English. "Ah left thot note fo ya. Ah'm the ony one what speaks English heah, so Ah tuk tha message."
"Thank you, but who was it?" I inquired.
"Oh, Ah don know, suh, but it wuz a 'mercan gennulman."
When I called the number, I heard, "Commandant's office. Captain Green speaking."
I was sure there was some mistake, but I gave my name and said that I had received a note with that telephone number.
"Oh yes, Mr. Schreider, I'm glad you called. I have been trying to reach you all day. The commandant has invited you and Mrs. Schreider to a little party this afternoon. If you can make it, a car will pick you up at 5:00 P.M."
It was four-thirty then. The helpful maid dug up an ancient iron, and, using a wobbly round table for an ironing board, Helen frantically pressed her one party dress and my wrinkled suit. We were ready when a gray Pontiac with the two stars of a rear admiral stopped in front of the hotel. My shirt already sticking to my back, fresh collar wilting, my suit feeling like a fur parka in the 95 per cent relative humidity, I was uncomfortably set for a very formal evening. I was in for a surprise.
As the car pulled into the circle drive of a royal-palm-ringed home in the Canal Zone, the sound of marimbas came from the open windows. At the door we were met by a tanned, vigorous Naval officer wearing white trousers and a white short-sleeved sport shirt with shoulder bars.
"You must be Helen and Frank," he smiled. "I'm Admiral Miles. Come in and take off that coat. We don't stand on formality here."
That was our introduction to Rear Admiral Milton E. Miles, Commandant of the 15th Naval District, Canal Zone, Republic of Panama, an officer and a gentleman by much more than an act of Congress. We were led into a spacious living room, where a cocktail party was in progress in honor of the officers of a Colombian destroyer. On the veranda the ship's band was playing, flanked by the yellow, blue, and red Colombian flag, Old Glory, and another flag which I looked at twice before I believed it—a navy-blue, long, triangular pennant with three question marks, three exclamation points, and three asterisks, ???!!! |
20,000 Miles South | Helen Schreider | [
"nonfiction"
] | [
"travel",
"South America",
"1950s"
] | Chapter 6 | . At a convenient moment I asked Admiral Miles about it, but his eyes just twinkled, and all he would say was, "Oh, that's my what-the-hell pennant."
At seven o'clock the party broke up, but the admiral's aide asked us to stay. It was a starry night, and the fragrance of cape jasmine filled the air. While the other guests were departing, we looked at reminders of the admiral's China tours of duty: subtle Chinese scrolls, tiny jade wine cups, ivory and crystal figures, and some signed netsukes. On the desk in the study was a miniature of a lovely lady, Mrs. Miles, who at the time was touring South America. After everyone had gone, Admiral Miles brought out a thick bundle of hydrographic charts.
"I read in the paper this morning that you plan to navigate an amphibious jeep through the Caribbean to Colombia. I feel it is my duty to warn you that this is a very dangerous and unpredictable stretch of water." He spread the charts on the floor and pointed out the hazards. From the book of Sailing Directions he read to us of the winds, currents, and stormy seasons. "After seeing these charts what do you think?"
"Well," I admitted, "it doesn't look very encouraging."
"I suggest that you think about it tonight. Would you care to go to church with me at the Navy chapel tomorrow morning?"
After Sunday services the next morning Admiral Miles invited us to his home, where he again brought out the charts. "What have you decided?"
"Helen and I talked about it until late last night. We can't turn back now. We have to give it a try."
He was very serious. "Officially I must advise you against this. But if you are determined to do it, I can't stop you." He smiled. "And so we want to help you all we can. Now let's go over these charts again."
In the weeks that followed, while Helen caught up on long-overdue letters, I worked every day on the jeep. Its condition was even worse than I had imagined. In addition to new shock absorbers and three tires and tubes I installed a new clutch and three new rubber seals in the bottom of the hull. I overhauled the winch, transmission, carburetor and generator, and ground the valves. It took a welder a full day to repair the holes in the battered hull. For added security I bought and installed a 15-horsepower outboard motor for emergency power in case of failure of the main engine. The overhang, which had bothered me when we built the cab, provided a perfect mount for the outboard motor. By cutting a hole in the bottom of the overhang and inserting the stem of the motor through it, we had access to all controls from inside the jeep. With a piece of old inner tube I sealed around the motor stem so that water could not enter.
At the end of three weeks La Tortuga was ready for her post-overhaul shakedown, and Admiral Miles was on hand to witness it. As we tested her in a bay near the entrance to the Canal, we were enthusiastic about her lively performance. Unloaded, she had almost a foot of freeboard, though admittedly her stern still drooped. We circled the bay and returned to the beach. Though I knew the admiral was a man of few words, I thought he would make at least some comment. Instead he just shook his head and walked away.
We had arrived in the Canal Zone via the Pan American Highway along the Pacific side, and would leave via the Caribbean. This presented no problem since there is a fine concrete road across the Isthmus, some fifty miles. But it was suggested that since La Tortuga had been through everything else she really should go through the Canal too. We thought it was a fine idea. Accordingly, Captain Green put in a call to his friend, Captain Abe Lincoln, the Balboa port captain.
"Hello, Abe," he said. "I've got a jeep here that wants to go through the Canal."…"No, I'm not pulling your leg."…"Okay, I'll send them right over."
Captain Green turned to us. "Captain Lincoln said that he wants to see any jeep that can go through the Canal. So go over and introduce him to La Tortuga."
Captain Lincoln, a stocky, genial Naval officer wearing a civilian white linen suit, was waiting for us when we drove into the parking lot of the port captain's office. After one look at La Tortuga he laughed. "When do you want to make the transit?"
Although we wanted to make a complete transit of the Panama Canal from the Pacific to the Caribbean, there were two factors which made this impossible in the opinion of the Canal authorities. One was the low speed of La Tortuga, which would tie up traffic. The other was the terrific turbulence that results when water floods the locks to raise ships from sea level on the Pacific side to the eighty-five-foot elevation of Gatun Lake, near the Caribbean, the highest part of the Canal. However, in going from Gatun Lake toward the Pacific there was no such turbulence. Consequently it was decided that we would make only a partial transit, and in the opposite direction from which we were heading.
But it was all in fun and, tongue in cheek, the Canal authorities gave us the full treatment. Like a regular ship, La Tortuga was admeasured for her Panama Canal tonnage certificate and charged at the official rate of seventy-two cents per ton. After paying her tolls of $1.44 we received our ship's papers and were introduced to our Canal pilot, Captain R. G. Rennie. Old-timers jested that this was the first time any ship was admeasured on dry land and then drove to the port captain's office to pick up her pilot. Before we were permitted to continue, however, since our craft was not quite up to standard, we were required to sign a release from indemnity. It solemnly declared La Tortuga's more obvious deficiencies: there were projections on the sides, there was no Plimsoll mark, chocks and bits were inadequate, vessel was probably overloaded and had excessive drag (the understatement of the year), and the first mate had no Coast Guard certificate.
With Captain Rennie we drove to a steep bank near the entrance to the Gaillard Cut, where we slid into the water of the Canal. At 2:38 P.M., on May 11, 1955, with her flag flying, the M.S. La Tortuga steamed into the Pedro Miguel Locks, dwarfed by the tanker Cristobal. For lack of a bridge Captain Rennie sat on top.
Since this was a historic crossing—the first commercial transit of an amphibious jeep—the Canal authorities had declared open house, and children were let out of school to witness the performance. For us $1.44 was a cheap price to pay for the experience of going through a project that cost almost 400 million dollars. We had already learned one thing in searching for a place to enter and leave the Canal. Contrary to our belief, it did not run east and west, but ran closer to north and south.
Just before the end of the locks Captain Rennie gave the command, "Back full," and we stopped at the huge chain and waited while the four-hundred-ton gates swung shut, and enough water to supply a city the size of Boston for one day roared out by gravity through eighteen-foot culverts. Feeling like a minnow in the ocean, we dropped with the water thirty-one feet in less than ten minutes to the level of Miraflores Lake. The heavy gates swung open, the chain clanked down, and the jeep chugged into the lake and around to the landing of the Pedro Miguel Boat Club. There Brigadier General J. S. Seybold, Governor of the Canal Zone, headed a welcoming committee. There was considerable merriment when Governor Seybold, after taking a look at the size of La Tortuga, said that we must have been overcharged, and offered to refund our tolls. Later that day we were made honorary members of two yacht clubs. But the thing that caused endless jokes was our Wrong-Way Corrigan act in going toward the Pacific. "If they don't even know which way the Caribbean is, how do they hope to navigate two hundred and fifty miles of it?"
The last part of that comment, the reference to navigating the Caribbean, was something that Helen and I were thinking about in a more serious vein. Still shaken by the experience in Costa Rica, we knew that charts alone provided no indication of actual conditions. An aerial survey seemed the only answer. In a low-flying airplane we checked the coast line, marking on the charts what appeared to be possible places to go ashore for the night or in case of a storm. Jagged rocks and cliffs broke the dense jungle that grew to the sea, but worse was the barrier of ugly brown coral reef that lined the shore. The water, emerald green, speckled with silver, mottled with reef, and snowy with foam, was dotted for a hundred miles with the islands of the San Bias Indians. The plane swooped low over several of the islands, and there was a pandemonium of activity as the Indians ran from their thatched huts, their red headdresses like bright confetti on the white sand.
From the flight it was obvious that we could count on no beach driving. The entire operation would have to be by sea, but, as bad as the coast line was, there appeared to be places where we could thread our way through the reefs to get to shore. In order to reduce our draft as much as possible we shipped home everything we could do without, extra clothes, portable radio and, sadly, most of our library. And everything we would not need for the next three weeks, including our two suitcases, we sent ahead to Bogotá, Colombia. Costa Rica had shown that our gas consumption at sea was greater than I had anticipated, but despite this, because of the great need to reduce our load, we decided not to carry any extra fuel in addition to the regular forty-six gallons and the six gallons in the outboard motor tank. For the rest of the estimated hundred gallons that we would need, we would have to rely on the small boats that plied the coast to trade with the Indians.
After five weeks in the Canal Zone we were ready to leave. Lee Slick, our host, true gentleman that he is, said he was sorry to see us go. Our last Sunday we again attended church services in the base chapel, where Chaplain Cyril Best gave us a copy of the small Armed Forces Prayer Book. The chaplain, in his usual quiet way, smiled and said, "I've marked the Navy hymn. There might come a time when you would like to refer to it."
Before we left, Admiral Miles requested that we give a copy of our day-by-day itinerary to Captain Thorn, commanding officer of Coco Solo Naval Air Station, near Colón, on the Caribbean side of the Isthmus. "Since this next part of your journey is to be entirely by sea," the admiral said, "we want to know where you plan to be at all times. The communications officer here will loan you a small two-way radio. In case of emergency or change of plans you can communicate with the practice patrol flights in the area. You can return the radio to the Naval mission when you reach Bogotá, Colombia."
At Coco Solo we went over our route with Commander Beebe, who was in charge in Captain Thorn's absence. With the pilots we were checked out on the radio, a handie-talkie with a range of about six miles. The Navy's identification was, appropriately, "Angel," while we answered to "Turtle."
On Wednesday morning, May 18, the M.S. La Tortuga was ready for what we conservatively believed to be a three-week journey. She was provisioned with a month's supply of Army C rations, a case of canned dog food for Dinah and, as peace offering to the Indians, a good supply of soap and cigarettes. Before she set sail there was a steady stream of Navy personnel to inspect her. Along with more dire predictions, there were warnings about the chocosanos that were due at any time. Everyone wished us well, and there were even one or two who thought we might make it. One of the last visitors was Commander Bookhammer, who pressed into Helen's hand a small square box. With a wink and a big grin he said, "Every ship should have an extra compass."
At María Chiquita, the end of a dirt road ten miles north-east of Colón, Admiral Miles and several of his officers and their families waved from the shore as we drove into the Caribbean and kept going. |
20,000 Miles South | Helen Schreider | [
"nonfiction"
] | [
"travel",
"South America",
"1950s"
] | Chapter 7 | The sea was a gray undulating sheet under the overcast sky. There was a light wind, and the jeep rolled with the ground swells. It was several minutes before I got the feel of the controls again. I felt the same thrill, almost of wonderment, at the thought that a half hour before La Tortuga was weaving in and out of traffic, and now she was waterborne. Except for two things there was really little difference between her and the big ships we saw far out to sea heading for the Canal. She was a little smaller, somewhat slower, and she was not following any shipping lanes. The waters we were navigating were given a wide berth by all but a few small boats that traded with the natives along the coast, and even they kept well out from the shore. Although the tide was negligible and the surf of no consequence in most places, the water ahead was a maze of reefs that could tear the bottom from La Tortuga. But in spite of this we skirted the coast line as closely as possible, ready to head for shore at the first sign of a storm, constantly alert for any change in the color of water or the froth of foam that might indicate the presence of shoals. Not trusting the charts, absurdly cautious with the memory of Costa Rica still fresh, we steered a circuitous course around anything that broke the monotonous gray color of the ocean, even to going several miles out of our way to avoid what turned out to be merely floating vegetable debris.
While the motor ticked off a reassuring even drone, Helen sat on top marking the points and promontories on the chart. Eight nautical miles away lay our first stop, Portobelo, a forgotten town that was once the most important commercial center on the Atlantic coast. At the wheel I wondered how Columbus felt more than four hundred and fifty years earlier when he had cruised along this same coast line, studying the same frothing sea against the same rocks and the same dark green wall of jungle. On his fourth voyage to the New World, still searching for a non-existent strait to the Indies, his four battered caravels had taken refuge in the harbor for which we were headed. Without charts he must have stumbled on it by accident—even knowing where it was, we had trouble finding it.
It was Columbus, in 1502, who had named Portobelo, Portuguese for beautiful port. Later, when gold and silver started flowing from the mines of the Incas to the Spanish galleons, and then to the coffers of King Philip II of Spain, Portobelo became the terminus of the narrow trail across the Isthmus over which burros and slaves transshipped the treasures of the Pacific to the Atlantic. Once each year Portobelo had roused itself from its tropical lethargy, merchants set up shop in the alleys, and cocoa, jewels, and wool from Peru were bartered for rice, corn, hogs, and cattle from Cartagena, which in turn were exchanged for goods from Spain, and the galleons left for Europe loaded with as much as 100 million dollars in treasure.
It was difficult to imagine the harbor filled with galleons as La Tortuga churned the shallow muddy bottom looking for a place to get to shore. On either side ruins of old stone forts commanded the entrance, forts which the Spanish had thought were impregnable until pirates Parker and Morgan came along. Jutting into the bay was a crude wooden dock where some two dozen Negroes pointed in awe as we circled and pulled alongside. Helen jumped from the jeep to the dock and asked if there was a canoe landing. A young boy, his black naked body shiny from the gently falling rain, loped excitedly a few hundred feet to where a shingle slope ran up onshore. There were exclamations as La Tortuga surged from the sea and bumped over the stone walk, the first vehicle to enter Portobelo.
With two or three hundred inhabitants, practically the whole population, hooting and skipping behind us as if we were the Pied Piper, we drove among tumbled ruins, over stone bridges, and under stone arches to the remains of the King's Treasury, nothing but a few columns supporting the sky.
In its heyday Portobelo had had four sections, Triana, Merced, Guinea, and the Shambles. Now the whole village was a shambles. The jungle had reclaimed everything: the growth was as luxuriant inside the walls as in the encroaching forest behind them. Attacked by pirates and plague, rendered valueless when the Incan treasures dwindled, what was left of the town became the heritage of the slaves who built it, the ancestors of the people who followed us. The alcalde, chief of the town, a slender graying Negro in white shirt and pants, welcomed us with a smile, and offered us food and a place to sleep. Thanking him, we asked to spend the night among the ruins of Fort Geronimo, at one end of the village. Except for what was left of three forts, the Treasury, and a church, Portobelo was a tin-roofed, wooden-fronted jumble of dilapidated hovels. The old gold trail was overgrown, but still visible. The walled slave mart was now the cemetery, and in the crumbling niches of the fort rusted cannon lay where they had fallen when fire destroyed their wooden mounts. When we parked the jeep by a watchtower in a corner of the old fort that overlooked the town, a vulture flapped into a nearby palm tree. With its wrinkled neck and bald head it looked as if it might have been there when William Parker had burned and sacked Portobelo in 1601. Dropping back to the buttress, the vulture looked on greedily while we prepared lunch. Its predecessors had feasted well when Henry Morgan had taken the town in 1668, killing and torturing almost all the inhabitants. It was an unhealthy place then—those the pirates left the fever got until the whole coast became known as the Graveyard of Spaniards. And of at least one famous Englishman. At the bottom of the serene bay lay a leaden casket with the remains of Sir Francis Drake, who had died of dysentery while on a raiding expedition.
In the one remaining church the alcalde showed us the image that is reputed to have saved the town from a pestilence that ravaged the entire coast. In a glass case stood the Black Christ. Carved from dark brown wood, it was a life-size figure with sorrowful eyes turned skyward and forehead bloody under a crown of thorns. Though there are several stories as to the origin of the image, this is the one related to us by the alcalde:
"In 1658 a ship carrying the Black Christ—a gift from Spain to a church in Cartagena—put in at Portobelo for water and supplies. Each time it tried to leave the harbor it was turned back by storms. After five attempts the captain ordered the statue thrown overboard believing that it preferred to stay in Portobelo. The people of the town rescued it and placed it here. Shortly thereafter a cholera epidemic devastated the coast; only Portobelo was spared."
The next morning, after going over the chart with a fisherman, we headed for Isla Grande, eleven miles away. (All distances in this stretch are in nautical miles.) The water was like a sheet of glass, a mirror reflecting the rocky coast and the broken overcast of the sky. In trying the outboard motor we found its gasoline consumption disappointing. With a top speed of only two knots it consumed over three gallons of fuel an hour as compared to the regular engine's five knots with the same consumption. Nevertheless, it was comforting to have, and it would serve for the purpose intended, that of emergency power.
At about half throttle we cruised at three knots, Helen at the wheel, and Dinah asleep on the bunk, while I sat on the bow watching for shallows and rocks. Several miles out the sea broke hoary white over Salmedina Reef, and to our right waves lashed the jagged coast. Ahead the sky was blue, but behind us the horizon was grayed by a dark mass of clouds. Three hours after leaving Portobelo we sighted Isla Grande, a small hilly island with palms lining the silver sand spit of its eastern end. Progressively the water changed color from a Prussian blue to a deep green, and closer to shore it was emerald broken by splotches of mottled brown coral. Grateful there were no breakers, we cut the throttle and drifted in with just enough power to maintain steerageway. From the cab I couldn't see the reefs below, so Helen stood on the bow and directed me. Without experience in judging the depth of the transparent water, we had a few frightening moments when the wheels bumped and the jeep tilted on the high points of coral. Then near the white sand I engaged the gears and stepped on the gas. With the front wheels at the water's edge we bogged down, but deflating the tires gave us sufficient traction to climb onto our first island camp.
The beach had been deserted when we approached, but by the time we were on solid ground it was swarming with excited children, their eyes and white teeth like beacons in their smiling black faces. Little girls filled Helen's arms with fragrant bundles of tropical flowers, ginger, hibiscus, frangipani, and flor de india. Little boys twirled coconuts by their stems and offered them to me. Following the children came the adults and the alcalde of the island, another smiling friendly Negro who bid us welcome. More than caring where we had come from, they were just fascinated by our being there. They inspected the jeep from every angle, but soon the little boys lost interest in La Tortuga when they discovered that Dinah was an eager retriever of coconut husks. We've always doubted her pedigree—although it says German shepherd, I'm sure there must be a little water spaniel mixed in there somewhere.
By the time the formalities were over it was three o'clock. Hungry when we arrived two hours before, by that time we were starved. The simple statement that Helen would like to bathe was enough to clear the beach, and after a refreshing swim in the crystal-clear water near the shore we set up camp under a low-hanging palm tree. Washing down the C rations with coconut milk, we sat on the sand and looked in the direction from which we had come. The air was still, the sea calm, but there was a purple hue in the sky.
The rest of that afternoon we received a steady stream of visitors as the children returned with more flowers until La Tortuga was so bedecked she could have qualified for the Tournament of Roses as the service station attendant in Pasadena had thought. Returning from their small farms on the mainland a mile or so across the channel, men came to inspect the jeep, bringing us calabashes filled with mangoes, pineapples, bananas, and avocados. At their invitation we went to the village a half mile away. Led by a flock of children, we followed along a winding path through tall coconut palms, vine-covered trees, ferns, and large-leafed plants. At the village beach cayucas, or wooden dugout canoes, were pulled up on the sand, some filled with fruit, coconuts, fish, or lobsters. Built on stilts, the houses were of palm frond and cane, with bamboo ladders leading to the doorless entries. Underneath the huts were tied giant sea turtles, three feet across, while nearby were the shells of those that had gone before.
Back at camp we had a supper of avocados, limes, and coconuts. Alone for the first time, we watched the sun set through a fan of palms. Feeling we had stumbled on a paradise, we weren't anxious to leave, but with the chocosanos expected within a month, I set the alarm for an early departure. As in Costa Rica, we had been advised to travel only during the morning hours.
Between scratching sand flea bites—there was a thorn on the rose—and listening to the thunder and the wail of the wind, we didn't sleep too well that night. Early the next morning we looked through the window screens to see the same children peering from the undergrowth. As soon as they saw we were awake they came running to the jeep, their arms again filled with flowers. While I was checking over La Tortuga, the alcalde came carrying two green bamboo poles about fifteen feet long. He had heard me ask one of the young men if there was any bamboo around big enough to be used for poling over reefs and for determining the depth of the water. He had gone to the mainland that morning and cut them for us. We were to find those poles the most valuable navigational instruments we had.
"I know you planned to leave this morning," he said, "but until the change in the moon the sea will be rough."
"When will that be?" I asked.
The alcalde shrugged. "Perhaps two days."
The sky was still threatening toward Colón, but ahead it was clear so we decided to go on. Waving good-by, we poled over the hedge of reef and headed into mid-channel between the island and the mainland. Nearing the end of the island, some two miles from the sand spit where we had camped, the jeep began to plunge its bow into the waves. With the sea covering the winch and steaming from the muffler, I closed all the hatches and started the bilge pump. Thinking it was just a rough turbulent area, we continued. We were heading for a rocky point about a mile away where the waves leaped high in the air like a reverse cataract. But beyond that point we would be in the lee of the mainland for a time, and if the weather didn't clear we planned to take shelter in a cove on the other side. Once we were clear of the lee of Isla Grande, however, the wind swept unimpeded from the sea and the waves smashed against the port bow of the jeep, covering the windshield. La Tortuga was rolling heavily, and I headed her slightly into the wind, counting on tacking around the point. But the wind was too strong for her low power and square lines, and I quickly learned she had still another limitation. That was the first time it had been necessary to run the jeep at full throttle with all the hatches closed. The temperature gauge was climbing to the danger point. I knew we would never clear the point before the engine boiled.
It was blowing harder all the time. Though I knew we couldn't go on I hesitated to turn around. Broadside to the waves, the jeep heeled over in the troughs, yawed frighteningly, and then, with the wind pushing against her flat square stern, she fairly flew back to the island. We were barely ashore when the whole village flocked to us again. The alcalde warned against starting out when Hellsgate, the point we had been heading for, was frothing. That was the last time I ignored the advice of the natives. When a practice patrol flight flew over that afternoon, I warmed up the radio.
"Hello, Angel, this is Turtle. We've had a change of plans. We're staying put on Isla Grande until the local weather prophets say it's okay to leave."
Not too disturbed at the prospect of spending another day or two on our island paradise, we set up a more permanent camp in preparation for the storm the alcalde said would accompany the change of the moon. Among the odd assortment of gear which we had accumulated was a large nylon tarpaulin, blue on one side and yellow on the other. A couple of pieces of driftwood for support turned the tarp into a fine shelter from the sun and an excellent rain catcher for drinking water. With the emerald sea lapping against the white sand beach not far from our feet we settled back in our "lanai" to wait, rather looking forward to the life of beachcombers.
Like everyone else who had read Robinson Crusoe or Swiss Family Robinson, I had had romantic dreams of being on a tropical island, and Isla Grande was as perfect a spot as one could ask for. With our paratrooper stove set in a windbreak of sand, a bleached log to sit on, and a pile of coconuts to quench our thirst, we relaxed in the shade of the tarp, overwhelmed by a feeling of laziness. Except for the quick measured movements of sandpipers, the jetlike plunge of pelicans after fish, and the darting of crabs the whole atmosphere was one of indolence. The cayucas moved slowly over the waves, propelled with ease by black muscular arms; the beat of drums from the village across the channel had an unhurried quality; and it was even difficult to breathe rapidly when the sea took such long regular breaths. With a couple of books to read, a palm-edged beach to stroll, crystal water to swim in, and plenty of food we lived an idyllic existence for a few days.
Sometimes we visited the village, but mostly the village visited us. From early morning our camp became a mecca for all the children. Life on a desert island that was not deserted had its complications—it became necessary to set the alarm to go off before dawn. Then, back in the jeep, we dozed until we heard the conch shell blowing, a long mournful sound like the bleating of a calf, notifying the islanders that a turtle had been caught in the traps offshore. But no matter how early that was, the children were waiting for us to stir. Always polite and considerate, they never came from the bushes until we climbed from the jeep, but from that moment they were with us until sunset.
While everyone in the village paid a visit to our camp sometime during the day there was one group of children who were our constant companions. With no prompting by us two little girls took it upon themselves to keep us supplied with flowers, clean the jeep, and help Helen when she washed clothes. And there were three little boys who followed me about and kept us supplied with coconuts, shinnying like monkeys up the slender palm trunks. The boys, all between five and seven, wore no clothes at all, but the little girls, about the same age, wore simple cotton dresses and tied their kinky hair with bits of white cloth.
While they enjoyed playing with Dinah, or watching us prepare meals and sharing the crackers and jam from our C rations, the big event of the day for the kids was wash time, be it dishes, clothes, or ourselves. The first time they saw us scrubbing in the sea their mouths opened in astonishment. Soap of any kind was scarce, but our special Navy soap that lathered in salt water was nothing short of magical to them. Offered a bar, they passed it around and worked their woolly heads into foam, covering their bodies until they looked like little snowmen. Then, with a froglike leap, they disappeared below the surface of the water, splashed about, and came up all smiles, asking for more. It was fortunate that we had a good supply.
About the only time we had any privacy was during the afternoon rain, when the children ran to the shelter of the village. The seascape became a striped vari-colored scarf with the deep gray of the sky, the faint outline of the dark green mainland, the purple horizon of the sea, the white of the waves lashing the reefs, and the emerald near the beach. And when the rain came it was like a waterfall. In fifteen minutes we filled both five-gallon cans, the gallon thermos jug, and all the pots and pans, with enough left over for a luxurious rain water bath and shampoo. Then with a piping-hot cup of coffee we crawled into the jeep to read and enjoy the solitude.
It was for moments like this that we had so carefully selected our library, and now, ironically, most of the books were back in California. But the few we had allotted ourselves, Lives of Famous French Painters, Story of Philosophy, the Iliad, and Captain Horatio Hornblower, provided sufficient diversion for these brief interludes.
Although each day the sky darkened and was filled with thunder and lightning, and the waves rolled into billowy whitecaps, the alcalde told us the real storm was yet to come. One afternoon a fishing boat took refuge in the cove near our camp, and the captain hailed us in English to come aboard. Helen and I swam out to his craft and reached for the ladder. That was when Captain Parker of the Sea Horse welcomed us with his gloomy prophecy, which he repeated even more emphatically after a closer inspection of La Tortuga.
"I don't wish you any bad luck, kids," he said, "but you'll never make it. No, sir, I've got ten to one bet you won't make it."
At those odds we should have taken a little of that bet, but after being turned back by Hellsgate we weren't too sure ourselves. Instead we comforted ourselves with the thought that he was just an opinionated old goat who had run his own boat aground on the reefs and prided himself on the fact that in forty years in Panama he hadn't learned a word of Spanish.
After that our island paradise took on a new aspect in spite of the daily encouragement by the alcalde:
"Tomorrow will be better, and when it's calm one can go to sea in the shell of an egg."
But tomorrow was always just as bad. We became restless, our sedentary life as beachcombers grew intolerable, so anxious were we to be under way. With the men of the village and those who stopped to chat we studied the charts, and they warned of the dangers ahead:
"Go out around Punta Manzanilla; don't put in at Cuanga; be careful opposite Escribanos; and circle the reefs near Porvenir."
They told us of their friend who had disappeared among the islands of the San Bias Indians. They cautioned us never to stop on an inhabited island—the opposite of what we had been advised in the Canal Zone. Also that we must never stay on any island more than one night. At the mention of Tiger Island, a possible stopping place, their eyes opened wide and as one they said, "No, no, the Indians of Tiger are very bad."
We had been on Isla Grande almost a week when the long-awaited storm came. The children playing in the sand near the jeep sang out, "Ya viene, ya viene [Here it comes, here it comes]," and ran. In a moment a gust of wind ripped the tarp from the poles and the heavy swells from the sea crested with white. The palms bent over, their fronds clacking and glaring in the lightning that cracked from the blackened sky, and thunder rolled like a chorus of bass drums. I resecured the tarp and dropped several large coconuts in the center to hold it down and form a basin for catching the rain that blotted out everything but the small sphere around us, and we climbed dripping into the jeep.
All that day and the next the storm raged with but brief periods of quiet, when the air hung still and heavy with unfulfilled fury. With each new outburst it became more difficult to read, and we found ourselves just sitting in the jeep watching the tumultuous sea. La Tortuga began to shrink until I could see her as the alcalde's eggshell.
On the eve of the seventh day on Isla Grande the alcalde came to us and said that the next day we could travel. That evening, while the sun burst like an orange ball through the purple sky, the villagers came to say good-by, bringing fresh flowers and fruit. Except for cigarettes and soap they had always refused anything in payment. I asked them if there was any favor we could do them. One of the younger men said quietly:
"You are friends here. Perhaps someday one of us will come to your land and you can welcome him as we have you."
At dawn we were up and preparing to leave. The sky was clear from horizon to horizon, the palms were reflected in the still water, and what had for a week been the surging mass of Hellsgate was a tranquil passage around the point. With both sides of the channel spotted with the white of the villagers' clothes we eased over the reefs into deeper water and headed once more for Colombia, 225 miles away.
Our schedule had included a short run that day to Nombre de Dios, another forgotten Spanish town, which had preceded Portobelo as a port for the Spanish galleons, but since the alcalde had predicted fair weather we continued past it toward Playa Chiquita, on the mainland twenty-one miles from Isla Grande, and, according to the villagers, a good place to put in.
La Tortuga was performing beautifully, rolling a bit with the smooth swells, but otherwise very stable. Keeping in mind the instructions of the people on Isla Grande, we steered well away from the coast, watching through binoculars the waves splashing against the rocks. About an hour past the entrance to Nombre de Dios we heard a drone in the sky coming from the direction of Colón. Through the binoculars we could see the dragonfly shape of a helicopter. Helen took the wheel and I got out the handie-talkie and heard:
"Hello, Turtle, this is Angel. Where are you?"
I recognized the voice of Chief Karls, one of the Coco Solo pilots. We must have looked mighty small—even with the bright yellow side of the tarp spread over the top of the jeep he couldn't see us.
"Make a 45 to starboard," I instructed. "We're about a mile off your starboard bow."
The helicopter changed course and headed our way. Directly over us it hovered, the blast from the rotors bringing a mist of sea water into the air. Holding the receiver tightly to my ear, I heard Chief Karls again:
"Stand by for a drop." The side hatch on the copter opened and, like catching fish in a barrel, a paper bag on a string was lowered right into the hatch of La Tortuga. Inside was a copy of Time magazine with a story about our Panama Canal transit, and written in the margin was "Good Luck," signed "Mrs. Karls."
Chief Karls's voice chuckled from the receiver. "Look on the back cover."
Turning it over, Helen gurgled—a Cunard steamship-line advertisement read, "Getting there is half the fun!"
We told Chief Karls about our change of plans, signed off, and watched the dragonfly whirl back toward Coco Solo. Those brief contacts with civilization were reassuring even though we knew that in a storm they wouldn't be out, and even if they were La Tortuga would be more difficult to find in a rough sea than the proverbial needle in the haystack.
As the alcalde had predicted, the weather was good all day and we made the twenty-one miles to Playa Chiquita in six hours, an average speed of three and a half knots. As we neared the sheltered cove by the village, a handful of Negroes waved frantically for us to drop anchor. Having been told on Isla Grande that there was a sand bottom, we kept going. When we rolled up on the beach, they scattered and ran, and it was several minutes before they recovered enough to come back and see who we were.
That night another torrential rain fell, and the next morning the sky was dull and gray with a steady drizzle, but what little wind there was was from the land. The villagers said no storm that day so we left early to reach Porvenir, twenty-five miles away. It was a longer run than we had wanted, but we were trying to make up for the time lost on Isla Grande.
Up to that time we had had no difficulty conversing with the Spanish-speaking inhabitants of the coast, but from Porvenir for more than a hundred miles we would be in San Bias Indian territory, where the Indians' own dialect, Cuna, was spoken. From what we had been told in Panama City, we would have to use signs or, if we were lucky, we might find one of the men who had been to the Canal Zone to work and knew a few words of English. With more than four centuries of isolationism the San Bias Indians had acquired a hostile reputation for acts that were natural results of atrocities by the conquistadores in the fifteen hundreds, and the French Huguenots in the seventeen hundreds. The last outbreak came in 1923, when the Indians revolted against the Panamanians for unjust treatment and abuse, and massacred some two hundred officials, as well as their consorts and progeny. After a treaty was signed, the Indians were given the right to self-government with no intrusion beyond Porvenir, the island of the Panamanian administrator. Our route would take us among the more than three hundred islands of the San Bias group.
The rain that had fallen since early morning stopped about noon, and as the wind from the land shifted the long swells turned into short choppy waves that slapped the blunt bow of the jeep and splashed back over the muffler and windshield. With the change in the sea the jeep pitched more violently, rocking and yawing until Dinah, usually content to sleep on the bunk, stuck her nose out the window for some fresh air. Helen scrambled through the medical supplies for Dramamine and we each took a tablet while we were still able to swallow. Although La Tortuga spent a good portion of the time with her bow submerged, when I engaged the power-operated bilge pump little water was ejected from the outlet beside my seat. With each hour we gained more confidence in our amphibious apartment.
After eight hours we were still several miles from Point San Bias, where we would change course for Porvenir. Though we were still pumping periodically and apparently taking on no water, La Tortuga seemed more sluggish than usual, and seemed to be settling deeper in the sea. It was not until water seeped through the floor boards that I realized that we were slowly sinking. No wonder that no water had been coming from the bilge outlet. It was clogged. There was no place within miles where we could get through the reefs to shore.
There was too much water in the bilge to locate the leak, but I knew it must be a small one or we would have sunk long before. We were in no immediate danger, but the sea was increasing. I unfastened an inspection plate in the floor board in front of the right seat and inserted the hand bilge pump. For the next two hours Helen and I alternated pumping. When we rounded Point San Bias, there was only a small stream of oily water flowing from the hose of the hand bilge pump.
In keeping with beachcomber tradition, I had not shaved since leaving Coco Solo nine days before, and Helen had been chiding me with the Burma Shave slogan, "If Crusoe'd kept his chin more tidy he might have had a lady Friday." Still a half hour from Porvenir, she started again.
"If you want to keep your lady Friday, you'd better shave. Besides, you want to be presentable when you meet the officials on Porvenir. They could refuse us permission to continue."
I wasn't too concerned about losing my lady Friday—there wasn't anyplace she could go—but the thought of the officials persuaded me. "Okay," I grumbled, "but it will spoil a wonderful passage of time sequence for our movies. Are you sure you understand how to approach the channel to Porvenir? The last time I tried to clean up aboard ship you nearly threw me in the river."
There were two entrances to Porvenir: one, with no reefs, for strangers, and the other, about five miles shorter, for those who knew their way. The latter was a narrow meandering channel lined with coral to the surface on either side. We planned on taking the longer way. We studied the chart together, and Helen assured me that she knew which island to sight on and at which point to turn. Sadly I began scraping away with salt water soap and Dinah's pan full of ocean. I was just half shaved when Helen let out a dismayed wail. "Frank, we're in the wrong channel."
We weren't in the wrong channel. We weren't in any channel at all. We were in the middle of a bed of coral. I climbed out on the bow with the bamboo pole and pushed off, searching for the entrance to the channel. When a short bull-necked native paddled near in a cayuca, I hailed him in Spanish:
"Where's the channel to Porvenir?"
He looked at me blankly so I tried it in English, but still no response. I made motions with my hands, but he paddled away, leaving us to figure it out for ourselves. After running up on the coral three times we found a patch of clear water and headed cautiously toward Porvenir, a half mile away. When we reached the deeper water near the dock three uniformed men signaled us to drop anchor, but the beach was clear and I had to get ashore to fix the leak and the bilge pump. Dragging a harvest of seaweed, I steered La Tortuga up onshore to where the three men had increased to a dozen, most of them armed. Leading the group was a short, mustached, swarthy-skinned fellow in a soiled white suit. One look at them and I knew that Helen needn't have been concerned about my being unshaven.
Expecting at least a civil greeting, I introduced myself, told them our destination, and asked permission to spend the night. They acted as if they hadn't heard me. The fellow in the white suit drew himself up to his full five feet three, and with an air as if he were pounding his chest he said, "I am the secretary to the administrator. I am in charge here in his absence."
I groaned inwardly. We had had experience enough with petty officials who were given a bit of authority.
"Excuse me, Excellente," I said. "With your kind permission we would like to spend the night and continue through the San Bias Islands tomorrow morning."
"There are no accommodations here."
"We aren't expecting any; we have our own." I opened the door of the jeep so he could see the bunks inside. Then I produced a letter of introduction that had been given to us by the Governor of Colón.
"Perhaps this will explain our presence."
Before White Suit could read the letter a uniformed man with a Sam Browne belt and a .45 pistol stepped forward. "You have to have my permission too. I am the Captain of the Police."
White Suit finished reading the letter and with a sneer handed it to the captain, who looked at the signature and carelessly stuffed the letter in his pocket. Whereas before they had treated us as intruders, after reading the letter they made us feel like spies, which is probably what they thought we were. Every boat that entered the San Bias territory was required to stop at Porvenir for clearance. Isolated as they were, it was an ideal situation for a bit of collusion.
"You can stay there," White Suit condescended, indicating the far end of the island.
Porvenir was a narrow strip of sand and coral with a half dozen wooden frame buildings and a hundred or so coconut palms. Our host could not have chosen a spot farther away from his activities unless it was in the middle of the palm grove, and then he couldn't have kept an eye on us.
By the time we were situated the sun was low in the sky. The trip from Playa Chiquita had taken ten hours, and except for a few crackers we had eaten nothing all day—we hadn't wanted anything. But with the ground solid beneath our feet once more, our appetites returned, and we fixed a Cration dinner of canned spaghetti and meat balls. We were still taking Aralen and vitamin tablets, although the latter had cracked from the heat. As we were putting things away we saw black cayucas skimming under sails tinted pink by the sun, moving over the green water from the dozens of islands that surround Porvenir.
In a few minutes we were hemmed in by a horde of chattering Indians, their dialect sounding all the stranger in their excitement. I felt I was watching a spinning color wheel as they milled about us. The women touched Helen's clothes and her hair and pointed, giggling, at her red lips and white clown's nose—a triangle of zinc oxide. Helen was just as fascinated by their make-up, a black line carefully drawn down the bridge of their noses. Under their headdresses, a rectangle of red and yellow cloth, their black hair was cropped in long bangs. Heavy gold rings dangled from their noses and rested on their upper lips; four-inch discs of hammered gold hung from their ears. Around their necks were strings of brilliant beads and silver coins, and their arms and ankles were bound with bands of tiny orange and scarlet beads so tightly that the flesh swelled around the edges. Knee-length skirts were wrapped around their waists. With an exquisite color sense they had appliquéd orange, purple, fuchsia, yellow, and blue bits of cloth over backgrounds of scarlet to make primitively symmetrical patterns on their loose blouses.
Inside La Tortuga, Dinah growled at the commotion. The jeep was getting its inspection from the men. Looking drab beside their technicolor women, the short thick-necked, barefoot men wore felt hats and nondescript pants. Their saving bit of individuality was their necklaces of barracuda teeth. They kept a good distance from the jeep until Helen took Dinah out, opened the doors wide, and with a gesture invited them to look. Screwing up their courage, they touched the tires, twirled the propeller, and peered inside, clapping their hands gleefully.
About eight that night the end of the island cleared sufficiently so that we could go to bed. The next morning I inspected the hull for the leak, but there appeared to be no holes. The spring hanger bolts were tight, and the rubber seals were intact. I finally located the trouble in the waxed flax packing around the propeller shaft. A few turns of the packing-gland nut fixed the leak, but it took a little longer to remove the wad of Dinah's hair that had clogged the bilge-pump screen. She had been shedding steadily for two months, and despite the daily brushing a good portion of her coat had sifted through the cracks in the floor boards into the bilge. While I had the floor boards open I made a general check-up and greased the fittings on the pump and propeller shaft, and added oil to the transmissions.
While I was working on La Tortuga, the Captain of the Police warmed up a bit. I soon found out why. Pie wanted American cigarettes. After he had mooched almost a pack, one at a time, I gave him some I had saved for just such a character, a mildewed package from a box of C rations dated 1944.
Our feeling of uneasiness about Porvenir increased. There was an atmosphere of tension as if the island were a prison and the men were just waiting out their sentences. We were anxious to leave, but each time I asked White Suit for clearance he found some reason to stall. It was the same when I requested the return of the governor's letter, which was addressed to whom it may concern, and which we had been instructed to carry with us all along the coast.
White Suit was a nervous Peter Lorreish character who sneaked around the island and in and out of buildings checking up on everyone. But he stayed well away from the jeep—in fact whenever I looked for him he was nowhere around. How anyone could hide on an island that small was a mystery, but he managed to do it. That afternoon I tracked him down and cornered him in his office. Again I asked for the letter.
"It's Saturday," he replied sullenly. "My office is closed. You'll have to wait until Monday."
He left me standing with my mouth open, and Helen and I resigned ourselves to an uncomfortable wait.
The next day a trading boat bound for Colón steered into the channel, and we were able to buy enough gas to fill our tanks. Because of rough seas we had used almost twice as much fuel as I had anticipated; it had taken thirty-six gallons to travel the sixty-five nautical miles from Coco Solo. In the twenty-three hours of actual travel time we had averaged almost three knots.
When the trading boat was cleared with no delay, even though it was Sunday, I knew that White Suit was just being difficult. It was already late afternoon; we had lost two beautiful traveling days. It looked as if he would go on stalling forever, so I tried a bluff. When I threatened to radio Colón, he promised to have everything taken care of the next morning. I was glad that he didn't know that our handie-talkie wouldn't transmit much farther than I could shout.
Monday dawned bright and clear. White Suit came through with the necessary clearance and returned the governor's letter—slightly the worse for wear, crumpled, and with a cigarette burn through it. With no regrets we left Porvenir.
The twenty-seven-mile run to our next stop, the island of Nargana, was all in the protected water between the mainland and a string of islands. After easing through the reefs and around the protruding mast of a sunken ship we relaxed and enjoyed the panorama of tropical beauty we were passing. Since receiving our ship's papers and the Canal transit we had become quite nautical, at least insofar as the M.S. La Tortuga was concerned. With Helen on the top deck keeping the log and Dinah asleep on the bunk aft, I was at the helm, sitting on the edge of the top hatch and steering in a rather unorthodox manner for a ship's captain—with my feet.
At our regular three knots we cruised past island after exquisite island, emeralds set in silver sand against a backdrop of turquoise water. Gradually we learned to read the depth of the sea by the color, and where it changed to the ugly brown of reef we steered well around the area. But sometimes, where the coral lay five or six feet below the surface, we cut the throttle and drifted over it, watching the variegated shapes and colors through the clear water, the orange-and-black tiger fish, the waving spines of purple sea urchins, and the rainbow of old shells catching the rays of the sun.
Sharp smacking sounds and silver flashes on the water signaled the presence of tarpon, but either they weren't hungry or they didn't fancy the war-surplus red-feathered spoon I trolled a couple of hundred feet behind the jeep. Giving up my attempts at fishing, I contented myself with watching the antics of a school of porpoises that cavorted around La Tortuga. Half as long as our dinghy-sized amphibian, they arched through the water, performing the acrobatics effortlessly, their shiny gray-black bodies making loops in the air in a long line that made the sea serpent stories of old mariners seem real. For several hours they literally swam circles around us, until, tiring of such a slow companion, they left in search of more exciting sport.
Closer to Nargana a few sailing cayucas scudded across the green water, heeling over in the light breeze while their Indian navigators balanced precariously on the gunwales to keep them upright. Twenty to thirty feet long, they were carved of a single log; with no keel, centerboard, or leeboard they looked difficult to handle, yet the Indians had been known to make trips to Colón in them.
We had been looking forward to landing on Nargana, our first Indian island stop. But instead of brilliant blouses the women wore shapeless cotton Mother Hubbards, and in place of a gesturing island chief we were met by a white-frocked young priest with a crew cut, riding a red motor scooter with a black-and-tan dachshund sitting on the back. Dinah and Mopsy the Dachsy took a liking to each other right away and it was the same with us and Padre Kolb, who had spent twelve years among the San Bias Indians since leaving Pasadena, California.
"You're just in time for supper," he said.
A special dispensation was made on the spot, and that evening Helen, Dinah, and I joined Padre Kolb, three other priests, and Mopsy in the dining room, where we were served a well-balanced dinner by a kindly German nun. We learned that the Catholic mission wasn't responsible for the drab attire of the native women. That was brought about by a missionary who had spent ten years on Nargana prior to the rebellion in 1923.
After dessert of German-style white cake Padre Kolb brought out some of his special brew, an adaptation of the natives' drink of fermented sugar cane juice and ground corn. "Strictly a scientific experiment"—he winked—"to test the effects of the beverage."
I'm certain it couldn't have been the one thimble-sized glass that I had of the sweetish-sour clear yellow liquid, but, whatever the cause, that night I dreamed that La Tortuga, Dinah, and I were being chased over a storm-tossed sea by an elephant-sized dachshund and a monstrous amphibious motor scooter driven by a San Bias Indian woman speaking German. Wearing a barrel-hoop nose ring and a red Mother Hubbard, Helen laughed at me from a saddle on the back of a porpoise that kept getting in the way of my flight. I woke up when the porpoise turned and opened its mouth and swallowed the lot of us like Jonah and the whale.
The next morning I helped Padre Kolb repair the wiring on his boat and he took us for a spin around the island, showing us how to get through the channel and on the course for Ratón Cay. The weather looked threatening, and when Padre Kolb told us that a boat was due that afternoon with some gasoline for the mission which we could buy instead, we decided to wait another day. I was beginning to be concerned about the problem of fuel. Beyond Nargana the trading boats called only at very irregular intervals, at Ailigandi, forty miles ahead and at Obaldía, near the Colombian border, over a hundred miles away. Unless we could make definite arrangements at Nargana for gas to be left at Obaldía, there was a good chance we might be delayed, and the natives predicted the chocosanos would be early. When the boat did not arrive that day, Padre Kolb graciously sold us twelve gallons of his own supply and offered to speak to the captain of the Rio Indio, which would be making a run to Obaldía that month. With our tanks again topped off, in calm weather we could just make Obaldía on the fifty-two gallons.
Wednesday morning the sun was shining brightly, and we headed for Ratón Cay, twenty-one miles away. One of the difficulties we had experienced in navigating by sight was identifying the many islands since not all of the hundreds of bits of sand and palm showed on the charts. It was the same that morning. Ahead of us the sky was clear, and scattered against the blue horizon dozens of islands seemed to float just above the surface of the water. For the first few hours after we left Nargana the sea was calm, but dark clouds were forming in the mountains to our right, where lightning flashed like a waving white sheet. We weren't too concerned since the storm that had threatened the previous day had been a false alarm: a glorious afternoon had been followed by a fiery sunset. Reassured by the light breeze coming from the azure sky ahead, we continued even though the waves became choppy, buffeting the bow of the jeep and leaving a white cake of salt on the steaming muffler. With the front hatch closed and the windshield wipers swishing constantly, I reduced the speed of the engine to prevent its overheating and engaged the bilge pump. Since fixing the propeller shaft on Porvenir we had taken on no water, but with the waves breaking over the bow a little had seeped past the rubber gasket of the hatch. Five miles from Ratón Cay the waves slackened and our small flag drooped. A few minutes later it stiffened again as the wind shifted and blew directly from the mainland, where the dark mass of clouds had mushroomed into a canopy of black that filled the entire horizon. Ratón Cay was the closest place where we could get ashore, and with the wind whipping the crests of the whitecaps into spray, I floored the throttle hoping to make the island before the engine boiled or the dark shroud closed in. We were still more than a mile from Ratón Cay when the blackness dropped over us like a sack, cutting off the sight of land, the island, everything.
Somewhere to our left lay a scattered chain of reef called Spokeshave, to our right was the mainland fringed with coral, and in between was Ratón Cay, on either side of which was a wide breach of open water. I kicked myself for not having installed a spare compass—the one on the dash had been gyrating like a dervish since shortly after leaving Coco Solo. With only a general idea of the direction of the island, there was one chance in a thousand of hitting it before running straight out to sea or going aground on the reefs. The only thing to do was to sit tight—I pointed the bow into the storm and kept it there with just enough power to maintain steerageway while the wind rose to a gale that smothered even the sound of the exhaust.
As I gripped the wheel and struggled to keep the jeep from yawing and turning broadside to the waves I was doing some rapid mental calculating. We had come twenty miles in rough seas since Nargana. The gas gauge was hovering around the zero mark, but I figured that at the rate I was pushing the engine to keep control there was enough in the main tank for another hour. In a pinch the outboard motor might be good for another hour and a half. We had two and a half hours to ride out a storm that showed no sign of abating. To conserve the main engine fuel for a landing I switched to the outboard motor and sat on the bunk with the control arm clamped in my hand and tried to forget that I had said this was the one thing that could never happen.
Although very excitable in a minor emergency Helen was extremely calm. On her lap was the little book Chaplain Best had given us. It was open to the Navy hymn:
Eternal Father, strong to save,
hose arm hath bound the restless wave,
Who bid'st the mighty ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep.
For more than an hour I kept La Tortuga pointed into the storm that shrieked over us. The jeep shuddered each time a wave crashed down, lurched as its bow plunged into a trough, and I wondered how that thin sheet of glass in front of us could keep out the force of tons of water. Except for the flashes of lightning that split the sky and glared from the white tassels of the waves everything was as black as night.
With the thunder came rain, lightly at first, but as the drops became larger it seemed that the wind let up a bit and the waves calmed. By the time the outboard motor tank went dry we were sitting under a deluge on a flat stippled sheet of gray water in the middle of a gray void, silent except for the rain that rattled like buckshot on the roof.
With the main engine just idling we drifted on the calm for another half hour when Helen spotted a single break on the horizon. Faintly outlined was an island. I groaned. "If only we had a compass. We could take a bearing before we're socked in again."
Helen sputtered. "We do have a compass. Remember?" She fumbled through the cabinets and came up with the small box Commander Bookhammer had given us in Coco Solo.
I had just enough time to take a reading before the island disappeared again. Blindly following a compass course, we headed for it. Two hours and fifteen minutes from the time we were blacked out we sighted Ratón Cay through the rain and poled our way over the surrounding reefs to the beach. It was too steep and narrow to get completely out of the water so we left La Tortuga where we landed, with her bow high between two coconut palms and her stern half submerged. For a few minutes we sat on the beach and just enjoyed the feel of solid ground before investigating our refuge.
I had always wanted to explore an uninhabited island. The whole trip I had looked forward to landing on one, and though we were soaked through by rain and salt spray, and the conditions weren't exactly as I had pictured, I could hardly wait to explore Ratón Cay. We pushed through the heavy growth, enchanted by the exotic flowers, the pink shells on the sand, and the fan-leafed plants that glistened, newly washed by the rain. In the one deserted grass hut we poked among the bits of pottery and straw mats, and then on the way back to the jeep we picked wild bananas and coconuts for supper. All the while we were alert for any sight or sound that might indicate the presence of snakes. When Dinah's hackles bristled, we froze and then laughed as she backed cautiously away from the island's one inhabitant, a lone cat. Later the moon sent streaks of silver through the palms and a gentle breeze fresh showers of water from the rain-soaked fronds. It was a tranquil starry night: the waves bubbled on the beach and crabs scampered before them, and occasionally we heard a coconut falling.
Inside La Tortuga we were preparing for bed. The steep angle at which we had landed was uncomfortable, but that night we could have slept standing up. Helen was about to crawl onto her bunk when she saw flashes a few hundred yards from shore. We made out the dim form of a cayuca with four or five Indians in it. Padre Kolb had warned us that the Indians regarded the islands as personal property and were suspicious of anyone stopping on an uninhabited island. Each island was a bank where money grew on trees. The coconuts were worth four cents apiece in trade.
"What do you suppose they're doing?" Helen asked nervously.
"Oh, they're probably hunting for lobsters on the reef." I wasn't as casual as I tried to make out. "Let's be quiet and maybe they won't discover us."
Helen sat there a few minutes more and then climbed over the seat to her bunk, but she wasn't very quiet about it. Her foot hit the horn button and the silence was blasted by a sound as foreign to the San Bias Islands as a conch shell on Broadway. The lights from the cayuca vanished.
"Well," I said disgustedly, "if they didn't know before that we're here, they do now."
I got out some cigarettes and soap to make peace and waited. A few minutes later I heard a noise near the jeep and switched on the headlights, but instead of an Indian vigilante committee it was the cat busily devouring the remains of Dinah's supper. Helen pointed to where we had seen the lights. The cayuca was shooting across the water toward the mainland, the Indians paddling as if all the demons in hell were after them.
The next morning we zigzagged back over the lowlying reefs to the safe Prussian blue of deep water and headed for Ailigandi. For the next forty miles the charts were useless: in place of soundings there was an empty blank space, and even the shape of the coast line was indefinite, traced from a Spanish map dated 1817. But it was that lack of knowledge that made it more exciting, for perhaps in that area might lie the undiscovered location of the legendary Swan's Nest, the secret harbor Sir Francis Drake had concealed by training trees to grow over the entrance.
Profiting by the experience of the previous day, we stayed close to shore, ready to dash in should the warning black clouds swell over the mountains again. Around noon the wind freshened. We were navigating between two parallel shoals of brown coral, and I gave the jeep full throttle to get to the end or a low spot where we could get through to shore. But even faster than the day before the clouds closed in and the waves started thrashing. With Helen probing with the bamboo pole on the bow, we found an opening and steered for a bit of white sand beach. When she shouted "Stop," I wasn't ready. Before I could throw the jeep into reverse, Helen lunged against the pole trying to stop the jeep before it ran up on a sharp point of reef. But two and a half tons doesn't stop easily. The pole was flipped from her hands and she was thrown sprawling to the edge of the jeep, which was tilting up on the reef. Cutting the engine, I climbed through the hatch, pulled Helen back, and then jumped in after the pole, but it was gone, carried away by the wave that had concealed the reef until we were on it.
What we had thought was a channel was a blind alley with no way open to shore and no room to turn around. For a half hour I stood with the remaining pole on the bobbing bow of the jeep trying to keep it from being battered against the reef while Helen ran the engine in full reverse until the rain fell and the waves calmed. We were poling backward into deeper water when an Indian paddled by in a cayuca and offered to lead us to Ailigandi. For the next four miles he sat in the jeep, piloting us with assurance over shallows where to me it looked as if even his canoe would go aground and avoiding places that seemed safe to me but where he said were sharp points of coral. In his cayuca tied to the back of the jeep his frightened wife wailed loudly, and it wasn't until we were almost there that we could persuade her to join us in La Tortuga.
For the next three days the weather varied from overcast skies to torrential rains as we waited impatiently on Ailigandi for the sea to calm. During that time we enjoyed the hospitality of Dr. and Mrs. Iglesias, leaders of the only Protestant mission in the islands. Dr. Iglesias was a San Bias Indian, educated in the United States by the same missionary who had so diluted the customs on Nargana. Ailigandi, however, had suffered no such drastic change, the women still wore their exquisitely bizarre costumes, their nose rings and heavy ear pendants, but it did seem incongruous to hear them sing "Onward Christian Soldiers" in Cuna dialect.
The second day on the island the Rio Indio arrived with a drum of gasoline for us. Paying for the whole drum, I filled our tanks with twenty gallons and requested the captain to leave the rest at Obaldía. The remaining thirty-five gallons in the drum would be enough to get us to Turbo.
On Ailigandi, as on Porvenir and Nargana, we were subjected to an intense scrutiny by the Indians. More than just looking, they seemed consumed by a desire to touch and feel everything, especially La Tortuga. As for Dinah, they were both terrified and awed by her. They had never seen a dog as large as she, and whenever she came near them they whispered "Achu, achu." I refrained from saying "Gesundheit" when I learned that achu was a legendary carnivore that probably dates from the fighting dogs of the conquistadores.
Perhaps because they pitied her lack of a nose ring, the women of Ailigandi took a special liking to Helen. They ignored me completely, but wherever Helen went they nodded to her vigorously, saying, "Nuete an ai [Good friend]." One evening an old woman reached through the crowd surrounding the jeep and dragged Helen by the arm into her hut, the other women of the island streaming after them. Her abductress was a medicine woman, a wrinkled weathered crone with a stubby black pipe stuck between brown teeth and a nose ring that sagged from a stretched loop of flesh halfway to her chin. I pushed through the crowd, past a dozen hammocks, to a corner where the light from the cooking fire sent flickering shadows on the cane walls and danced from the nose rings and ear pendants of the women. Helen called my name and I broke through to where she was standing, half expecting to find her being fitted for that mark of San Bias beauty. Instead the old woman was showing her the carved wooden dolls with which she cured the sick. As she pulled each one from an overflowing box she pointed to the markings on it, the location indicating where the patient it had cured had been ailing. The more marks, the more cures and the more valued the doll. As she took out the last one she held it contemplatively a moment and then impulsively gave it to Helen, exclaiming, "Nuete an ai!" It was a new doll, an image of a man with a long sharp nose. Carved of balsa, about ten inches long, it had cured only a few people but, according to the old lady, it had a great future and she wanted Helen to have it. There was a murmur of approval from the other women and one of them put a string of beads around Helen's neck, motioning her to sniff them. Made of brown seeds, they emitted an exotically spicy aroma, but still another woman made a contemptuous gesture, took off her own beads, and gave them to Helen, inviting her to test their infinitely better fragrance.
When we had arrived on Ailigandi, there was a rumor that a canoeload of Indians had been attacked by a sea monster. The night it happened five men were hunting turtle eggs near Ratón Cay when the monster had come up from the depths of the sea to the beach. Barely escaping with their lives, they had paddled all night to reach their island of Ustuppo, where they told the chief what had happened. The chief called a general assembly and the men repeated their story, how a monstrous shape had crawled from the water, roaring horribly, with people in its mouth, and with eyes flashing like lightning. One of the elders, a man much respected for his knowledge of tribal lore, stood up and described the legendary giant sea turtle which their ancestors said would one day come to devour the people. "The sea monster has come," he proclaimed.
Each time we heard the story it was embellished a bit more, and it wasn't until the day before we left Ailigandi that we learned that La Tortuga had assumed a new role-first a scout car from a flying saucer, then a rose parade float, a tank, and now the sea monster of San Bias. Oledebiligini, high chief of all the San Bias Indians, explained what had happened when he paid us a call from Ustuppo. He was a short stocky man wearing a shapeless felt hat and loose pink shirt. There was a keen intelligent look about him as he spoke to Dr. Iglesias, who translated:
"My people were afraid when the five men told them what they had seen, but when a messenger said there was a strange machine on Ailigandi, that it swam in the water and walked on land, and that there were people inside, I knew that you were the sea monster. Now they are no longer afraid; they want to see and touch your Yauk Temar so that they will enjoy a full life in heaven. They will not work, the men will not go to their farms on the mainland, the women will not go to the river for water for fear that you will pass while they are gone. I have come personally to invite you to make Ustuppo your home for as long as you wish to stay."
I was both awed by the invitation and a bit confused as to what the connection was between our visit and heaven, but I thanked him and promised to stop there. When word spread that we were going to Ustuppo, there was a protest from nearby Achituppo. "Why should the people of Ailigandi and Ustuppo have more in heaven than the people of Achituppo?" their chief asked. I couldn't answer that question so I asked Dr. Iglesias.
"My people," he explained understandingly, "believe that what they experience in this life they will experience in the afterlife, so they try to see and do everything they would like to see and do in heaven."
Apparently the thought of owning an amphibious jeep was very appealing because after that we received many invitations, and it became almost mandatory that we stop at all the islands along the way, if only for a moment, so that the people could touch our Yauk Temar. I'm afraid there's going to be an awful traffic jam in Indian heaven with more amphibious jeeps running around than Ford turned out during the war. And I suppose that now, instead of placing a tiny cayuca on the chest of a dead man to carry his soul to the hereafter, there will be a miniature La Tortuga.
That evening we were invited to a birthday party, a rather recent innovation since the San Bias people were not accustomed to keeping track of age. Helen and I stooped under the low eaves of the hut where the festivities were taking place and entered the dim interior, lit by a single smoking lantern. At the far end hammocks hung, and on the rafters, the San Bias clothes closets, were neatly folded skirts and blouses.
Standing around a long low table were a score or more of elaborately decorated Indians. We had been briefed by Dr. Iglesias on the formalities to be observed, but we were happy to see so many people. If we made a mistake it would probably go unnoticed. But such is not San Bias custom. We were the guests of honor and everyone else stood around, watching carefully to make sure that we enjoyed ourselves.
We had little difficulty with what to them is ice cream, rice boiled in coconut oil, but we saved until last the thin brown liquid in the small cups by our plates.
"Do you think it's real chicha?" Helen whispered from the side of her mouth.
"I don't know, but we don't want to offend them," I answered. (Chicha is a masticated corn drink. It's not that we're squeamish but, being an independent sort, we prefer to chew our own corn.) "Bottoms up, and make believe you like it," I whispered in return.
With forced smiles we raised the cups to our lips. It had a strange sweet smell that somehow seemed familiar. At the first taste our strained expressions turned to ones of pleasure. Instead of chicha it was cocoa made with water and a large amount of sugar. And that concluded the party, except for the parting ritual. It hardly seemed right to repay the hospitality of our hostess by spitting on her floor, but dutifully we took a mouthful of water from a small blue bowl, rinsed our mouths, and spit over our left shoulders in the prescribed manner.
The next morning the chief of Ailigandi summoned us to his hut. Dr. Iglesias went along to interpret, explaining that the chief was about to make a friendship pact. Seating us on a carved wooden bench, the chief stood a few feet in front of us holding a bowl containing two white eggs. With great ceremony he began to chant, bending at the waist and moving forward and backward rhythmically:
"I wish you a safe journey, and a long and happy marriage. I will think of you when we are apart and hope that you will think of me."
With each phrase he leaned over and handed me the bowl of eggs, but as I reached for it he pulled it back, walked away, and chanted anew. When he finished his salutation he handed me the bowl, saying, "We are now lifelong friends."
Then it was my turn. The old chief sat next to Helen on the bench while I repeated the ceremony with the same bowl:
"Thank you for your hospitality and may you continue in good health. May we return someday to renew our friendship."
When I finished he nodded stoically, took the bowl, and handed me the eggs one at a time. During the entire ritual he had ignored Helen—friendship pacts were made only between men—but as a consolation prize he gave her a beautiful avocado. Later we ate the avocado, but the eggs were beyond that stage.
When the performance was over, the chief climbed into the jeep, and as if La Tortuga were a royal coach he waved and nodded to his subjects as we drove slowly across the block-sized island to the cayuca beach. Awkwardly he jumped out amid cheers from the people, and we edged into the water toward Ustuppo.
It was a short run to Oledebiligini's island and we made good time, considering that we stopped at Achituppo on the way so that the people could touch the jeep and assure themselves of its possession in heaven. The bottom around the island was too soft to get ashore, so they all waded out to us, rubbing and stroking La Tortuga.
From the sea, a few hundred yards off Ustuppo, the brown huts seemed so close together that there would be hardly enough space for the jeep. The people were there en masse to greet us: men were busily picking rocks from the shallow water of the channel, and Oledebiligini was waving from the shore. The beach was steep and we approached rapidly, the wheels and propeller churning the water to a muddy froth. In the soft sand near the water's edge our progress stopped and the men crowded around, then scattered like autumn leaves before the wind as the wheels took hold and La Tortuga lurched up onto the solid sand and coral of the island. Following slowly behind Oledebiligini, we drove through the narrow paths between the huts, winding in and out with the whole populace around us. The men were excited, but the women were terrified. Even though they had been told that the sea monster had not yet come, screaming mothers dragged their children into their huts, grandmothers shuddered with fright, clutching one another and hiding in doorways, but still peeping out inquisitively. In an open space in front of the main council hut the inspection began, shyly at first, and then with more vigor when they saw we really weren't going to eat them.
Inside the huge council hut, a cane and thatch structure more than a hundred feet long, the islanders crowded to hear their chief welcome us, their faces illuminated by the striped pattern of sunlight that filtered through the bamboo slat walls. Sitting on high benches, the men chewed on their pipes, the smoke curling up through openings in the roof. The women stood around the walls and the children hung from the bamboo eaves or peered from between the legs of their elders. In the center of the council Oledebiligini reclined in the hammock from which all official business was conducted. One of the men who had been in the Canal Zone translated as he spoke loudly so that all could hear:
"I regret that I cannot speak your language, but this man shall be at your disposal. If you wish anything, just ask. You are among friends."
And we were. We were free to come and go when and where we desired, and always we were met by friendly smiling faces. It was difficult to believe that these were the people who had garnered such an evil reputation over the years. It was still true that on many of the islands a stranger was not allowed to spend the night, but apparently that rule didn't apply to me since I had brought my own wife. Besides, we had a magical machine that swam on the sea and walked on the land, and a fascinating dog that understood Cuna. We had taught Dinah to put out her paw in response to "Ak an ai," and she never forgave us for it. After one day in which she obliged at least half the islanders she retired to the jeep with a case of politician's cramp. She would come out only when it was time to eat.
A few feet above the level of the sea Ustuppo was a flat table of coral and hard-packed sand. It was one of the largest of the San Bias Islands, about the size of six city blocks, where almost two thousand Indians lived in crowded bamboo and grass huts. Like the other inhabited islands we had passed, it was less than a mile from the mainland and the mouth of a river. With no fresh water on the island and with nothing growing except a few palms, the people preferred to live crushed together where they were safe from the spirits of the trees, rocks, and animals that haunted the mainland at night.
The only clear space on the island was in front of the main council hut, and it was there that we parked La Tortuga for our two-day stay. The children flocked around bringing their pets, a baby foot-long alligator on a string, and a black-and-white marmoset that clung to the long hair of its little mistress and screamed loudly when she plucked it loose for us to hold. And there was a green parrot that learned to say Dinah's name, much to her disgust. Although the chief loudly and sternly ordered the kids to keep a fair distance from the jeep while we prepared our Cration meals, they always moved in close when he wasn't around. But they really scattered when the island master-at-arms ran from the council hut brandishing his wand of authority. Seldom spanked by their families, they had great respect for the three-foot length of thorny vine that was used freely about once a week at a general assembly when the kids were given the appropriate number of whacks for their misdeeds as reported by their parents.
The second day Helen went with two of the women to the river, paddling several miles upstream through a tunnel of dark green foliage, where lizards darted on the leaves and blue crabs played on the banks. Leaving the canoe, they waded still farther upstream to a deep pool where they bathed, and then, picking mangoes, pineapples, and avocados on the way, they returned to the island in a canoe so laden with gourds of fresh water that there was less than an inch of freeboard. Although Helen was constantly afraid that the canoe would tip over she told me that all the women could talk about was how they would fear to go to sea in La Tortuga.
While Helen was gone, I watched the men spear fish and bring the corn, rice, plantains, and bananas from their farms. Near the huts women squeezed sugar cane between two springy logs or sat sewing the appliquéd blouses that took as long as ten weeks to make. In the evening the people brought us fruit and little stools to sit on. Carved of a single piece of wood, they were as comfortable and functional as any Eames chair.
When we were ready to leave, one of the women presented Helen with a richly appliquéd blouse of red, orange, purple, and green pieces of cloth, insisting she put it on. Helen was most obliging, and with a borrowed wrap-around skirt, which she had difficulty keeping on, and a red headdress all she lacked was a nose ring. I thought a nose ring might be an ideal thing by which to assert my masculine prerogative, but when I suggested to Helen that the costume be completed she didn't take kindly to the idea.
When Helen's attire was complete, the women stood back and walked around her, chattering and nodding their approval. One of them made a comment to which the others replied with a loud titter.
"What did they say?" Helen asked the interpreter.
He smiled. "They said your eyes may be blue, but your skin is darker than theirs."
And they were right. In the three weeks since leaving Colón, Helen was burned a deep bronze by the sun.
Mulatuppo, our next stop, was almost at the end of the San Bias chain, and was supposed to be the island where Balboa married a chieftain's daughter, but if his in-laws were as unpleasant as the Mulatuppoans of today it was no wonder he left. Perhaps they had a different concept of heaven, or maybe it was because their chief was old and sick, but, whatever the reason, they were a belligerent and restless lot. After being the center of a torchlight parade all night and the object of angry mutterings we took off early in the morning. The threatening sky looked more inviting than the cloudy faces of the Indians.
The seas from Mulatuppo were as rough as any we had been in, but daily we acquired more confidence in La Tortuga's ability to weather them. When earlier in the trip we would have dashed for shore, we now consumed increasing amounts of Dramamine and pushed on. With storm clouds mounting we covered the forty miles to Obaldía near the Colombian border in two long runs, where with relief we found our gas waiting for us. Obaldía, out of San Bias territory and the last Panamanian port, was a sleepy little Negro town of a few hundred inhabitants. The one white resident, the storekeeper who had our gas, also had a radio over which he and the rest of the town had had word of our coming from a Panamanian news broadcast, but the information was slightly incorrect. We were described as German nationals and millionaires. We thought it rather amusing until they warned us that revolutionary trouble was again brewing in Colombia, and that some places were decidedly unhealthy for anyone, let alone two people reputed to be wealthy. To add a little more spice to the situation, guerrillas were being supplied with arms by gunrunners operating in the waters between Obaldía and Turbo. And to top it all a fisherman predicted a chocosano within the week.
With about eighty miles to go to Turbo we spent a full day at Obaldía checking and servicing the jeep. It had been performing perfectly, but we had been taking on a lot of water and I wanted to make certain it was from the heavy seas and not from a leak in the hull. Finding nothing wrong, I went over the bolts and seals to be sure, and then with our tanks filled we left for Punta Goleta, a long twenty-four miles away.
Bahía de Goleta: "…heavy swells with crests which break in nearly six fathoms have been observed. In heavy weather the swells pile up and may be dangerous." So say the Sailing Directions, published by the U.S. Navy Department, Hydrographic Office. But at the time we approached for a landing we didn't have a copy. A bit green after eight hours of pitching and rolling, I had only one thought—to get to shore as quickly as possible. There was no sign of reef and there appeared to be no surf, but I had forgotten that from the seaward side surf wasn't always apparent. I remembered very quickly as the bow pointed down and La Tortuga became the front of the roller coaster again. On the shore a Negro family was waving madly at us to stay out, but by that time it was too late and the jeep surfboarded toward the beach yawing and swaying.
When we climbed out, Helen looked green too. "I thought there wasn't supposed to be any surf on the Caribbean side."
I had nothing to say. I was getting used to my theories being shattered.
The next morning we headed out through the breakers again toward the first mouth of the Rio Atrato. An hour after we left, a three-layer bank of clouds with a long tail started forming to the south, from whence came the chocosanos, but rather than risk another landing we kept going. Around noon the water calmed and I moved in closer to shore, which was some of the most desolate I had ever seen. There was a narrow beach littered with debris from countless storms, a wall of bleached driftwood and dead brush pushed by the waves to the edge of the jungle lowlands beyond. There were no towns or habitations of any kind from there to Turbo, and it came as a shock when we passed a high rock island and saw a nondescript boat nestling against a cliff on one side. About fifty feet long, its gray hull was uncared for; there was no flag or identifying mark. It appeared to be waiting for something or someone, and through the binoculars I saw six men studying us. There was a sudden belch of black diesel fumes from its stack and it swung our way.
"Run up the American flag," I told Helen, "and get out the radio. Maybe we can bluff them as we did White Suit." But either they didn't know what it was or they were aware that our handie-talkie had no range for they kept coming. Flooring the accelerator, I pointed La Tortuga for the shore; we couldn't outrun them on water, but on the beach we could leave them far behind. Without a thought to the surf we hit the beach with all four wheels churning, the propeller still engaged, and a stream of water shooting from the bilge outlet. It was like running a slalom weaving between fallen trees and around debris until four miles later we were stopped by the muddy banks of the Rio Atrato. Because of a bend in the shore line we couldn't see the boat. With the jeep concealed behind a pile of brush we waited, and several hours later we saw a trail of black smoke heading across the Gulf of Darien.
With a sigh of relief Helen commented, "Storms, reefs, and gunrunners. Believe me, I'll never go to sea in a ship that doesn't have wheels."
That night the chocosano hit. Were we glad to be onshore! The tail of the triple-decker dark cloud rose even higher as the wind shifted from north to south, lightning split the sky with jagged red fingers, pronged spears, and sheets that turned the horizon into a wavering white line in the blackness. Increasing steadily, the wind swished in gusts, whipping the waves to froth and sending them rolling up on the beach through the debris and washing the sand from beneath the wheels of the jeep. Already back as far as we could go against the woven dense jungle growth behind us, we worked quickly to build a barricade of driftwood in front of the jeep, but before we were finished the tires were buried six inches deep.
The main storm center lasted almost an hour, but all night lightning stabbed and thunder rumbled incessantly. The torrent of rain that came with the first gust of wind continued until almost morning. When the sun rose, another cloud was forming, and we decided to wait another day. For breakfast we halved the usual ration. The month's supply of food was almost gone even though Helen had been eating very little the past few days.
Our campsite was not the most desirable. Right at the mouth of the river the water was thick with brown mud. Trees and islands of floating vegetation drifted down from the jungle interior forming a green delta in the center. Sand fleas invaded the jeep as if the screens were not there. Thriving on insect repellent, they apparently considered it a delightful hors d'oeuvre before their main course. And we couldn't relieve the itching by bathing in the sea. Ugly brown sharks circled endlessly in the river mouth, coming so close to shore that they squirmed on the muddy bottom, their eight-foot-long bodies half exposed in the murky water.
Later in the day we sighted a distant Navy patrol plane, identifiable through the binoculars, but we were unable to make contact. The rest of the afternoon we watched almost spellbound as the black fins of the sharks swung back and forth, sometimes exposing their gray bellies, sometimes thrashing furiously when two of them fought over a fish. That night it stormed again, a repetition of the previous one, but the following morning was clear, and after retracing our way a half mile along the beach we started on the next-to-the-last lap.
Less than thirty miles away across the Gulf of Darien lay Turbo, but it was thirty miles of mudbanks and strong currents from the Rio Atrato. Our plans were to edge along the shore to the narrowest part of the gulf, and then to cross the ten-mile stretch of open water as quickly as possible, coming ashore on the spit of land where the chart showed the customs house to be located.
All along the shore a mud shelf extended into the gulf, and we proceeded slowly. If we went aground, I wanted to be able to push off from the bow with the pole and not from the water, as I had done in Costa Rica. There was a sharp line of demarcation between the blue of the Caribbean and the opaque brown water of the Rio Atrato. Heading directly across the fan of current that spread from the mouth of the river, we dodged scattered masses of bobbing vegetation that were being carried out to sea. It wasn't until we were halfway across that we saw we were being carried with them. Pushing the engine to its full six knots, I headed closer to shore, tacking back and forth across the current, keeping just beyond the shelf of mud, until we reached a short black sand beach near Bahía Candelaria. There was the current of two more branches of the Rio Atrato to buck, but through the binoculars we could see Turbo's customs house ten miles away. When a patrol plane found us that afternoon, I notified the pilot that with good weather we would land at Turbo the next day.
We were too excited to eat much that evening, so we didn't mind saving the last of the C rations, a can of beans, for breakfast. And with the rain and the sand fleas we didn't sleep too well either.
Day broke with a beautiful orange sunrise and a calm sea. At 7:00 A.M. we took off through gentle surf and pointed La Tortuga toward Turbo. Tacking at full throttle in the currents, letting the engine cool off in between, we reached the halfway point. The customs house grew larger, a few specks on shore became people, we could make out the shingle beach, the logs that cluttered it, and the uniforms of the customs officials. Twenty minutes before we hit the beach at Turbo, just thirty days from the time we left Coco Solo, a Navy patrol plane zoomed low. To our surprise, from the receiver came the voice of Admiral Miles.
"Glad to see you made it. Are you both all right?"
We assured him that we were. The plane circled twice, dipped its wings, and headed back toward Panama. As we watched it disappear, I signed off.
"So long, Angel—and thanks." |
20,000 Miles South | Helen Schreider | [
"nonfiction"
] | [
"travel",
"South America",
"1950s"
] | Chapter 8 | Approaching the beach rapidly, we headed for the group of people who had congregated onshore. The hard-packed gravel offered no resistance, and when the wheels took hold the jeep surged right for them. I stepped hard on the brakes. Even though wet they should have slowed us a little, but nothing happened. There was a flurry of flailing arms as white shirts and khaki uniforms scattered like tenpins until we came to an abrupt halt against a piece of driftwood. Feeling that the first vehicle to reach South America under its own power could have gotten off to a better start, I hastily apologized to the customs official for nearly running him down. But if a Martian had landed on the beach he couldn't have been more confused. He muttered something in Spanish about a car navigating the Gulf of Darien or a boat driving up to the customs house and then asked for our papers. He stamped the passports and tourist cards, ignored Dinah's health certificate, and lingered an especially long time over the certificate of title for the jeep.
"Is it a car or a boat?" he asked.
"It's both," I replied.
There was a whispered conversation between the customs official and his crony. One said to let us go, and the other one said he wasn't sure. I didn't know what it was all about, but I had learned many borders ago not to complicate matters by opening my mouth. Ten minutes of head shaking and creased brows were climaxed by much shoulder shrugging, after which they returned our documents and waved us on.
"Well, that was easy," Helen commented cheerfully as we climbed back in the jeep. It wasn't until we tried to leave Colombia that we learned it had been much too easy.
From what we could see, Turbo was nothing more than a customs house, a few wooden shacks, and an airstrip on the edge of the jungle. Parking the jeep in the shade of one of the shacks, we relaxed a bit. For the first time in a month I felt no tension, the ground felt good beneath my feet, firm and solid, and I could look at the choppy water without apprehension. My only regret was that I couldn't see Captain Parker's face when he paid off his bets in Panama.
The customs official had pointed out the road to Medellín, Colombia's second city, but, although it was only 240 miles away, we would have to procure supplies and service the jeep before continuing. With tools, grease, and oil that I had brought from Panama I was prepared to do the job on the spot. But a half hour later when I had removed one of the front wheels I found something for which I wasn't prepared. The brake linings had all but disappeared, ground away by sand and salt water. I was pondering the problem of where to procure new linings when a very foreign sound broke the Turbo silence—a soft Texas drawl. It seemed that the Lone Star State had emissaries everywhere.
Tall and lanky, the speaker even looked like a Texan. Dressed in faded khakis, he was about fifty, with thinning gray hair and a neatly trimmed mustache, but his eyes had a youthful merry twinkle. "Howdy," he said. "I'm Louis Coulson. Aren't you the folks that plane was looking for the other day? Radioed it was hunting a missing craft of your description."
"I didn't know we were lost," I replied. Then I remembered the distant speck in the sky and our failure to make radio contact.
Coulson walked around the jeep. "You were mighty lucky to get across the gulf in that," he said.
"We've been mighty lucky all along. We'll be even luckier if we get to Medellín." I showed him what was left of the brakes. "Is this all there is to Turbo?"
"Oh no," he said. "The rest of it is across a shallow bay, but you won't find any brake linings there. There isn't even a road into the town. You have to get there by dugout canoe." He thought a moment. "Say, I've got a friend who can fix you up. He's head of the road commission camp a few miles from here, and you won't need brakes to get there either. The road's flat."
"That's great," I said. "I don't suppose there's anyplace we can send a telegram around here, is there? We would like to let our family know we made it."
"Sure thing. I've got a friend in the telegraph office. Say, a friend of mine has a dugout. Why not let me show you Turbo—what there is of it?"
I thanked him, and laughed. "You've sure got lots of friends around here, Mr. Coulson."
"Yes sir, after twenty-two years in Colombia I sure do." He chuckled. "That's the only way you can do business here."
"Mr. Coulson"—Helen hesitated, "you don't happen to have a doctor friend too, do you?"
"Why, as a matter of fact, I have. What's your trouble?"
"I don't know, but I'd like to have him take a look at my mouth."
Helen hadn't said anything to me about her mouth hurting but she hadn't been eating much. When I saw the roof of her mouth I knew why. It was covered with red ulcerated sores.
Hurriedly I put the wheel back on. I had finished before I realized that I had left out the universal joint that was essential for four-wheel drive, but Coulson assured me I wouldn't be needing it before reaching the road camp at Sunga, thirty miles away. At Mr. Coulson's suggestion, we left Dinah to watch the jeep.
The small port of Turbo lay across a narrow arm of water from the spit of land where we had come ashore. Maneuvering the outboard-powered dugout between the stumps and logs that filled the bay, Coulson shouted over the noise of the motor, "Turbo used to be a busy place. But that was hundreds of years ago, before the Rio Atrato filled the bay with mud. In those days it was a stopping place for Spanish treasure ships." He slowed the engine and pointed at the dark opaque water. "There's still a chest of gold down there."
From the open bay we skimmed through a narrow channel where the water was a mirror and double-ended trees lined the sides until the wake from the boat sent the reflections rippling away. At a crude wharf Coulson tied the canoe to a piling and we climbed a rough plank boardwalk that led to the town. On either side were more dugout canoes, some of them incongruously graced with shiny outboard motors. Near one of them stood an immense Negro. Tobacco juice stained a snarled beard that almost concealed a red flannel undershirt.
"That's Santa Claus," Coulson laughed. "Don't let his appearance fool you. He's one of the richest men in Turbo. Owns half these boats you see. Old miser—never spends a cent except for a plug of tobacco."
Turbo might have been a busy place at one time but there was no evidence of it that day. There was an air of quiet about the place, a stillness, as if the people were afraid even to speak for fear of using their last bit of energy. As we walked along the wooden sidewalks, past blue-and green-painted houses, the sun sent heat waves dancing upward from the metal roofs, and I found myself stifling yawns and moving slower and slower. The atmosphere was contagious.
Coulson, it turned out, actually lived in Medellín. He had flown to Turbo for a fishing trip—with a friend of his. He seemed to know everyone in town, and the doctor, whom we met in the street, greeted him like a lost brother. Younger than Coulson, with straight black hair and a big black mustache, he was also the local druggist. When we were introduced, a few people on the sidewalk pricked up their ears, a few more came running over, and by the time we arrived at the doctor's office we had quite a following. They all crowded in behind us to help him make his diagnosis. Quite conveniently the doctor's office was in his drugstore, behind the railing that served as a counter. Seating Helen on a chair, he asked her a few questions and then said something to another man, who disappeared into the back room. His aide returned with a spoon and meticulously wiped it off with his thumb before handing it to the doctor.
Helen opened her mouth; everyone leaned forward to look and emitted a sympathetic moan. Asking them quietly to move back so he could work, the doctor prodded Helen's mouth. There was another moan from the crowd when she gargled a protest, and a nod of complete agreement when he made his diagnosis: "A serious vitamin deficiency, early stages of scurvy." He reached for the shelf behind him and blew the dust off a box of pills. "Take four of these each day. In a couple of weeks you'll be all right." He smiled. "Since you're a friend of Don Luís, there will be no charge."
Back at the jeep again Mr. Coulson gave us directions for getting to Sunga and invited us to spend a few days with him in Medellín. I was beginning to see why he had so many friends.
The road from Turbo to Medellín was a new one, open only a short time after being under construction for almost thirty years. In fact, there was still some machinery along the way: one piece in particular, a huge shovel, was parked right across the road between a mass of jungle on one side and the gulf on the other. Five or six cars were waiting patiently, one of them since early morning. "This," I said jokingly, "looks like a job for Super-car," and without hesitation drove into the water to bypass the shovel. Less than ten feet from shore La Tortuga stuck—no four-wheel drive. And with the winch on the front we could not pull ourselves out backward. What a twist. After two hundred and fifty miles of ocean we were scuttled by a steam shovel. We dug and we pushed. The people in the cars waded out to push. We deflated the tires, but without four-wheel drive it was no use. And with the front wheels under water I would have needed an Aqua Lung to replace the universal joint. Two hours later a road commission truck arrived with a crew to move the shovel and the men hauled us out at the same time. Feeling rather sheepish, we continued to Sunga and arrived there late that afternoon.
Mr. Coulson had told us to ask for his friend, Dr. Solis. I couldn't imagine a doctor being in charge of a road-construction camp, but this was Colombia. We learned that all professional people are called Doctor, whether they are lawyers, engineers, or medical men. Dr. Solis was an engineer, a most genial person. "Yes," he said, "I think we might have some jeep brake linings around here." He assigned a couple of his men to help me and invited us to stay with him.
Helen eyed enthusiastically two boiler-sized washtubs and a scrubboard which looked as modern as a Bendix after washing on the rocks in the rivers. The next morning Helen shocked the servant girls—that a guest of Dr. Solis should do the family wash. But what surprised them even more was that the man she was traveling with was her husband. In Latin America apparently that was rare. And when they learned how long we had been married they were incredulous. "Americans," they exclaimed, "married eight years! Aren't you ready for a divorce?" Even in remote Sunga, Hollywood had had its effect.
Sunga, a clearing in the jungle lowlands, was a large camp, and there were lots of pets—most of them for sale. If Helen had had her way, La Tortuga would have been a rolling menagerie with marmosets, baby alligators, and parrots. The snakes she would gladly have done without. There was one animal we hadn't seen before. Called a guagua, it was a large zebra-striped rodent about the size of a pig. Its owner assured us that if we didn't want it for a pet, it would make a delicious roast. To all I politely said that one big dog was all the pet we could handle, but Helen almost persuaded me to add one more member to our crew.
"It's only two dollars," she coaxed. "And what a wonderful playmate it would make for Dinah."
Admittedly it was cute, a furry spotted bundle purring contentedly in Helen's arms, a month-old jaguar kitten. Already bigger than a house cat, in a year it would weigh a hundred and fifty pounds. Dinah was most interested but, remembering the cat in Panama, we decided that this one for sure would be more than she could handle.
By evening the differentials were drained, flushed, and refilled with lubricant, the wheel bearings were cleaned and repacked with grease, the motor oil changed, chassis lubricated, and the brakes completely reconditioned with new cylinders and new linings. When the mechanical work was done, I removed the outboard motor, padded it with life preservers, and lashed it securely to the rack on top of the jeep. We wanted to take good care of that motor; the money from its sale would go a long way toward finishing the trip.
In Turbo I had changed a few dollars for Colombian pesos, but after paying for the brake parts and tipping the mechanics we had only four pesos left, the equivalent of about ninety cents U.S., when we left Sunga. However, Dabeiba, the next town, was less than a hundred miles away and we had enough gas to get there.
From Sunga the dirt road started to climb, gradually at first, through a green wonderland of tall ceiba trees overhung with creepers. Slender trunks stretched their necks for a glimpse of the sun and limbs spread their branches into a canopy to catch the maximum light. Green parrots darted between the trees and lacy ferns covered the ground. Often there were clearings, a lighter green swampland steaming in the heat or man-made clearings where bananas grew luxuriantly. In places the road tunneled through trees, and as it rose even higher the ground fell away on one side, and we drove along a shelf in the side of a cliff. Then at the crest of the foothills of the mighty Andes we stood on the road and filled our lungs with the first naturally cool air we had breathed in four months.
Dabeiba was a small town set on the top of a green domelike hill. There was no bank. We tried to change money at the general store, but the clerk had never heard of a traveler's check, and the only thing he recognized about a twenty-dollar bill was the numbers. He admitted they looked impressive, but that they should be worth good Colombian pesos, never. We tried the hotel—five rooms and one bath—and the owner, a pleasant woman about fifty, fingered the currency approvingly and agreed to change it. It was late afternoon by that time and we decided to spend the night.
After supper the elderly mother of the innkeeper asked if we were Catholic. At our negative answer she replied "No importa," and invited us to see the town's principal church, a new one, in use although not quite finished. The Gothic style clashed with the reinforced concrete construction, but there in the glow of the stained-glass windows and the last rays of the setting sun we felt peace and gratitude at having safely crossed that two hundred and fifty miles of ocean.
The next morning I asked for the bill. Conferring with her mother a few moments, the innkeeper wrote something on a slip of paper and handed it to me. On it was written, "You owe us nothing. May God go with you." We were overwhelmed.
As we rolled over the hills toward Medellín, however, our money problem was still with us. But we still had four pesos, a little gas in the tank, and there were several towns ahead where there might be a bank. The department of Antioquia is noted for the unique masculine custom of carrying ornate fur-trimmed shoulder pouches. But despite the emphasis on these oversized wallets there was a shortage of moneychangers. In each of the tiny hilltop towns we passed I again tried to convert dollars to pesos. Always there was the same interest in seeing what American currency looked like, but also the same unwillingness to change it. Keeping an anxious eye on the gas gauge, we reduced our speed to conserve fuel, but by noon we had to part with our last four pesos, which bought about five gallons, just enough to get us to Medellín.
As we climbed steadily into the highlands, the air was pleasantly cool. The road wound through rugged country, as green as a park and mostly uncultivated. Sparse herds of cattle grazed, but with nothing to eat since early morning by mid-afternoon I could see them only as steaks smothered in onions. We forgot about our hunger for a few minutes while crossing a seventy-year-old wooden suspension bridge that undulated and swayed several hundred feet above the Cauca River. But on the other side a bakery truck swishing by reminded us. I had a brilliant idea.
Stepping on the gas, I tried to catch the truck. I honked the horn. It speeded up. I honked insistently, but all the driver did was honk back and go faster. After several miles of hare and hounds he saw my frantic waving and pulled over. The driver was about thirty, slender and tall and with the heavy black mustache without which it seemed that all Colombian men would be undressed.
"Pardon me, señor," I said, "but would you be willing to trade a loaf of bread for some American cigarettes?"
"Ah, señor," he replied, "but I do not smoke."
My face dropped. He quickly added, "But if you are hungry I will give you bread." With that he started hauling loaves of bread and boxes of cookies from the back of the truck until we had more than we could eat in a week. He refused to accept the cigarettes.
"No, señor," he smiled. "I am happy to give it to you. Besides, Don Luís would want me to."
"Don Luís?" I questioned.
"Yes, señor, he is a good man, a friend of mine—in fact he is my boss, Don Luís Coulson, owner of the bakery."
Manna from Coulson! And when the driver learned that we were on our way to visit Don Luís he insisted that we follow him. He drove slowly in front of us for the next sixty miles, stopping at every village for refrescos. Trying to thank him was like trying to talk back to a radio. Becoming satiated after a snack at every town, we finally convinced him that we were not hungry any more. A good-natured happy fellow, he even led us directly to Coulson's door.
It was after nine o'clock when we arrived in Medellín. When we stopped to telephone Mr. Coulson's home, a young voice answered the telephone in Spanish. It was Coulson's youngest son, Jorge, who told us that Don Luís was expecting us, but was away for the evening. He asked us to come to the house and wait.
The Coulson home was a sprawling Spanish colonial overlooking the country club. Jorge met us at the door. A towheaded boy of ten, he assured us in Spanish that he spoke English. But in the few days we spent with the Coulsons we never heard him speak a word of it. He was a perfect host, mixed excellent cocktails, and kept us well entertained for a half hour until the door burst open and Don Luís flew in.
"Howdy. Change your clothes. You have just enough time to meet the new American Ambassador to Colombia. There's a reception for him at the country club."
"But all our clothes are in Bogotá," Helen said. "Frank has nothing but slacks and a sport shirt, and I have only a cotton dress."
"Well, wear your cotton dress. Dick, my oldest son, is about Frank's size. Let's see what he has." He reached into a closet and pulled out a dark blue flannel. "Here, put this on, and hurry."
We hurried, but when we arrived at the country club Ambassador and Mrs. Bonsai were just leaving. The Ambassador smiled as Don Luís introduced us. "Well, how do you do?" he said. "Admiral Miles wrote to me about you two. We'll be looking forward to seeing you in Bogotá."
Medellín was the industrial center of Colombia, a city nestled in a green valley where the saw-tooth roofs of modern textile factories encroached upon the surrounding hills. But in the center of the city wide avenues and trees festooned with Spanish moss and laden with orchids preserved its colonial heritage. The climate was spring like, warm days and cool evenings, but, at Mr. Coulson's suggestion, we purchased two ruanas, Colombian ponchos. In the mountains between Medellín and Bogotá these woolen rectangles would be our wraps by day and blankets by night. We had sent even our sleeping bags ahead from Panama. Before we left Medellín for Bogotá, three hundred and fifty miles away, Don Luís warned us against camping in the country, reminding us that there was still an active though unofficial civil war going on. In the midst of so much Colombian hospitality and kindness we had forgotten that, but news of recurring guerrilla activity in the mountains ahead was not reassuring.
"If you insist on camping," Don Luís said in parting, "stop at any coffee finca along the way and ask permission to camp on their land."
All that day we alternately froze and roasted as the dirt road took us high into the Andes and then quickly down into tropical valleys. It seemed that we never actually crossed a range of mountains, but just ran along the side, climbing to the ridge, shooting down to the valley and back again up the other side. Dark green patches of cultivated coffee land, where some of the best coffee in the world is grown, stood out vividly from the fallow pastures. It was slow going, the little engine whined and puffed up the steep grades, and at altitudes greater than five thousand feet the power fell off rapidly, so that we were in low gear much of the time. When dusk came, we decided to heed Don Luís's advice. At a sign that said Finca de Café we turned onto a narrow track, still muddy from the recent rain, and followed it for a quarter of a mile. At the end of it was an eight-foot wall with an iron-studded wooden gate. Raising the heavy brass knocker, I let it fall. Almost immediately we heard a shuffle of footsteps, a sharp click, and from behind the closed gate a muffled voice asked, "What do you want?"
"We are North Americans, tourists. We would like permission to camp on your property for the night."
"All Americans are rich," was the answer. "They do not need to camp. I do not believe you."
The newspaper in Medellín had run a story about the trip; I slipped a copy under the still closed gate. I heard two men talking. One said that he thought it was all right, but the other said that it was a trick, that we were guerrilla bandits, that he was afraid. The fear of the finca guards was too real to ignore. We spent that night parked in front of a police guard station on the highway.
The next morning we continued over the roller coaster road, bumping and jolting, along the sides of cliffs, through lush valleys, and once in a while over a pass where the chill wind whistled under our ponchos and tugged at our thin clothing. Late in the afternoon we were winding down the side of a long steep hill when the wheels hit a deep chuck-hole and a metallic clunk came from the transmission. When I tried to change gears, the shift lever was immovable. It was jammed in high.
Coasting to the side of the road, I unbolted the plate in the floor boards and removed the cover of the transmission housing. It was a futile move since the design of a jeep transmission is such that no part can be adjusted or replaced without removing the whole unit, but I was anxious at least to see what was wrong. I was too concerned to notice the jeep that pulled alongside. We were accustomed to having people stop, gawk a bit, and then go on without a word. But this time the driver got out and approached us. About twenty-five, slender, clean-shaven, and wearing a dark blue beret, he bowed gallantly to Helen and then in Spanish addressed himself to me:
"Tomás Escovar at your service. May I be of some assistance?"
"Thanks," I said, "but I'm afraid not. We have transmission trouble."
"Well, you can't stay here. It's too dangerous. You can coast to my finca at the bottom of the hill and work on it there." And then he added, "Aquí se matan rápido." In Spanish it sounded even more ominous than its English translation: "Here they kill quickly."
All day we had seen no more than a half dozen cars, and as we coasted behind Tomás I was convinced of two things: that the proverbial luck of the Irish—from my maternal grandmother—was riding with us, and that Colombians were mighty nice people.
The sun was low when we pushed La Tortuga under the overhanging eave of the big two-story house where Tomás lived alone except for an old servant woman. At supper he unnecessarily apologized for the fare, explaining that it was simple Colombian country style. But to us the hard biscuit like arepa, crisply fried bacon chicharón, brown beans, and fresh milk were all treats. Especially the fresh milk. Afterward on the broad veranda we sat watching the sun slide behind the quiet rolling hills and listening to the stream bubbling over rocks a few yards away. The tranquil mood made my question seem almost ridiculous. I asked Tomás what he meant by "Aquí se matan rápido." In answer he took from his pocket a small German pistol and spoke of a loaded rifle by his bedside. He whistled once, and almost immediately four dogs bounded toward him from the shadows.
"Without these," he said, "it would not be safe to stay alone in the country. Although the civil war ended three years ago, there are still guerrilla bandits."
A gentle, soft-spoken man, Tomas went on to discuss with a modest assurance the economic problems of his country, the lack of roads, the potentials, and untapped resources. After listening to him for a while I wasn't surprised to learn that the finca was merely a summer home. Tomas was an economist, a graduate of the National University in Bogota.
Early the next morning I began work on the jeep. But not with enthusiasm. It was then that I began to think about resigning my membership in the "Do it yourself club" and applying for that more exclusive group, the "Let somebody else do it club."
Working on La Tortuga is especially difficult since, unlike conventional vehicles, it is completely enclosed on the bottom. Everything must be done in the cramped confines of the cab where the chief asset of the mechanic, besides the proper tools, is his ability to work standing on his head or contorted into a corkscrew. With the experience gained in overhauling the jeep initially I had become mildly proficient in this art. Before the trip was over I was a master at it.
I hadn't had time to give more than a superficial examination to the transmission before Tomás came by the previous day, but I had determined where the trouble lay. The bronze synchronizing rings that made shifting smoother between second and high gear were worn and had slipped out of alignment. Even if I had replacements for the rings, to install them meant removing either the motor or the transfer ease. Either way it would be a three-day job with the best of facilities.
Not at all eager to begin, I sat in the jeep staring through the hole in the floor boards at the black oily interior of the transmission. If only the engineers who had designed these things, I thought, had tried to work on them. If only the synchronizers could be kept closer together, then they couldn't slip out of alignment. A spacer behind them would do it—if only I had a spacer. But even if I did I would still have to pull the transmission to install it. But a split spacer might be the answer—if I had one. What a lot of wishful "ifs." Then I had an idea. That old standby, bailing wire. If it worked we might be able to make it to Bogotá. If it didn't—well—nothing would be lost but a few hours.
Pawing through my collection of bolts and miscellaneous supplies, I came up with a roll of wire, but it was too thin. Tomás, however, contributed a piece of fence wire which was about the right thickness. Cutting it to length, I wrapped one turn around the shaft behind the synchronizing rings. When the nut on the shaft was tightened, the wire was clamped in place. I put the cover back on the transmission, started the motor, and shifted into low. As I let out the clutch I held my breath. I didn't have to hold it long. The jeep lurched forward and screamed a howling protest. In reverse it clashed and groaned. And then mysteriously the noise stopped. I tried the other gears. They worked smoothly. Shifting several times through all the gears, I drove around in front of the house. Everything functioned quietly. Thinking it best to be under way before La Tortuga changed her mind, we thanked Tomás and left for Bogotá. It was rugged driving over pitted roads in the shadow of mighty snow-capped ridges half hidden in the afternoon mist, but the transmission ran perfectly. Even in the torrid Magdalena Valley it didn't overheat, and when we reached the outskirts of Bogotá late that night it was working so well that we decided to leave well enough alone. In fact, our bailing-wire repair job lasted for more than five thousand miles, and when we did have trouble with the transmission it was from another cause.
Bogotá was cold. After spending a rather restless night in a gravel pit outside of town we were anxious to pick up the sleeping bags and clothes we had sent ahead from Panama. But first we needed a hotel. As usual, the one recommended was the most expensive, the Tequendama, a tall concrete and glass bit of contemporary architecture. It had been the same all along the way. In Panama it was the exclusive El Panamá, which even exiled Perón joked was too expensive for him. Ask anyone about a hotel, be it policeman, taxi driver, or bartender, if you are an American the only hotel for you is the most luxurious one. Reverting to our established practice of scouting for ourselves, we were soon comfortably located in a modest hotel a few blocks from the center of town.
The Hotel Claridge, with its mellow wood paneling and worn velvet drapes tied with gold tassels, had the dated dignity of a nineteenth-century carriage. The straw mattresses were not Beauty Rests and it was a long walk to the bath at the end of the hall, but the hotel was very clean and the four-dollar-a-day tariff included three good meals. After a hot bath we walked down to the dining room, where the white linen glowed in the yellowish light of undervoltaged bulbs. As we started to sit down, the maître d'hôtel scurried over to us. His black dress suit was frayed and his stiff shirt kept popping out, but he couldn't have been more solicitous:
"Surely you must be tired after your long trip. Wouldn't you care to take dinner in your room? Of course there would be no extra charge," he added hurriedly.
"No, thank you," I said. "We feel fine."
"Oh, but you would be so much more comfortable in your room. I'll send the waiter up right away."
He seemed so genuinely anxious to please us that we didn't argue. When we climbed the flight of stairs again to our room, a waiter was already waiting.
After dinner we went to pick up our clothes. Bogotá, at an altitude of almost nine thousand feet, was cold even in the early afternoon and we wore our ruanas despite the looks of scorn we received from the somber-suited men and women on the streets. At the airport we called for our things. Everything had arrived except one suitcase, the one with my suit in it. By mistake it had been sent to Cartagena; it would be a week before it would arrive. The week's delay didn't bother us—we had planned to stay that long anyway—but I was beginning to believe that in formal Colombia a sport shirt was not the correct attire for a gentleman. My suspicions were confirmed that evening when the maître d'hôtel again insisted that we would enjoy our meal more in our room.
When we called at the American Embassy for our mail we saw Ambassador Bonsai again. It was Thursday afternoon. He warmly invited us to the Fourth of July party at his residence the following Monday. That was sufficient excuse to shop for a suit—a dark gray flannel, a product of Colombia's progressive textile industry that had become one of the most important in the country.
The next few days were a relaxing change from the helter-skelter pace we had been maintaining. Bogotá was the largest city we had seen since Mexico, a metropolis where the red tile roofs of colonial homes contrasted vividly with the newer buildings and residential areas that spread over the broad plateau. Near the center of town was a high hilly park with a funicular railway that climbed steeply to the top. As the small cage crawled slowly up the almost vertical incline, I thought of the joke about the appalled American passenger who, upon reaching the top and seeing the frayed cables, complained to the operator that they were unsafe, that they should be changed. The perplexed operator answered, "But, señor, we never change them until they break."
Sunday morning, indeed every morning we spent at our little hotel, we were awakened by the rustle of a newspaper being slid under the door and Dinah's lunge to intercept the potential intruder. Always failing in this, as if to make up for her shortcomings as a watchdog she brought the paper and with much tail wagging dropped it in our faces. A few minutes later there was a gentle knock and Fernando, the waiter who had seemingly adopted us, entered with two glasses of orange juice and two cups of steaming coffee. With a cheerful "Buenos dias" he took our breakfast order. It didn't take long for us to become accustomed to the luxury of steak, eggs, toast, and coffee in our room.
On July 4 we drove along the broad avenues through town and then out to the exclusive Chapinero district, where the State Department maintains the Ambassador's residence. Normally we would have taken a cab rather than risk the hazards of city driving, but on this particular occasion we had been asked specifically to bring the jeep. Parking at the end of a long string of cars, we walked along the circular driveway through the beautifully landscaped grounds and joined the reception line in the foyer to shake the tired hands of Ambassador and Mrs. Bonsai.
"Why, hello. Where is La Tortuga?" he asked.
"She's parked several blocks from here," Helen answered.
"That's no place to moor such an extraordinary vessel. Why don't you sail her up to the door?"
Accordingly, while Cadillac limousines deposited their important guests at the entrance and then drove away in search of a parking place, I drove lumbering La Tortuga nonchalantly through the imposing iron-grill gate and, at the Ambassador's direction, parked her next to the portico.
In Bogotá we learned that there are two types of parties, standing-up parties and sitting-down parties. The Fourth of July celebration was a standing-up party where almost all of the fifteen hundred American residents of Bogotá milled about the wings of the elegant and tastefully appointed mansion. Almost always we were introduced as the "couple with the amphibious jeep." Helen, dressed in her green moiré taffeta, appeared hardly capable of pulling her weight at the end of a winch line or spelling me with a shovel. As she answered the usual queries she looked as if the closest she had been to the jungle was the potted palm in the foyer, and as if the most strenuous thing she had ever done was to fish the olive from a martini. A rotund lady with a sable stole draped in a carefully careless way questioned her:
"Of course, my deah, you're staying at the Tequendama. What an interesting trip you're making. I understand that you have just come from Panama. I just adore traveling too. Tell me, deah, how were the accommodations along the way?" Flipping her long cigarette holder, she continued without waiting for an answer. "This may be a bit personal, but how do you manage to have your laundry done? It's simply dreadful what these maids do to my clothes."
Helen sipped slowly from her martini before answering. "I don't find it too much of a problem. I just beat them on the rocks, the way the Indians do."
There was a moment of silence. The woman drew back, and then broke into a fluttery laugh. "How perfectly delightful. What a sense of humor you have, my deah."
While in Medellín we had tried to sell the outboard motor, but with no success. We were advised to try in Bogotá, where we were in turn advised to see a certain party in Cali, the next large Colombian city on our route.
After a week of parties and night life in Bogotá the more normal routine of traveling again was almost a vacation. As we followed the Pan American Highway toward the Pacific, the road to Cali was more of the same tortuous mountain driving that we had experienced all the way from Turbo. Precipices fell off on either side, mist obscured the road, and the Colombian drivers were about as considerate as a subway crowd at rush hour.
Where the many ranges of the northern Andes divide Colombia into three and sometimes four parts, the roads are steep, narrow, and winding, shooting up and down from elevations of a few thousand feet to more than twelve thousand at the passes. At the higher elevations La Tortuga wheezed valiantly, but slowly, which was fortunate since on almost any curve we were likely to meet a truck or a bus on the wrong side of the road. Not always—sometimes they were in the middle. There were only two speeds recognized—wide open and standing still. Because of mechanical breakdowns the latter condition was a common one, and wherever the mishap occurred was where they stopped. But they were very thoughtful otherwise. Whenever anyone had difficulty, everyone who came along stopped to give advice, blocking traffic for miles.
Our entrance to Cali was along the main drive, a wide avenue with a fresh green park and flowing river on one side. On the other side an occasional old cathedral broke the monotony of the sharp angles of contemporary architecture. At a much lower altitude than Bogotá, Cali was hot, and cotton dresses and sport shirts were common on the streets. But when we took refuge in an air-conditioned restaurant we found formality still the order of the day. It was an inviting place, modeled after an old Spanish inn with polished dark paneling and blue porcelain china. From the grilled windows there was a fine view of the streets, but when we took a table near them a waiter politely but firmly pointed to a sign on the wall: GENTLEMEN ARE NOT PERMITTED IN THE DINING ROOM WITHOUT COAT AND TIE.
"But since you are travelers," he condescended, "we will make an exception. Please sit over here."
Feeling like poor relations, we ate our filet of corvina shielded from the more decorously attired patrons by an embossed leather screen. "When in Rome—" Helen remarked. "Yes, or pay the consequences," I finished.
After lunch we looked up our prospect for the outboard motor, but he had already purchased one. "It will bring a better price in Ecuador anyway," he consoled us. Our financial condition was not at that time critical, but the repairs, the purchase of the outboard motor, and other expenses in Panama had eliminated any surplus we might have had for emergencies.
We were ready to leave Cali when several trucks disgorged a troop of well-armed soldiers. Traffic was stopped for two hours while a full-scale military parade blocked the streets. First the cavalry, horses with their heads high, their riders carrying gilded wooden spears with banners waving, then the band, the infantry, the jeep squadron, the riot squad, each man with a tear-gas gun and a vest full of cannon-sized shells. Trailing behind came the volunteer militia, youngsters striding along energetically, and old men trying desperately to keep up with them, sweat pouring down their faces. I asked an onlooker what it was all about.
Proudly he said, "July 20 is Independence Day, and President Pinilla is coming to visit Cali."
"But today is the eighteenth. What was this parade for?" "This is rehearsal," he said logically.
We returned to the jeep to find it in the midst of a throng looking like Gulliver teeming with Lilliputians. Shouldering our way through, I heard one discerning woman say to her husband, "Why, that looks like a boat."
"How ridiculous," he replied firmly. "It's just one of those late-model cars."
One little boy breathlessly asked, "Are you part of the circus?" The Royal Dunbar Circus was currently playing in Cali. Like the wide-eyed child in Mexico who asked, "Does it fly?" his enthusiasm dwindled at my "No." But the rest of the crowd was enthusiastic enough for poor Dinah, who had slunk back to the most secluded corner of the jeep amid catcalls and barks. La Tortuga was getting a complete inspection, including tire-kicking, hull-pounding, and window-peeking. Several of the men were trying to lift the jeep, and two more were opening the hood. Some of the more musically inclined had discovered that the gas cans along the side emitted a variety of tones when thumped and, in keeping with the festive spirit, were busily engaged in playing what sounded vaguely like the Colombian national anthem. Then someone discovered the propeller and there was a joyful shout. The news was out. It was a boat. Considering it unthinkable that a boat should have a hole in it, one helpful individual started plugging the bilge pump outlet. Later I discovered that others had had the same idea. When I overhauled the bilge pump I removed one marble, three wads of gum, innumerable bottle caps, a handkerchief, and one Colombian peso. Unfortunately we were out of the country by that time and couldn't spend the peso.
Helen and I stayed around awhile to answer all the questions about La Tortuga, but when the second show started and new faces asked the same questions we excused ourselves and headed south.
At Cali we had traveled almost a thousand miles from Turbo, a thousand miles of twisting, turning mountain roads, of towns set high on hilltops, and rugged green country that was for the most part uncultivated. But the remaining three hundred miles to the Colombian-Ecuadorian frontier passed through green pastures and yellow fields of waving grain, a rumpled patchwork quilt where hedges formed the boundaries between hilly farms. From the road along the ridge that overlooked the valleys it seemed that the almost perpendicular sides of the mountains were too steep for a man even to stand, let alone till the soil.
Amphibious jeeping presented another problem when we arrived at the border and tried to leave Colombia. It was Saturday morning and we hoped to clear customs and enter Ecuador before noon, when the offices closed. On the Colombian side a heavy chain was stretched across the road in front of a small cement building. A black-uniformed gentleman in a peaked cap that said "Aduana" examined our passports.
"These seem to be in order," he mused. "Let me see your car papers."
I handed him the California certificate of title. That wasn't enough.
"Where are the papers that they gave you when you entered the country?"
"What papers? They didn't give us anything at Turbo." "Turbo!" he exclaimed incredulously. "Nobody enters at Turbo."
"Well, we did. Why do we need papers, anyway? Proof of ownership was all we ever needed before."
"You need something to guarantee that you won't sell your car in Colombia."
I looked at a big arch a few yards away. It said "Welcome to Ecuador." Patiently I explained that we were leaving Colombia, not entering, that we had no intention of selling the jeep. But that made no difference. To leave the country we needed an export license. To get an export license we needed an import license, and since they hadn't given us one when we entered we were stuck. Mentally I cursed the customs man at Turbo. Remembering his confused mutterings about a car navigating the Gulf of Darien or a boat driving up to the customs house, I understood why we'd had such an easy entry. He hadn't known what papers to give us.
By that time it was eleven o'clock. Slowly I explained once more that it was obvious that we were leaving the country. "Look at the direction the jeep is pointing. And how can we sell it in Colombia if we're going to Ecuador?"
"Rules are rules," he answered adamantly. "You have to have papers. Are you sure you don't have any other papers?"
I fumbled through our stack of documents, which included everything from extra passport photos to postage stamps to a check for a short beer. In desperation I handed him the only other thing we had connected with the jeep, the Panama Canal tonnage certificate. Across the top it said Motor Ship LA TORTUGA. I showed it to him, explaining that our remarkable vehicle was also registered as a ship. To my amazement—and relief—his face brightened.
"You're registered as a ship? Why didn't you say so? There's nothing in the rules about ships." He lowered the chain. "You may pass." |
20,000 Miles South | Helen Schreider | [
"nonfiction"
] | [
"travel",
"South America",
"1950s"
] | Chapter 9 | It was just a few yards to the arch and Ecuador, and we were hoping that the welcome sign meant what it said. The difficulty in leaving Colombia had come as a surprise—proof of ownership had been sufficient to take the jeep across the borders of seven countries. We were convinced that the Colombian official had made a mistake, and when the Ecuadorian officials passed us with but a cursory glance at our passports we were sure of it.
"There are still a few minor formalities to take care of in Tulcán," they said, "but you have time to get there before the offices close."
Every few hundred yards of the four miles from the border to Tulcán there was a chain across the road, and a guardhouse that lacked only a crescent moon to make it a perfect Chic Sale. At each we stopped while the guard examined our passports and walked around the jeep several times before lowering the chain. It was still a few minutes before twelve when we arrived but both the immigration and customs offices were already closed. It looked as if we would have to wait until Monday, and Tulcán did not appear to be the most desirable weekend stop.
Traffic was slight in Tulcán—in fact, when I heard a whistle there wasn't another car in sight. "Halt." A hefty policeman waddled over to the jeep looking as if he were loaded for bear. In Spanish that made a machine-gun sound like a dripping faucet he accused us of going the wrong way on a one-way street. I looked around for a sign—there wasn't any, but I apologized for doing such an obviously stupid thing. Five minutes later he was still lecturing us when another gentleman made it a foursome. The newcomer said a few words to the policeman, who promptly left.
"Thanks," I said fervently. "I was beginning to think we would spend our first weekend in Ecuador in jail."
"It was nothing. I'm the immigration officer. May I help you?"
How lucky could we be? Along with several others of the watching crowd, we followed him to his office, where he unlocked the door, stamped our passports, and inscribed the usual information in an immense book. When he was finished he rubbed his hands and said, "That will be ten sucres for overtime work, please." Ten sucres was about fifty cents U.S. Fortunately we had procured some Ecuadorian money in Bogota before leaving. He was pocketing the money when a youth with a whiny voice and black stringy hair asserted that he was the assistant to the customs officer and was authorized to take care of the rest of the "minor" formalities—in exchange for overtime pay.
In another office the assistant looked at our passports and opened another huge book.
"May I see your Libreta de Pasos por Aduana."
I looked at him blankly. "My what?"
"Your Libreta de Pasos por Aduana, the document issued by the automobile club guaranteeing that you won't sell your vehicle in Ecuador."
I had never even heard of such a document. Perhaps, I thought, it was for commercial travelers.
"There must be some mistake," I said. "We're tourists. Is this document absolutely necessary?"
"Oh no," he replied. I breathed a sigh of relief. "Instead you may post a cash deposit equal to the customs duty on your vehicle." He consulted his book and named some astronomical figure in sucres. Reduced to dollars, it was still more than we had for the rest of the trip. There had to be some mistake.
"Quito," I said, "is just a day's drive from here. We'll straighten this out there."
"You won't get past the first guard," was the gloomy reply.
The first chain was just out of town. Inside the usual little outhouse of a guard station was a soldier, the end of his rifle sticking out the window. Walking slowly from his cubicle and around the jeep, he leaned against the door. "Your credentials?" he asked.
With a self-confident and assured air which I didn't feel I gave him every document we had. Most of them were in English, but he scrutinized each one carefully, some upside down, nodding and grunting approval. Handing them back, he gave us a slip of paper and lowered the chain. "That will be one sucre please."
I was so relieved I would have given him a hundred sucres if he had asked for them. It was several minutes before we relaxed enough to look at the paper which read, "As a driver you have contributed to a fund for a drivers' mausoleum."
The road to Quito was of fine cobblestone construction, a pleasure after the chuckholed one in Colombia. We would have enjoyed the drive if it hadn't been that every few miles there was another chain or a wooden bar like a railroad barrier. At each we sweated while the same ritual was performed and we were allowed to pass. The fund for a drivers' mausoleum apparently had only the one solicitor.
From Tulcán at almost ten thousand feet elevation the Pan American Highway rose and fell, the afternoon sun glaring from the smooth cobblestones. In one place was a bit of transplanted Africa with tiny Negro children playing in the dust before conical-roofed grass huts. The tropical valley was green with banana palms and the sound of a river diluted the whistling wind from the surrounding barren hills. But except for that brief dip into the tropics the route led through the cool highlands, through Ibarra and Otovalo, where the Saturday market was dispersing. Hundreds of Ecuadorian Indians trotted along, the color of their hand-loomed cloths contrasting with the amber-colored terrain. In bright full skirts, bowl-shaped hats like halos, and shawls loaded with babies or other produce, women urged their men home. As the afternoon waned, the air grew crisp and the graceful folds of red ponchos covered the loose blouses and short white pants of the men, but always their thick queues of blue-black hair hung outside under their floppy felt hats.
Ecuador, named for the line that girds the globe, was a paradox. It was far from our conception of an equatorial climate as we stood huddled in our ruanas straddling the center of the world while the sun tinted the snow-capped peak of Cayambe. Beside the road was a concrete replica of the earth and an obelisk inscribed Linea Ecuatorial 00° 00 00ʹʹ.
Quito was busily preparing for an important event when we arrived. It seemed that we were always entering a city on a holiday, but this time it was something special. Everyone was cleaning or repairing. Sidewalks were freshly patched, public buildings were newly painted, grass was being transplanted, the streets were swept, signs were being erected, and along the main street a grandstand was partly constructed. The occasion? President Rojas Pinilla of Colombia was paying a visit to Ecuador.
The festivities had resulted in a housing shortage in Quito. There were available rooms but they were either too expensive or very much too cheap. At one of the former class we asked the young lady at the desk if she knew of a more modest place.
"Why, yes," she said, "my family has an extra room."
It was another bit of extraordinary luck. Within the hour we were happily ensconced with the Vega family in their comfortable stucco and tile home a few blocks from the American Embassy. It was fortunate that we were close to the latter—we were to spend a great deal of time there.
Señora Vega was a kindly woman who rarely wore anything but black. She had raised twelve children and two more in her home didn't bother her a bit. Although we were paying guests, she treated us as part of the family. Even Dinah was welcomed by their huge dog. Señor Vega was a suave mustached gentleman who usually wore a Homburg, as did most of the professional men of Quito—probably because the Indians used the more conventional soft felt hats. Only three of the children still lived at home; about our age, they were all ardent lovers of American jazz and Italian opera. Although Pepe, the youngest son, knew some English, for our benefit only Spanish was spoken. And also for our benefit each day Señora Vega prepared a different Ecuadorian dish: avocado baked in whipped eggs; humitas, a savory mild form of tamale; locro, potato and cheese soup; baked bananas; and always the refreshing beverage of cooked pineapple and naranjilla, a pulpy fruit like an orange.
The first thing on the agenda was to determine the truth about what was required for travel by car in Ecuador. After picking up our mail at the Embassy we made an appointment to see the vice-consul, Mr. Allan McClean. Mr. McClean was filling out a complicated form when we entered. A fine-featured man with dark hair graying at the temples, he sat back in his chair and relaxed.
"Now then," he said, "what can we do for you?"
"We would like to know what is required to enter Ecuador with an automobile." I went on to describe the difficulty at Tulcán. As I spoke, Mr. McClean grew less and less relaxed. By the time I had finished he was sitting straight up in his chair.
"Smugglers," he declared, "that's what you are, smugglers. Bringing an automobile into the country illegally is one of the most heinous of crimes here."
Martians, circus performers, and now smugglers. What next? Previous name calling had provided many a laugh, but there was nothing humorous about this situation. With grave face Mr. McClean went right to work on the problem.
He called the chief of customs. The chief of customs wired Tulcán. How had we passed a dozen guard stations without documents? Tulcán wired back. They had no record of us, had neither seen nor heard of us. We visited the customs chief, the police chief, and the automobile club. Then we visited them all again. At the end of a week all we had seen of Quito was what we saw between government offices. Finally, thanks to Mr. McClean, the last paper was signed. The customs chief waived the bond requirement, entered us legally in the country, and gave us a letter of authorization to leave. One thing still bothered us—what would we encounter in entering Peru?
At the Automobile Club of Ecuador we learned the sad news. The man at Tulcán had been correct. The only alternative to a Libreta de Pasos por Aduana was a large cash deposit varying from 50 to 110 per cent of the value of the vehicle. Furthermore, all tourists with automobiles were subject to this requirement. And, what was worse, the requirements in the rest of the countries along our route, Peru, Bolivia, Chile, and Argentina, were even more stringent. With the Libreta, however, the tourist could travel freely across the borders. In effect a bond, the Libreta protected the governments against illegal sale of the vehicle and loss of customs duties.
I felt like a prize sap. Of all the oversights of which I was guilty the worst was neglecting to join an auto club in the States. All this trouble could have been avoided; the Libreta could have been issued before we left. But one thing was certain—unless we could obtain this magical document our trip was over. How ironical—to pass all the physical obstacles only to be stopped by a legal one. The manager of the auto club was sympathetic but he said:
"I'm sorry. Our rules prohibit the issue of a standard Libreta to anyone who is not a resident of Ecuador. However, perhaps we can bend those rules a bit and give you a temporary one good only for Peru. The auto club there has had much more experience in these matters. Maybe they can help you."
We went back to see Mr. McClean. Before the Ecuadorian auto club could issue even a temporary document, we needed a letter stating that the Embassy would be responsible should we fail to live up to the agreement. We both knew that the Embassy couldn't possibly assume that responsibility. Why should they? But we underestimated Mr. McClean. In a short time we had a letter stating that he would do all in his power to assure that we fulfilled the agreement. It was an ingenious letter since Mr. McClean's power in such matters was decidedly limited, but it accomplished its purpose. With our one-country reprieve safely tucked away with the letter from the customs chief and a letter of introduction to the president of the Automobile Club of Peru, we went back to the Vega house to pack. As we left, Pepe Vega joked, "Next time you come to Quito I hope you can find time to see the city."
Guayaquil was not on our planned route, but the Vega family extolled the virtues of Ecuador's principal port to such an extent that we felt compelled to go there. Besides being fascinated by seaports we thought we might be able to sell the outboard motor. Before we left, a friend of the Vegas gave us a letter of introduction to a member of the Guayaquil yacht club. Just as in Colombia all business was done through friends, in Ecuador apparently it was through letters of introduction.
We got a late start from Quito. Perhaps it took longer to pack in the nine-thousand-foot altitude or perhaps it was because we were unconsciously reluctant to leave the friendly atmosphere of the Vega home. In any event, we traveled only thirty miles before making camp between the marshmallow-topped peak of Cotopaxi, a perfect cone over nineteen thousand feet high, and Iliniza, a seventeen-thousand-foot fang piercing the blue sky. Off the road several hundred yards we prepared supper while little shepherdesses watched shyly from the midst of their flocks, smiling winsomely, timidly sharing our dessert of Life Savers. The next morning our hipbones were bruised and our joints stiff—both air mattresses had gone flat. Ah, the trials of camping. We were spoiled by too many comfortable beds.
The precipitous descent to the hot coastal area was memorable. The road was a spiraling, crater-filled trail which knocked off the covers and overturned a can of Spry and a can of honey. The spilled honey inside the cabinet was bad enough, but the heat melted the Spry too. And then there was a rather rude introduction to the mixto, the half cargo truck, half third-class passenger bus that is the terror of the Ecuadorian roads. The first contact, a gentle caress along the side, left La Tortuga with three dented gas cans, a bent spare tire rack, and a nasty crack in the wood paneling of the cab. The driver didn't even slow down. A half hour later the driver of another mixto was a little more considerate. He stopped and looked at the gaping hole he had put in La Tortuga's bow before driving off without a word.
We were sick. The jeep was no longer amphibious, and ahead of us was still the Strait of Magellan to cross. The whole front was battered in; she would never be the same. And it would be an expensive repair job just to make her watertight again; the hole was big enough for Dinah to crawl through.
Guayaquil, too, was preparing for some important event—we encountered the same difficulty with rooms as in Quito. And after the accident there was an even greater need for economy. After lunch in one of the many sidewalk cafés I asked the waiter if he knew where we could get an inexpensive room. With a sly wink at me he pointed to a building across the street.
"You might find a room up there," he said.
In a shaky groaning elevator we rode to the top floor of the building where a small peephole in a door opened to my knock and a carrot-topped middle-aged woman peered out. "My wife and I would like a room," I said.
"Your wife?" She raised her eyebrows doubtfully. "Yes, of course, your wife," she repeated, smiling at Helen. "I have just one vacant room. Come in."
Looking as if she had stepped from a Toulouse-Lautrec canvas, she was shapely for her age—the silk dressing gown made that evident. We had never been greeted by a concierge in a dressing gown before, but then it was hot in Guayaquil. Following along the dark corridor, she showed us the room. Even in the obscure light the color was startling—a passionate shade of red. And there was a full-size double bed. That in itself was rare in Latin America.
"How long will you be?" she asked.
"Perhaps four days," I replied.
She seemed surprised. "Well, I don't usually rent for that long, but I guess it's all right."
The waiter had told us it was a boarding-house, but when I asked about meals the landlady corrected me:
"I serve only breakfast, and I'm sure you'd prefer to take your meals out. We eat rather late around here."
We had been in rooming houses decorated in better taste but certainly none more colorful. Done in pink and baby blue, with turquoise satin drapes, only the perpetually drawn shades kept it from being blinding. After two days I concluded that the other residents were all women, and very popular ones judging by the number of male visitors they had. Dressing gowns seemed to be the accepted attire day or night, and there were always men sitting in the living room or enjoying a drink over their game of cards. By the end of our stay I was sure that either the waiter had misunderstood my intentions or I had misunderstood his Spanish.
It was too late to do anything about the outboard motor or the hole in the jeep the afternoon we arrived, so we strolled lazily through the streets taking advantage of every bit of shade. The sticky heat clung, rose from the sidewalks in shimmering waves, changing reality to fancy, fantasy to entity, until both became fused, and that first day in Guayaquil became a fleeting series of dreamlike impressions:
A waterfront town, a mile and a half of river, ships anchored in the middle with lighters attached to their sides like pilot fish to a shark. Tiny dots that scurried under the watchful eyes of customs officials, loading, unloading, bananas, coffee, automobiles, rice, machinery, hats. Wooden boats rubbing together, rudders askew, sails patched and dirty. A bell rings, "Cast off," and brawny arms heave with a bamboo pole, the reflections golden in the muddy water. A breath of blessed breeze, the sails flutter, then droop listlessly like the ragged children who hung over the gunwales watching others play with pretty toy boats while maids kept a wary eye on their charges.
From columns supporting the iron rail along the river an overpowering stench of urine mingled with the smell of newly milled lumber, of fish, of flowers, and of garbage floating to the sea. Men sleeping in corners, rolling blindly into more protected shade as the sun stabbed at their faces. And on the terrace at the yacht club, men in white sipping cool drinks; on the walk in front, men in tatters wandering aimlessly. The excited buzz of sidewalk gamblers as they watch the gaudy designs of the whirling wheel, the disappointed moan of the losers, and the smile of pleasure as the winner opens the pack of Luckies and slowly takes a puff from the prize.
That evening we sat under the striped canopy of a sidewalk café enjoying our first taste of that Guayaquil delicacy, ceviche de corvina—raw fish and pink onions pickled in lime juice. The air was cooler and there was almost a music to the noise of traffic, but Helen's mind was somewhere else.
"Estrada," she repeated again and again. "Estrada. That name's familiar."
"It should be. We've seen it plastered on every building in town. Emilio Estrada, Mayor of Guayaquil."
"No, I mean before that."
Later, back in the room, Helen dug out the letter from Quito to the man in the yacht club. It was addressed to a Señor Estrada.
"But that doesn't mean it's the same man," I said. "Estrada in Ecuador could be like Jones in the States."
But when we inquired for the gentleman the next morning at the yacht club we were directed to the City Hall.
The Mayor of Guayaquil was a handsome man in his thirties, tall, robust, and with a passion for sports cars and boats. La Tortuga could hardly be called either, but the fact that she was a sporting compromise aroused his interest. He received us warmly, speaking perfect English, and after reading the letter from his friend wanted to know all about the trip, and then asked to see the jeep. He spotted the hole in the bow immediately.
"What happened here?"
"Those mixtos are murder," I said. "We were hit twice in less than an hour."
"Well, we can't have her leaving Guayaquil like that. My brother and I own the Ford agency. I'll call my boys and tell them to take care of you."
I was still thanking him when the conversation ended with an invitation to a Lightning-class regatta at the yacht club the next day. The next day was a dead calm—there was no regatta, but we were invited below decks of several luxury yachts and had an unequaled opportunity to meet people who might be interested in an outboard motor. The answer was always the same: "No, this is off season. But it will bring a better price in Peru anyway."
Three days later La Tortuga was ready. Mayor Estrada's men had done a good job; she was watertight again, but there was no mistaking her mixto mar even with new paint on the bow. We hadn't accomplished our main objective in going to Guayaquil, that of selling the outboard motor, but we had met some fine people, and even with La Tortuga's disfigurement we felt the side trip was worth it as we headed for Cuenca and the Peruvian border.
There was one bridgeless river to cross on the road out of town, but regular service was provided by a mobile bridge, a decrepit barge that looked as if it had fought all the battles of the Pacific. La Tortuga was surrounded by curious people, and we were avalanched with questions: "If that thing is really amphibious, why don't you go in the water?" I gave up trying to explain that we always used bridges when available, and finally offered an explanation they understood—that I was too lazy. After even a short immersion it would take a full day to clean and relubricate the differentials and wheel bearings.
Honking loudly on every curve and moving well to the side for anything larger than a bicycle, we climbed steadily to the highlands and the Pan American Highway again. The road was a tortuous repetition of the descent—bumps, steep grades, and rapidly changing vegetation from mirrored rice paddies and extravagant fans of banana palms to the cold wind-swept paramos. A giant checkerboard of green and gold, the fields of waving grain rippled like a breeze-ruffled lake at sunset. Moving endlessly as in a circus ring, horses flayed wheat with their hoofs, and on the crests of the rolling hills sheep and goats were tended by red-ponchoed Indians in sheepskin chaps, the wool long and matted. Near Cuenca, the center of the so-called Panama hat industry, women in flame-colored skirts shuffled to market balancing towers of semi-finished hats on their heads.
Between Cuenca and the Peruvian border there was supposedly a fifty-mile gap in the Highway, but it was rumored that a trail through the military zone was passable in dry weather. Closer to the border the trail dwindled to a path through tall ceiba trees and low shrub. In the rainy season it would be a quagmire, but that time of year—August—we had no trouble except with the suffocating clouds of brown dust. As a result of a border dispute the military zone was well manned and guard stations were numerous. In that fifty miles we were stopped fourteen times to show our credentials. We were happy to have some to show.
The entry into Peru was effortless. Neatly uniformed officials stamped our passports and Libreta, and we silently blessed the auto club in Quito. At Tumbes, the border town, there were a few extracurricular questions when Peruvian Army Intelligence learned we had passed through the Ecuadorian military zone. When he was through with us, Pm afraid that the interrogating officer had a low opinion of Yankee powers of observation.
La Tortuga speeded along the black ribbon of asphalt through the moonlike terrain of Peru's arid north. By "speeded" I mean a fast thirty-five miles per hour. From the Pacific port of Tumbes, where some four hundred years earlier Pizarro began his bloody conquest of Peru, the Pan American Highway replaced the ancient Incan road that had stretched for thousands of miles to the south. Undulating yellow sand had covered the early thoroughfare, but there was bleak evidence of the past near Trujillo, where hundreds of acres of mounds pimpled the countryside. Chan-Chan, imperial city of the pre-Incan Chimu empire, remained as mud-and-pebble relics of temples, palaces, and a canal that brought water from the coastal range of the Andes. Some of the mounds had been excavated, exposing yellow ochre reliefs to the depredations of weather and man, but at nearby Chiclín, a vast irrigated sugar cane plantation, owner Señor Larco Herrera had guarded antiquity in his private museum. In the dim interior were mummies of warriors curled like fetuses in death, wrapped in millennium-old fabrics, the intricate designs still brilliant, preserved by the rainless atmosphere. Surrounding them were their copper knives, bone combs, wooden war clubs, and ceremonial masks. Spanning time, we wandered from room to room, but one piece of pottery brought me with a smile back to the twentieth century—a potbellied little man that was a perfect likeness of the Near-sighted Mr. Magoo.
Trujillo was founded by Pizarro, who apparently left there a few ruthless descendants. When we returned to the square from a browse around the quiet town we found that it hadn't been so quiet around La Tortuga. Scores of uniformed youths from an elite academy were climbing on top, prying open the windows, and making liberal use of their pocket-knives to carve their names on La Tortuga's wooden stem. I was disgusted. Helen was rabid. With Dinah's assistance she pinned one of the culprits against the side of the jeep.
"But"—he shrugged innocently—"it's our custom." With that weak excuse for vandalism he ducked away.
"Modern barbarians," Helen whimpered, running her fingers over the deep gouges in the smooth surface she had so painstakingly sandpapered. In ten countries La Tortuga's only scars had been acquired in travel, which was to be expected, but in Trujillo the precedent was set. Thereafter the jeep became public property, to be adorned with names, phone numbers, and lovers' hearts, using anything available for the inscription—bottle caps, broken glass, wire or, rarely, the more conventional pencil or pen.
Lima was covered by a low-hanging overcast that symbolized our gloomy prospects. While other tourists chattered of bargains in Peruvian silver, or worried about smuggling out of Peru their forbidden vicuna rugs, or pondered how they could carry a case of pisco on their sixty-pound airline luggage allowance, we were faced with the pressing problem of peddling an outboard motor, the desperate need of acquiring a new Libreta, and the mundane matter of mattress hunting. What a way to see sophisticated Lima, City of the Kings, one-time capital of Spanish South America and cultural mecca of the Pacific.
Near the center of town, off the Plaza San Martin, we checked into a pension, once a fashionable private residence. With high ceiling ornately trimmed with baroque designs in plaster, our room was big enough to hold a ball. The landlady was inordinately proud of the new modern conveniences, a beautifully tiled bathroom with sparkling fixtures of purple, pink, and black. But the plumber who installed them got his pipes crossed. Water draining from the sink filled the tub, and when the commode was flushed there was an echoing gurgle from the bidet.
Lima, near Callao, the starting point for Kon-Tiki, was alert for anything new in the way of aquatic conveyances. Spotting La Tortuga in front of the pension, a newspaperman requested a photo of her afloat. Later that day La Tortuga filled the front page of the afternoon paper along with news of church burnings in Buenos Aires by Peronistas, the followers of Argentina's dictator Juan Perón. But there was no room for headlines and a photo caption too. Under the picture of La Tortuga and crew, in bold type it read,
PERONISTAS IN ACTION.
With that announcement to Lima society the small white envelope among our mail came as a great surprise, an invitation to dinner from Ambassador and Mrs. Ellis O. Briggs. At the bottom was written, "Dinah is invited." Two days later, with complete nonchalance, Dinah entered the black limousine that brought us to the large residence on Avenida Arequipa.
Ambassador and Mrs. Briggs received the three of us graciously and informally in the library. Dinah said "Thank you, no," to the martinis and "Yes, please," to the appetizers, tiny cheese cornucopias. A Lord Calvert gentleman in a green tweed suit, Ambassador Briggs smiled amiably at Dinah, who immediately recognized in him an indulgent friend. Lying at his feet on the thick pile rug, she watched with persuasive eyes, an optimist to the last bite.
What could have been a cheerless Spanish colonial mansion was instead a warm and friendly home reflecting the personalities of Ambassador and Mrs. Briggs, and the air of cordiality pervaded the sunlit dining room. White-gloved mozos poured wine into crystal goblets and served black mushroom soup, delicate white fish, dainty hot breads, filet mignon, and spears of buttered asparagus. From the adjoining alcove Dinah sniffed appreciatively. To our embarrassment she reverted to the customs of her feudal ancestors and took her place beneath the table. Despite our stern reproofs there she stayed, knowing we couldn't gracefully disrupt the congenial atmosphere with more severe forms of discipline.
After dinner the conversation turned to the southern end of the continent, Tierra del Fuego, an area the Ambassador knew well. Over a liqueur in the library he spoke of the terrific winds, the barren treeless plains, the gigantic sheep estancias on this island mass of land across the Strait of Magellan.
The most urgent problem confronting us in Lima was that of acquiring a new Libreta de Pasos por Aduana. Without that magical passport to motoring we would never reach Tierra del Fuego. At the Automobile Club of Peru, the assistant manager, Señorita Mariluz Injoque, a slim attractive brunette, listened with interest to our winded account.
"And so," I concluded dismally, "now La Tortuga's wheels are more deeply bogged in red tape than in any marsh we've encountered."
Calling the manager, Señor Ricardo Palma, she sympathetically related our difficulties, adding, "I hope we can help these people. The story of their journey could do much to promote interest in the Pan American Highway."
Then followed an interview with the president of the auto club, Señor Eduardo Dibos, a dedicated man who had spent much of his life in actively boosting road construction and nurturing the ideal of Inter-American travel. Several days later we were issued a Libreta, valid for all of the remaining countries on our route. With it was a friendly admonition—normally the Libreta is issued only in the country where the motorist is a resident. It was a great concession, one for which we are extremely grateful.
With headache number one relieved things were looking up. But sight-seeing was still limited to mattress factories, outboard motor dealers, and whatever lay between. We were having little success on either score. Our air mattresses were flatter than yesterday's soufflé, the imported ones in the stores were thirty-five U.S. dollars apiece, and sponge rubber was sold by the troy ounce. We saw a good bit of Lima that was never included in a guided tour searching for someone to make straw pads, from the old Rimac section across the river where secondhand mattresses were renovated to an ultra-ultra place where the manufacturer disdainfully replied, "We make nothing but king-size." Back in the room I was gluing patches on the patches of our old ones when Helen burst in with the startling news that she had sold the outboard motor. I forgot about mattresses. After two weeks of trying the Colombian method of friends, the Ecuadorian system of introductory letters, and the more familiar means of conducting business—the classified sections of the newspapers—I had given up on the motor and was resigned to carrying it to Tierra del Fuego. But my enterprising wife discovered there was still another way of doing business in Latin America—by luck, charm, and a dog. In one breathless sentence she explained:
"Dinah stopped to sniff in front of a bicycle shop and I saw bicycle motors in the window and there was a friendly young man behind the counter and since I had nothing to lose I asked if they bought outboard motors and he said 'Yes' but Papa said 'No' so the young man escorted me to another shop where the man behind the counter said 'No' but a customer smiled and said 'Yes.'"
Except in Mexico our itinerary in all the countries thus far had been dictated by the Pan American Highway—there was only one route. But from Lima we had a choice. The most direct was the official route of the Highway along the coast of Peru and then across the copper and nitrate desert of Chile to Santiago, the capital. But this route bypassed what to us was the most interesting aspect of Peru, the land of the Incas, the Altiplano, and Cuzco, center of the flourishing Incan culture until the Spaniards despoiled it in the 1530's. Accordingly, we discussed with the auto club an alternate. We decided to head east from Lima over the highest motor road in the world and then along Peru's Central Highway to Cuzco and Lake Titicaca, across Bolivia and the northern part of Argentina. From there our route would take us back across the Andes to Santiago, Chile, through the pass where Aconcagua thrusts its snowy crown higher than any other mountain in the Western Hemisphere and the Christ of the Andes spreads his arms in benediction. From Santiago we planned to travel south to South America's Switzerland, across fifty miles of lakes to enter Argentina again, through desolate Patagonia, across the Strait of Magellan to Tierra del Fuego and Ushuaia, the world's southernmost town at the tip of the continent. From Ushuaia, where the trip would actually end, we planned to head north to Buenos Aires and catch a freighter home from there.
Before leaving Lima I serviced the jeep and installed a high-altitude jet in the carburetor. La Tortuga had never been higher than twelve thousand feet and I wasn't sure how she would perform at altitudes where the Air Force recommends oxygen for its pilots. At first the ascent was gradual, winding through the valley of the Rimac River, but then as the road climbed higher and higher walls of rock rose in sheer cliffs. At Infiemillo, or Little Hell, bridges hung suspended from the maws of tunnels, and three times the road crisscrossed back on itself in one awesome canyon. Wheezing and panting, the 60-horsepower motor moved La Tortuga's five-thousand-pound bulk slower and slower. Repeatedly I advanced the distributor and dropped to lower gears. At the crest, 15,665 feet above sea level, the jeep gave a relieved little cough, and we stopped to let her cool. A few snowflakes touched our faces, then melted to join the rivers flowing to both the Atlantic and the Pacific.
For much of the next six hundred miles to Cuzco we traveled above ten thousand feet, across the Altiplano, where tumbled masses of rock punctuated the somber rolling plains. Shying at our approach, shaggy wild ponies and even wilder vicuña fled over the clumps of wiry grass. In places remnants of the Incan road system were still visible, a system that had carried Incan armies from Cuzco north to Quito and as far south as the center of Argentina. After more than five hundred years short stretches of Incan road looked better than parts of the Pan American Highway, but what amused me more was that the ancient foot couriers traveled faster than we did. Running in short relays, the chasquis carried to their Incan lords news, fresh fish, and delicacies from the far reaches of the empire, covering as much as a hundred and fifty miles in a day. Our daily average through this rugged terrain was less than a hundred miles.
One reason we made little progress was La Tortuga's lack of power at high altitudes. But equally retarding was the llama. Intrigued by this distant cousin to the camel, we couldn't pass one by without stopping. Ornamented with necklace of bright wool and ear brands of streaming colored ribbon, she haughtily returned our stare. Supposedly a beast of burden, she carried her tiny bundles with condescension, moving with mincing steps, her tail prissy, like a bustle on her generously rounded rear. Vanity, thy name is llama.
When we arrived in Huancayo, the Sunday-morning market was already buzzing with activity. The highway ran through the main street, which was blocked off for Indian commerce, and every foot for ten blocks was filled with little stalls of red-and-white striped canopies. Parking the jeep in a side street, we joined the throng, but somewhere in the shuffle I lost Helen. When I found her twenty minutes later she was breathless again. I sensed some new portentous development.
"Now calm down, take a deep breath, and tell me. What's all the excitement?"
"I found someone to make some mattresses for us. He said he could finish them today."
That was good news. We couldn't travel any more that day anyway since traffic over the one-way road for a hundred and fifty miles south of Huancayo alternated in direction every other day. The day for our direction was Monday. Together we went to make final arrangements. For the equivalent of ten U.S. dollars the Indian craftsman would make two pads to fit the jeep. He showed us the materials, arresting pink ticking for the cover and a gray-black vegetable fiber for the stuffing. The fiber had the resiliency of damp spaghetti, but it was softer than the hard boards we were almost accustomed to.
The market in Huancayo was unique in one respect. It was surprisingly sedate. Especially the hat bazaar, where Helen, unconcerned at being out of vogue in her faded culottes, was just as interested in the Dache creations of Huancayo as were two fashionable barefoot Indian misses. Dressed in full skirts of sunflower yellow and scarlet, aqua satin blouses, bibbed and tucked, they were as intent on their selection as any lady on Fifth Avenue. And similarly, with hundreds of hats to choose from, they couldn't make up their minds. Renoir types with taffeta ribbons, shallow-crown derbies, pale gold sailors of straw, they tried them all, very particular about the fit, which was a bit ludicrous since it was obvious the hats had no fit at all. And finally, like any lady on Fifth Avenue, they left without having bought one.
After a night of squirming the appropriate hollows into our new mattresses we left at dawn to cover the hundred and fifty miles to Ayacucho before dusk. The road was one way with good reason. A precarious shelf scratched from the side of a deep gorge, it twisted high above the Mantaro River, a milky turquoise froth in a cleft of multicolored rock. Plummeting to green valleys, straining wearily to where eagles circle, La Tortuga crept toward Cuzco, through Ayacucho, Andahuaylas, Abancay, towns spaced along the Central Highway as evenly as the hostels of the ancient Incas.
Pisac, near Cuzco, was off the main route. Like nearly every other village, it slept six days out of seven and began to stir early for the Sunday morning market. The winding dirt trail was queued with Indians; some of the more prosperous used burros or llamas to carry their produce, but for the most part the beast of burden was the Indian himself. A few miles from Pisac we came upon an Indian carrying nothing but a silver-capped staff. Sitting jauntily on his head was a red hat, like a felt-covered salad bowl. He was wearing the usual bright striped poncho, and his black knee-length pants, cut up a few inches on each side, were reminiscent of the dress of the Indians of Chichicastenango, Guatemala. We recognized him as a tribal chieftain and asked if he would like to ride with us to Pisac. We didn't speak Quechua and he didn't speak Spanish, but our gestures toward him and then to the jeep conveyed the idea. He nodded, smiling beneath the long straggly hairs that hung from his upper lip, and very gingerly climbed in. Dinah could have been more hospitable, and if we had known how long the sour smell of stale chicha would cling to the inside of the jeep we might have been less so. As La Tortuga bounced down the steep descent to Pisac, our guest sat stiffly erect in the seat, clutching his staff of office and trying vainly to maintain his jiggling hat and his dignity at the same time.
Unlike Huancayo, there were no individual stalls at the Pisac market. In the square near the ruins of an old church the vendors sat at random on the ground and spread their wares before them. One of the busiest sections was the pharmacy, where fifty or more little cloth sacks, rolled halfway down, revealed herbs of all classes, powdered glass, and bits of hide and cloth. To the side were bulging bags of dried llama fetuses. For the hypochondriacs among the old lady doctor's patients there were primitive placebos—pink and blue sugar candy in heart and diamond shapes.
We left Pisac late that afternoon. Just eight miles from Cuzco, with the ominous crack of rending steel, the wheels locked, and we were thrown against the windshield. Dazed, I crawled beneath the jeep and removed the cover of the rear differential. What was left of the gears was piled in a mound of metal chunks. I removed what pieces I could and disconnected the rear drive. Using front-wheel power, we limped into Cuzco.
I was baffled. There had been no warning whine to indicate a misadjustment, there was plenty of lubricant, and the differential wasn't hot. There was no obvious reason for it to fail. With dismay I realized there could be only one answer. Metal fatigue. With five thousand miles left to go, faithful La Tortuga was wearing out.
True to form, we arrived on a holiday, this time on the eve of a three-day holiday. There would be no repairing of La Tortuga until the festivities were over. Cuzco, city of the Incas, of pageantry, and of the most unmelodious bells in the world, was celebrating the Day of La Merced, patron saint of the Army.
We became accustomed to the hourly tolling of the giant bells, and they didn't bother us much during the day—that is, if you consider the day as commencing at 5:00 A.M. But on the Day of La Merced they began ringing at midnight, each boy trying to ring his bell louder and faster than his partner. The resultant dissonance made a boiler factory sound like a symphony.
From our second-story room opposite the church we had a grandstand view. The Army marched in full regalia, its band adding to the din, followed by hundreds of demurely veiled young girls, and the city fathers, stiff shirts, tails, white gloves, furry cocked hats, and all. Ceremoniously gathering in front of the cathedral, they silently filed inside through the watching crowd of awe-struck Indians. Voices were raised briefly in singing, and to the thunder of drums the priests filed out, the archbishop robed in white, his assistants holding the corners of his brocaded cape to display its dazzling gold lining. And then, borne by thirty men, appeared the life-sized Virgin of La Merced, resplendent in a glittering gown selected for the occasion from her extensive wardrobe. Dramatically the procession began its methodical pace through the streets, followed by the same city fathers, young girls, soldiers, and black-draped figures of the well-to-do. Solemnly—with popping firecrackers strewn by altar boys—the cavalcade continued around the square. The image on its weighty pedestal tipped precariously as the bearers crouched to avoid sagging power lines. But once they didn't crouch quite far enough—with a crackle of sparks and a wisp of smoke a short circuit consumed the Virgin's tinsel halo.
As we walked through the streets of Cuzco I had the feeling that the curtain was rising on an archaeological play. In the program of tiered walls, layer upon layer of time, I read Act I in the wall's foundation, the archaic art of the Inca, colossal stonework of mosaic precision. Act II, enter the Spaniard with his mud and straw construction. And at the top, Act III, the machine age, corrugated iron roofs. Center of Incan rule and religion, it was in Cuzco that the greatest temples were built, to the moon and the stars, handmaidens to their highest deity, the sun. On the plateau above the city were other Incan monuments: the huge fortress of Sacsahuamán, Kencco, the underground chamber of meditation carved from living rock, and the baths of the Incas, where crystal water flowed from an unknown source. All bore witness to the ingenuity of a race that worked without benefit of steel and moved stones larger than the jeep without beasts of burden.
The guidebooks say that no trip to Cuzco is complete without a visit to Machu Picchu, the mountain stronghold of the Incas. Since it was accessible only by rail, we bought our tickets—but not for the exclusive eight-passenger Autocarril, or even the deluxe thirty-passenger rail bus recommended by the tourist agencies. Early the next morning we clambered aboard one of the antiquated wooden cars with our fellow passengers—Indians, chickens, and pigs. Delighted at not having to ride in a baggage car, Dinah quickly made herself comfortable—on the poncho of a passenger who rebuked us for making her move. A few minutes later the Toonerville Trolley began what might be the slowest train ride in the world, six hours for the seventy-mile run. After creeping up the side of the valley we were soon clacking over flatter country at a breathtaking fifteen miles per hour.
The first little town was less than an hour away, but some of the passengers were already hungry when we arrived. The villagers provided dining car service. Through the open windows passed handfuls of popcorn, chunks of bread, and little fried cakes of corn. Dinah aloofly refused the dog biscuits we offered and managed to coerce an Indian woman into sharing a bit of off-colored meat. About halfway to Machu Picchu the engineer, too, developed an appetite, and the train stopped at another village for his lunch hour. Perhaps it was the swaying rick-rack ride, or it could have been the altitude, but, though relished by the others, the squinty-eyed whole roast heads of pig didn't tempt us.
After three hours more the conductor finally called Machu Picchu and pointed straight up. From the canyon bottom I looked at the green wall of mountain and the dirt road that snaked up its side. Across an old iron bridge a truck was waiting to carry us two thousand feet up the Hiram Bingham Highway to the small inn at the base of the ruins.
Two days later, overwhelmed by the mystery of Machu Picchu, we sat again on the rock throne of the Incas. Alone with the silence that had enshrouded Machu Picchu for centuries, we looked down on a dead city, a gem of architecture on a pillow of green velvet grass. Across the valley rose a lookout point, a spiked peak like a minaret over the mountain dome on which the city was built. In the late afternoon light terraces were delineated; temples, towers, and walls stood out in bold relief. Once roofed with thatch, they were now vined with wild blackberries and an occasional primrose.
As the air grew crisp the rock throne was still warm beneath us, and we tried to imagine Machu Picchu as it might have been perhaps ten centuries ago—the workers cultivating terraces where yucca, potatoes, and corn grew, the fountains of clear cold water channeled from distant springs, the Virgins of the Sun in their gardens of orchids, begonia and lupine, the priests performing their daily rituals in the Temple of the Three Windows or in the observatory, where the prismatic pointer of the giant sundial still casts its shadow. And we could almost see the Incan sovereign as he climbed the chiseled steps to the same rock throne where we sat watching his god slide behind the misty crags.
A few dud firecrackers and one dangling wire were the only remaining signs of the three-day fiesta when I began work on La Tortuga. The jeep agency, which was also the noodle distributor, was the logical place to start looking for parts. They had star-shaped noodles, alphabet noodles, long skinny noodles, and short fat noodles. But they were fresh out of jeep parts. I tried the auto parts stores, the garages, and the salvage yards, but the parts stores had no gears, the garages had no parts at all, and by the time anything reached the salvage yards it was too worn out even for scrap iron. At the Cuzco office of the Peruvian auto club, in Ecuadorian tradition, I presented my letter of introduction from the office in Lima. In the Colombian tradition Mr. Guzman, the director, had a friend, the chief of the road commission maintenance shop, who just might have some parts.
Señor Escobedo was a calm rugged man with a weathered face. He showed me a dismantled jeep.
"If there is anything you can use, you're welcome to it."
Everything I needed was there and the parts were in good condition. Relieved, I thanked him and said that I would order new parts from Lima to replace them. "But," I added, "I don't know how long they'll take to get here."
"No," he said, "don't bother. I'd rather you help someone on the road and consider the debt paid."
He said it as casually as if he had loaned us a cup of sugar. The real Good Neighbor policy in action.
With La Tortuga on her second wind, we left Cuzco for Lake Titicaca, an inland sea on the 12,500-foot Altiplano. The dirt road bordered the azure water; on the horizon reed boats under reed sails appeared like a golden flotilla of Chinese junks. Converging on Ilave, a village near the lake, were streams of Indians coming from the surrounding hills to celebrate the feast day of San Miguel. On the outskirts of town white tents like the first flakes of a snowfall dotted the sterile landscape.
The main street was as tightly packed as ears of corn in a bushel, but slightly less static. Nudging La Tortuga through the surging crowd, I tinkled the doorbell we had installed for that purpose. Above the bedlam it made absolutely no impression. Pulsating around us were dancing devils, the Indian version of Old Nick himself, with pointed ears, red nose, forked tail, and a long whip that cracked out at anyone who got too close. To the beat of drums women in fringed shawls of neon hue swirled their skirts in a petticoat pin wheel of color. Strumming ukuleles of armadillo shells, men in crimson-striped ponchos weaved in a short shuffling hop while others shrilled on reed pipes like so many mythical Pans. It was the first day of a five-day fiesta, and the dispensers of chicha were doing a flowing business. I could see it was going to be quite a party before it was over. Resorting to our bellowing horn, usually reserved for blind mountain curves, we gently pushed our way through the revelers. As we left the merriment behind we could still hear that half-savage, half-lilting music, its rhythm as elusive as the condor.
The rhythm was still haunting us as we continued along the shores of Titicaca to the Bolivian border, where, thanks to having all our papers in order for the first time, we made an uncomplicated crossing. A few miles farther a symmetrical mound pushed up from the Altiplano. At its base was the cradle of pre-Columbian civilization, a South American Stonehenge. Crumbling, inscrutable, uncared for, the tall stone fingers of Tiahuanaco thrust from the ground in an acre-sized rectangle. At one end stood the granite Gate of the Sun, a solid block of stone incised with mystic ciphers and geometric patterns, and pocked with holes from where silver and gold inlays had been pilfered. Nearby was a six-foot monolith with bulging eyes and folded hands. Like La Tortuga, it was held together with baling wire, the only sign of restoration. A mile away over the stubbled hills was an even sadder monument to an enigmatic race. Older than Machu Picchu or Mexico's Monte Alban, ponderous slabs of stones lay tumbled like a house of cards.
It was less than sixty miles from Tiahuanaco to La Paz, Bolivia's 12,400-foot de facto capital. With the rate of exchange pathetically spiraling to four thousand bolivianos to the dollar, for the first time we could afford the best. But the Sucre Palace had no vacancies, so we parked La Tortuga in front of the second best, where the doorman assured us that under his watchful eye she would acquire no new inscriptions.
Amazingly enough, there was no fiesta in progress—but they were getting ready for one—October 12, celebrating the discovery of America. Whole families sat like cross-legged tailors in their cluttered little workshops sewing spangles and bits of glass on silver-brocaded jackets or painting horned papier-mâché masks with bizarre colors. Grinning diabolically from the walls were finished masks, mouths sparkling with pointed teeth of mirror.
There wasn't a single level street in La Paz; even the Prado, statue-studded center of social promenading, was several hundred feet higher at one end. After several hours of puffing through the crevasse-like streets of this stratospheric city I would have felt more comfortable in a space suit. Not only was I giddy, but I was famished as well. Helen, less affected by the altitude than I, was preoccupied with the current trend in ladies' hats, the derby—black derbies, white derbies, yellow derbies, and even pink derbies. I would have been glad to see the Brown Derby, but settled for a restaurant on the Prado.
"Quiere un bebi biff?" asked the waiter.
I got the first two words, but the last two stumped me. He repeated them while I mentally sifted through my whole Spanish vocabulary. I finally realized that the last two words weren't Spanish at all, but were his pronunciations of English "baby beef."
"Yes," I said, "a steak will do just fine." In this stratospheric city of astronomical exchange, the waiter appropriately returned with the literal translation of "baby beef"—two monstrous steaks that overhung the plates. What we couldn't eat Dinah enjoyed for the next two days.
Back at the hotel the doorman had done his job well. Although someone had left a name, it was not in the usual manner. Tucked in the door was a neatly folded note that read:
"I hope you will be coming to Chile. If so, when you reach Santiago you are welcome to stay with me."
The note was signed Carmen Cuevas Mackenna. We had heard much of Chilean hospitality, but we never knew it came looking for you.
In this land of extremes the Bolivian part of the Pan American Highway was no exception. Zooming skyward through the tin and platinum mining regions, it was a corkscrew trail fit only for mules equipped with oxygen masks. At one place the map read 18,300 feet, no doubt a topographical error—a hurdle even for Pegasus. In any event, we were seldom under twelve thousand feet, and some of the gradients were so steep that even in the lowest of the six gears it was necessary to back down and get a fast run at them. Those six hundred miles across Bolivia to Argentina were a succession of stops for chassis tightening and carburetor cleaning. The constant pounding from the rutted chuckholed road did what even the railway tracks in Costa Rica hadn't done—popped the heads from the spring shackle bolts.
That week in the rarified air had its effect on the three of us as well as on La Tortuga. Helen and I lost interest in everything except getting to lower altitudes. Only a near emergency could stir any of us to the slightest activity. At night, with the cold knifing through our down sleeping bags and Dinah trying to snuggle in with us, we slept fitfully and awakened logy, entombed in a frost-encrusted jeep. Our lukewarm, high-altitude coffee did little to stimulate or thaw us.
La Tortuga was just as difficult to get started as we were, and one morning the battery went dead. After five minutes of pushing, the jeep was still immobile—so was I. For several hours we sat on the lifeless Altiplano until a truckload of barrel-chested Indians came to our aid. With unbelievable ease they pushed La Tortuga while I could only lean futilely against the stern. Tongue hanging out, searing pain in my lungs, I marveled aloud at their energy. Reaching into his furry goatskin pouch, one of them helpfully offered me a handful of coca leaves to chew.
"This will make you strong too," he said.
Thanking him, I declined. Although coca, from which cocaine is made, is a mainstay of Altiplano life, I preferred to be a ninety-seven-pound weakling rather than a bleary-eyed Samson with blackened stubby teeth. |
20,000 Miles South | Helen Schreider | [
"nonfiction"
] | [
"travel",
"South America",
"1950s"
] | Chapter 10 | Argentina was celebrating too—of course. We concluded that either every day's a holiday or that we had an unconscious affinity for festivity. But this was a new twist—the celebration of the elimination of a holiday. Until three weeks before we arrived, for ten years October 17 had been glorified as the day of General Juan Domingo Perón, ex-President of Argentina. But with the ousting of Old John Sunday, as the English-speaking residents unaffectionately called him, the day was stricken from the list of national holidays as completely as his name was being obliterated from the rocks and buildings along the road. There was, however, a Jekyll and Hyde atmosphere—with the gaiety was an air of tension. The new government feared a counter-revolution by the followers of Perón, and on October 17 took appropriate measures to prevent it.
A nearly bang-up assault on us was one result of these measures. With machine guns leveled, a cordon of soldiers halted us on the road. With visions of wanted posters—that picture in the Lima paper labeled PERONISTAS IN ACTION—I started in alarm.
"I'm a Yank!"
"Not a tank?" quipped an amused young officer. "Then do us—and yourselves—a favor and get off the road."
We gladly complied and spent the rest of the day in nearby Río Cuarto eating meat tarts and drinking good Argentine beer.
With October 17 behind us we relished the freshness of spring below the equator. Well-fed cattle and horses grazed placidly on the broad pampa. Fruit trees were blossoming, rows of grape vines corrugated the fields, and buckboards and surries rumbled along the dirt paths beside the fine paved highway.
In Argentina the age of the horse was far from past. Government restriction on the importation of automobiles had kept the carriage builders in business, and there were few late-model cars on the road. Anything newer than 1946 was almost certain to bear an official license plate, the comparatively new 1938 models were driven with pride by their well-to-do owners, and Model T's were rolling briskly along. Enjoying the bounce-free ride, fourteen-year-old La Tortuga rolled briskly along too, no doubt spurred to a youthful vigor by the cars she passed so many years her senior.
All through the trip keeping pace with the seasons had been a vital factor in our being able to get through the roadless areas: southern Mexico, Costa Rica, Panama, and Ecuador. It came as a surprise to learn that even where there were roads the weather would continue to affect our travels. From the equator our southerly course was taking us to colder climes, where snow, not rain, would be our problem.
Revived after almost a week of breathing the rich low-altitude air, we headed westward from Mendoza into the highlands again to reach Chile. Near the foot of the first range of the cordillera the paved highway changed to a gravel road. At Uspallata, an Argentine Army garrison about sixty miles from the Chilean border, we were told that a late snowfall might still block the pass. It seemed that for the first time we were out of step with the seasons. However, previous experience had shown that the only way to be sure was to see for ourselves. If we couldn't get through we would return to Mendoza and continue south through Argentina to Ushuaia, seeing Chile on the way back.
As we climbed higher and higher the road narrowed, and closer to the snow line the damage from the spring thaw had not been repaired. But at Puente del Inca, only fifteen miles from the border, we were encouraged to learn that a truck had passed just a few days before.
Higher yet we went, to eight thousand, then nine thousand feet, where drifts and slides covered the road and dingy snow sagged menacingly from the slate-gray sides of the canyon. Following the tracks of the truck, we detoured down embankments, across shallow streams, and past places where the driver had shoveled away snow. We followed the tracks to Las Cuevas, the Argentine border post, where they stopped. No car had crossed into Chile since the previous fall.
The rustic log and stone buildings of the frontier settlement were quiet. While we warmed ourselves in front of a blazing fire, friendly officials told us that the road through the Christ of the Andes pass, twenty-seven hundred feet higher, was definitely blocked with snow. There was, however, an alternate route through the International Tunnel, which, although principally for trains, was also used by automobiles. But there was one hitch. It wouldn't be open officially for another month, and planks had not yet been placed on the ties.
The officials didn't know the condition of the road on the Chilean side, but they thought we had passed the worst. Once through the two-mile tunnel, it would all be downhill. However, after Costa Rica the thought of tackling even two miles of railroad tracks seemed out of the question. But after we inspected the first half mile it looked as though it would be a smoother ride than anything we had encountered in Bolivia. The ties were flush with the ground; I could see no necessity for planks—except possibly to raise low passenger cars enough to clear the rails. Since no train was scheduled that day, we decided to go on.
Once we were inside the tunnel, the circle of daylight from the entrance faded quickly. A brief twilight and we were in the blackest night. Boring two holes through the emptiness, our headlights flared from ice stalactites, reflected from roaring streams of water, and transformed the rails into twin silver lines. A half mile, then a mile, a sign proclaimed the international boundary, and we were in Chile. As we slid over patches of ice I tightened my grip on the wheel. Depressions between the ties became more marked, and too late I understood the need for planks. By the mile-and-a-half point the wheels were jumping from tie to tie—shades of Costa Rica. With a quarter of a mile left to go we stuck in the ice between two widely separated ties.
I was disgusted with myself for not having first inspected the full length of the dank tunnel. With a deep drainage ditch on either side and less than three feet between the jeep and the tunnel walls we couldn't turn back. As we rocked free, a noise from the transmission punctuated the echoing sound of the exhaust. Fifty yards from the entrance the noise grew to the metronomic evenness of a missing gear tooth.
Just outside the mouth of the tunnel was Caracoles, a small switch house of the Transandino Railway. Standing in the door, a man stared at the clanking apparition that appeared. In a canyon of blinding snow-peaked crags La Tortuga lurched off the tracks; the metronome reached a crescendo, and the motor thudded to a halt.
The nightmarish hike that followed to Portillo, seven freezing miles of ice-filled tunnels, the arrangements we made there for a special flatcar, and the disappointment we felt as we watched La Tortuga pushed up the ramp at Caracoles all formed a chain of events that brought about still another change of plans. Even if the transmission had not gone out we could not have continued: the "downhill" road we had been going to take was covered with piano-sized rocks and five feet of snow. But as we swayed in the caboose of the freight train that carried us forty miles to the Chilean town of Los Andes we resolved to cross this pass under our own power. Instead of shipping home from Buenos Aires we would cross the continent again to reach Chile and ship home from Valparaiso.
In the back yard of a Los Andes hotel I was faced with the same problem as in Colombia—how to get at the transmission without removing the motor. Since the baling-wire repair job had proven so successful, I thought I'd try another shotgun method. With a hack saw I enlarged an inspection plate in the floor boards to a foot-square opening.
Working inside the cab, feet hanging from a sky hook, I disconnected drive shafts, propeller shaft, bilge pump, and sundry other bottlenecks in the mechanical maze, and two days later I jiggled free the transmission. The damage was considerable—chips of broken gear teeth had ruined almost every moving part. And there wasn't a replacement in Los Andes. Leaving the jeep there, we boarded a train for Santiago, fifty miles away.
The railroad terminal in Chile's capital was a nineteenth-century version of Grand Central. Hailing a cab, we found that Chile's hospitality did not extend to dogs. After five taxis slowed, looked at Dinah, and sped off, we finally tricked one into stopping by hiding her behind a pushcart. And we soon learned that the hotels were just as fussy. Starting in the middle, we descended the ladder of hotel quality until, near the bottom, we finally found one that would admit Dinah—with reluctance.
After getting comfortably—more or less—settled, we telephoned Carmen Cuevas Mackenna to thank her for her invitation. Above a background of strumming guitars an effervescent voice streamed from the receiver, and in English spiked with Spanish she charmingly but emphatically declared that she was very offended to find us in a hotel. I've been expecting you for weeks," she said.
Carmen was Chile's foremost teacher of guitar and folk music, and her studio home was a constant happy turmoil. Even after a week of unsuccessful searching for jeep parts we couldn't be dejected around buoyant Carmen. She always had something planned, and one Saturday afternoon, along with seventy of her students, we accompanied her to her country place near Santiago. In a setting of green hills a whole lamb roasted over glowing coals while pink-sashed huasos, Chilean cowboys with four-inch silver spurs, basted the meat with sprigs of laurel dipped in wine. Leafy salad, French bread, and several large pitchers of borgona, red wine with fresh strawberries, completed the asado, and for those few who were still hungry there were empanadas, moon-shaped turnovers of meat seasoned with raisins and olives. Later, in American hay ride fashion, about twenty of us rode through the countryside on the back of a truck. Singing spirited Chilean songs to the accompaniment of guitars, concertinas, and tambourines, we saw a Chilean motto come to life—"The house is small, but the wine jug is big." As we stopped at each little farm along the way, the master of the house swung open the gate and welcomed us with a large chuico and as many glasses as he had. With red wine flowing, dancing followed. In pairs everyone joined in the cueca, a lively folk dance of subtle meaning in which waving handkerchiefs and raised eyebrows told the story of shy courtship.
Santiago was a city of late hours and even later dinners, and an appointment in the afternoon could mean any time up to seven. The cocktail hour stretched till ten, the dinner until twelve or after; with dancing and more cocktails whetting the appetite again the party broke up after breakfast. We soon learned it was wise to eat something before leaving for a dinner engagement, but after one experience we abandoned that practice—eager to please us, one considerate host served dinner at eight, and we couldn't eat a bite.
During the day—what was left of it after recovering from these nightly sorties—we finally tracked down all the parts needed for the jeep except one. This, a simple round shaft, a machinist agreed to make for us. It would be ready in a week, he said. I should have known he meant Chilean time. I promptly returned on the seventh day to find the part made, but since his heat-treating equipment was out of commission—had been for a year—he didn't know just when the shaft could be hardened. Exasperated at his nonchalance, I took the job to another shop, where another mañana-minded machinist procrastinated. Salvation came in the form of a taxi driver who informed me that some Nash transmission parts were similar to those of a jeep.
There remained one detail to take care of in Santiago. We made arrangements for passage home on a Grace Line ship leaving from Valparaiso, Chile, for San Pedro, California. Then, just before leaving for Los Andes to repair La Tortuga, we said thanks and good-by to hospitable Carmen. After a smothering embrace for the three of us she winked, shook her finger in mock sternness, and affectionately said, "Hasta pronto, and remember, when you come back, no hotels."
In comparison with the silent glide of today's fin-propelled automobiles La Tortuga's was a hubbub, but to me her normal thrashing-machine medley of rattles and rumbles was like music. After so many thousands of miles I was in tune with her every sound, and as we headed south once more the characteristic gear whine from beneath the floor boards was reassuring. However, despite this comforting sound we babied her along. Ushuaia was still more than two thousand miles away, two thousand miles of rough dirt roads broken by lakes, the Strait of Magellan, and the tail end of the Andes. Some eight hundred miles south of Santiago the road in Chile ended at Puerto Montt, where, in order to continue south, we would first have to turn eastward across three Andean lakes to reach Argentina again.
But there was another reason for driving slowly. We had taken this circuitous route especially to enjoy the gentle beauty of Chile's lake region, and it was a restful ten days to Puerto Montt, winding through daisy-filled meadows and ferned woods, past foaming waterfalls and under overhanging willow trees, camping at night beside crystal brooks or one of the vari-colored lakes that dot the countryside.
A fishing village of glinting corrugated iron roofs, Puerto Montt was settled by German immigrants, and blond, blue-eyed children played along the shores of the muddy bay. Beyond the haze to the south stretched fifteen hundred miles of fiords and glaciated cliffs, and to the east was Chile's Fujiyama, Mount Osorno, at the base of which was Todos los Santos, the first lake we would cross to reach Argentine Patagonia.
When we arrived at Lake Todos los Santos a light rain was stippling the surface of the gray water. Of Osorno only the black lava moraine of its lower slopes was visible beneath the ceiling of clouds. But early the next morning more fitting than Todos los Santos was the lake's other name, Esmeralda. Mirrored in the emerald water was a second Osorno, a perfect cone with snow two thirds of the way down. In La Tortuga's wake the reflection disappeared in a myriad of specular flashes of light. With none of the apprehension we had known off Costa Rica, none of the qualms we had felt in the storms off Panama, we traveled at an easy three knots over the placid green water, calmed by the steady throb of the motor and the heat of the sun on our backs. Each revolution of the propeller turned the kaleidoscope as peak after snowy peak came into view—Puntiagudo, a needle in a pincushion of clouds, Tronador with its three jagged crags like teeth in a broken comb. Six hours after entering the lake we pulled out at a boat landing near Peulla, where we went through Chilean customs.
Several miles away over a narrow road lined with dense forest was the Argentine customs house at the edge of Laguna Frias, the second lake we were to cross. After waiting a day for the customs chief to make his appearance we crossed the tiny link in less than an hour, and another few miles through more dark forest brought us to the third lake. While smartly dressed Argentine tourists watched from the deck of a two-hundred-passenger steamer, La Tortuga dipped into the water for the third time in three days.
The narrow arm of Nahuel Huapí, one of Argentina's largest lakes, was a thirty-mile watery corridor to the road leading south through Patagonia. The one-day delay at Laguna Frias had brought the brief spell of fair weather to a close, and when a brisk breeze ruffled the Prussian blue of the water I increased our speed to four knots. Dashing against small rocky islands, the waves grew higher, and I looked for a place to get ashore, but on either side the granite walls dropped steeply into the water. With whitecaps racing by and the stern lifting with a following sea I floored the throttle. When a large tree-covered, steep-shored island loomed, Helen consulted the map.
"I think that's where we change course to go ashore," she said.
"It can't be. We've been under way only two and a half hours, and it's twenty-five miles to the island where we turn. Remember, mate, that's a road map. It wasn't meant to navigate by."
But as we breasted the island I saw the mouth of a bay. Helen was right. With a quick full rudder we headed for the gravel beach, the wind hitting us broadside and the jeep heeling heavily to port. When we landed we had covered the thirty miles in less than three hours. The wind had almost doubled our top speed. I was glad we weren't heading the other direction, and I wondered what the stormy Strait of Magellan would be like.
San Carlos de Bariloche, Argentina's favorite mountain and ski resort, was fifteen miles from where we came ashore. Wooded almost all the way, the road bordered the main body of Nahuel Huapí, now a deep purple with sea-sized waves. At Bariloche, a colony of luxury hotels and Swiss-style homes, we spent two days repacking the wheels and changing the lubricant in all the gear boxes after our transit of fifty miles of lakes.
As we continued south early in the morning, clouds swept across the sky, casting soft shadows on the gravel road. Tall trees laced their branches overhead, the limbs vibrating in the wind that was to be our constant companion for the duration of the trip. Edging the shores of smaller lakes, winding through forests of oak and pine, we descended slowly and the vegetation thinned. By mid-afternoon we were rolling over the bleak grasslands of Patagonia, mile after mile of solitude with rain turning to sleet on the windshield. The wind became a physical force, the jeep swayed from side to side, but even over the scream of the gale I was conscious of a slight increase in the whine from beneath the floor boards. I tried to ignore it. It was only a little louder, I reasoned, and with La Tortuga getting older by the mile I had to expect that. Helen noticed it too as the whine became a growl, and I slowed to ten miles per hour, hoping to reach the closest town, Esquel, sixty miles to the south. But a few minutes later power fell off and a curl of acrid smoke rose from the floor boards. Quickly I pulled to the side of the road. Neither of us spoke as we waited for the floor boards to cool before trying to locate the trouble. When I found it, I was stunned. This time it was the transfer case. Located just behind the transmission, it was every bit as difficult to repair. And even if I'd had the parts, repairing it beside the road would have been like working in a wind tunnel.
Even in Alaska I couldn't remember being as cold as we were that night and all the next day. And it was almost midsummer in Patagonia. I would gladly have traded my poncho for a parka. Huddling in the jeep, we tried to warm the inside with the motor, but the starter jammed. I thought coffee might help, but the wind blew out our windproof stove. In twenty hours not a soul passed until late the next afternoon, when, during a lull in the wind, I heard the hum of a motor. I jumped out to flag the small truck, but it wasn't necessary. True to the unwritten law of Patagonia, the driver was already stopping. When I told him what had happened, he spoke of an estancia a few miles down the road.
"I'll tow you there. Just ask for Señor Pienay."
In the office of the estancia a gentleman with reddish-brown hair and a neat mustache looked up from behind his desk. In my best Spanish I asked to speak to Señor Pienay. In my poncho, half frozen, I probably didn't present a very good picture, but I didn't think my appearance warranted a frown. It must have been my Spanish.
"Whom did you say?" he asked.
"Señor Pienay," I repeated, and then explained our difficulty.
He smiled, and then in British English with an Irish accent he said, "You mean Mr. Paine, the manager. He's not here right now. I'm Pat Wilson, the accountant. Won't you come in and have a spot of tea?"
It wasn't until then that I saw the sign on the wall—Argentine Southern Land Company, Limited. We were on one of the huge British sheep farms that spread over all of Patagonia.
Sheltered from the wind by staggered rows of slender poplars, the staff house of Estancia Leleque was a rambling one-story brick building. Inside Mr. Wilson introduced us to the rest of the staff, a miniature United Kingdom with representatives from Ireland, Wales, Australia, and the Channel Islands of England. A roaring fire and hot tea soon had us warm again—something I didn't think was possible—and we discussed the problem of getting parts. The consensus was not encouraging, but the friendly reception they all gave us was at least heartening. Mr. Wilson made us welcome with the guest room, and later Mr. Paine, a jaunty Englishman in polished boots, riding pants, and a soft tweed cap, offered a place to work on La Tortuga.
"But don't be too surprised if you don't find the parts in Esquel," he said. "They'll probably have to be ordered from Buenos Aires, and you may have quite a wait." Then Mr. Paine countered this dismal forecast with a warm invitation. "Why don't you plan on spending the holidays here with us?"
For a moment I couldn't think what holidays he meant. Then I remembered. It was a week before Christmas.
That night in the sitting room of the staff house Helen and I became acquainted with mate. Mr. Wilson, despite his Irish accent, was Argentine-born, and a connoisseur of the art of preparing this hot herb brew that was as universal in Argentina as tea in China. After spooning some of the green flakes into a small pear-shaped gourd he added boiling water, and an aroma like new-mown alfalfa rose from the mouth. Sipping the brew through a silver straw, he added more hot water, then handed the mate to Helen.
"Gracias," she said, reaching for it.
With a mischievous smile he withdrew it. "To say gracias to mate means 'No, thank you,' not 'Thank you.'"
The next morning I went to work on the jeep. I was getting quite proficient—this time it took only a day to remove the unit. No gears had been damaged, and I was relieved to see that all I would need were two bronze thrust washers, a shaft, and a couple of bearings. But after taking a bus to Esquel and scouring all the stores and garages in the little town all I came up with was the by now familiar reply, "No hay." Packing the worn parts with a note requesting fast service, I shipped them by air to Buenos Aires and returned to Leleque.
Our room in the staff house was a cheerful one, with bright Araucano Indian rugs on the floor and soft beds with warm guanaco fur covers, but we didn't spend much time there. More often we were by the fire in the sitting room learning about estancia life or, when the rain stopped, playing tennis on the poplar-protected courts. And many times we took tea with the Paines.
The British seem to take their customs with them wherever they go, and the red brick home of Mr. and Mrs. Paine, with its spacious gardens and flowered walks, looked as if it had been transplanted from an English countryside. Even after twenty-seven years in Argentina afternoon tea was a ritual with the Paines, and promptly at four the table was set with hot scones on lacy doilies, butter balls, English marmalade, and tea cakes.
One morning at breakfast Evan Thomas, the Welsh-Argentine foreman, asked if I would like to see the sheep sheared. While Helen visited with Mrs. Paine, I went with Evan to the corral, where he pointed out my horse, a big Roman-nosed beast named Picasso. My previous experience with horses had been limited to carrousels, and I eyed the black animal with apprehension, but Evan said he was the gentlest horse on the estancia. In fact, Angela, the Paines' lovely eighteen-year-old daughter, had learned to ride on him as a child. Reassured, I climbed aboard.
The high sheepskin saddle was soft, and as long as Picasso stayed at a walk I had no trouble. But when he broke into a trot I bounced up and down like a yo-yo. Evan said it was just a hop, skip, and a jump to the shearing shed. I found that distance was relative—it was five miles, but then he thought in terms of hundreds of miles. Leleque covered more than four hundred thousand acres, and it took a month just to patrol the fences.
It was, however, a hop, skip, and a jump—with Picasso doing all three with equal facility. Having a warped sense of humor, he looked back at me and leered, and then tried to rub me off on the flanks of Evan's horse. And fences were his special delight—he loved to scratch his sides on them. Sensing my insecurity, Picasso maliciously took advantage of it, but I was not to be browbeaten. Gradually I gained confidence. I even managed to stay on at a canter. The only trouble was that I didn't want to canter. That was Picasso's idea.
When we arrived at the shearing shed, the sheep had already been brought in from the corral, and the men were busy relieving them of their fleece. Entering at one end of the shed, each was bundled in his wool like a 1920 college student in a raccoon coat. At the other end he emerged pink, naked, and bewildered.
Just before lunch we headed back for the staff house. Confidently I grasped the wisp of mane on Picasso's neck and swung my leg over his broad back as I had seen Evan do. Picasso snickered. I didn't know that the horses were accustomed to galloping back to the corral for their special treat of oats, and Picasso was a creature of habit. Moreover, he was like a Sunday driver who can't bear to be passed. Off we went like a shot. Man o' War would have hung his head in shame. The starters at Hollywood Park wouldn't have believed it. Eddie Arcaro—look to your laurels. Picasso and I just couldn't get together. He went up, I came down, and the meeting was painful. Evan said I spent all my time in the air, but I disputed that statement. I had proof that I had spent sufficient time in the saddle—two dollar-sized blisters on my stern.
Three days later I was healed enough to think of going to the shearing shed again, this time to join the Gauchos for their morning asado. Arranged in a tepee around a fire that had already burned to glowing coals were ten iron stakes stuck in the ground. On each was skewered a whole side of mutton, roasted a golden brown, juices snapping into flame as they dripped. Wearing baggy bombachas, pants that looked like the opaque counterpart of a harem girl's filmy costume, the egg-shaped cook was pouring a sauce of wine and garlic over the meat. The tangy aroma made me hungrier by the minute, and I wasn't the only one. More men rode up and tied their horses to the nearby hitching post, and then sat on their haunches around the fire. Most of them wore accordion-pleated boots, bombachas, and berets, the only kind of hat that would stay on in the Patagonian wind. When the mutton was done, there were perhaps thirty men waiting. Out came long knives from the back of their wide sashes, and each man sliced off a chunk of meat. Placing a corner of it between his teeth, with vigorous strokes he sawed off a bite-sized piece perilously close to his nose. In a few minutes the skewers were bare, and after tasting it myself, I could see why the men averaged daily four pounds of meat apiece.
Each day we looked for the parts to arrive; each day the bus passed without leaving a package for us. And then it was Christmas. Even in Patagonian summer there was a blanket of fresh snow on the foothills of the Andes west of Leleque. Christmas Eve, along with the staff, we tied white handkerchiefs around our necks and paraded to the kitchen, where, with apple champagne, we toasted to the cook before sitting down to the feast she had prepared. It was a gay evening with Argentine empanadas, English plum pudding, and two huge tender stuffed turkeys. But behind our gaiety was a little nostalgia as we thought of the previous Christmas around the fireplace in California.
In the days that followed, Picasso and I came to an understanding, Dinah frolicked with a pair of pet lambs, and was bullied into relinquishing her bone by a tame ibis. Evenings in the cozy sitting room we thumbed through copies of Punch or Blackwood's Magazine, or just sat quietly sipping mate. No one agreed as to whether mate was a sedative or a stimulant, but one thing was certain. It was a favorite way to pass the time, a companionable, meditative custom, almost like passing the peace pipe.
New Year's came, just one year to the day since we had left California. Still no parts, but there was another turkey, more apple champagne, and "Auld Lang Syne" in Spanish. Then, like a late Christmas package, the parts finally arrived. Made in Argentina, the replacements looked fine, but after checking the hardness with a file it was with misgivings that I reassembled La Tortuga. I had no choice, and I figured they would surely last the rest of the trip. After almost three weeks we said good-by to our friends of the poplar oasis in the Patagonian desert.
The sea of land that was Patagonia stretched endlessly, undulating, the sparse shrubbery only a few inches high, shorn by the devastating shears of the wind. Occasionally there was a higher clump of bushes, as if nature, having repented her cruelty, had given a little shelter to the sheep that huddled in the lee. But that same shelter was a death trap to more than one animal ensnarled in the sharp branches. Whitened bones stood grimly upright like Halloween skeletons. On the few scattered lakes fire-winged flamingos colored the sky like a premature sunset, plovers and the rapier-beaked, orange-necked ibis flapped effortlessly in the wind. And La Tortuga purred her even song, shuddering once in a while when a sudden gust slowed her progress or the gravel from her wheels overtook us and rattled over the top. The passing of another car was as much of an occasion as the passing of a ship at sea, and even the lone Gaucho on the horizon was strangely out of place in this land that seemed made for no living thing.
For four days we continued almost due south. The rain that had been intermittent for so many weeks became a steady unending thing and the dirt road ran with rivulets. Wild guanacos gazed curiously, but at any change in La Tortuga's speed they bolted and ran leaping away like antelope. As we passed, drab brown ostriches made their ungainly way through the brush, breaking into a wabbling, wing-flapping gait in the open spaces.
Toward the afternoon of the fourth day the road forked. Hugging the foothills of the Andes, the right branch was the most direct route to the Strait of Magellan—and the most deserted. Pointing to the left branch, the coastal route, a sign listed the more important cities in southern Patagonia, still hundreds of miles apart. For several minutes we sat there. The jeep was running fine. We had planned to take the shortest route, but without knowing why we turned into the left branch. Three days later, one week and eight hundred miles south of Leleque, the transfer case went out again on the outskirts of a one-street town.
Piedrabuena was like the river that flowed beside it, silent yet moving. With the transfer case emitting a grating clunk we limped through the muddy streets to the Chevrolet garage. Sympathetically the owner-mechanic, Señor Cardenas, cleared a place for La Tortuga amid Model T's and decrepit trucks and offered all of his facilities for her repair.
Three blocks away, at the other end of town, we entered a single-story building that said "Hotel." The lobby was a deserted saloon with a rococo mahogany bar and a big mirror that echoed the green pallor of the walls. Side-stepping the open cellar trap door, we followed the proprietor through a dimly lit hall.
"You may have our best room," he said.
We watched the rain dripping from the ceiling onto the center of the bed. The damp room smelled musty and old, and the high narrow window made it only a little less dungeon-like. Making her customary inspection, Dinah promptly put her foot through the linoleum where it covered a hole in the floor.
Just in time for dinner, we gnawed on tough mutton in the dining room that sloped like the dizzy room of a carnival. With a grandfather clock that didn't tick and a caged canary that didn't sing, we ate to the accompaniment of kitchen clatter and the discordant drip, drip, drip of water falling in buckets placed in strategic spots on the floor. In short, the hotel did nothing to alleviate our depression.
Glad to get out of the gloom, we went back to the garage and began the dissection. With each bolt I removed, and each time a tool fell into the thick black grease of the bilge, I thought of the last time at Leleque and the time before that in Los Andes. I was in a bitter mood, but I had had enough practice so that the job progressed more rapidly. By evening the transfer case was out. It took only a few minutes to locate the trouble, but more than an hour to clean out the pieces of what had once been two bearings, a shaft, and two thrust washers—exactly the same parts I had replaced at Leleque.
I asked Señor Cardenas, the philosophical mechanic, where I might find parts.
"Muy difícil." He shrugged. "Possibly in Río Gallegos or, if not there, in Punta Arenas on the Chilean side."
The next morning I left Helen and Dinah molding in the kitchen, the only warm place in the hotel, while I stood outside waiting in the rain for the bus to Santa Cruz, where a plane would take me to Río Gallegos, two hundred miles to the south. Helen gave me a pathetic smile when I told her not to expect me for a week—what a miserable sentence, a week in Piedrabuena.
The ancient International truck, with improvised body jammed with bucket seats, was already full, but I talked a mother into letting me hold her child on my lap for the two-hour ride through muddy ruts to Santa Cruz, twenty-five miles away on the coast. Santa Cruz boasted one new building, an impressive paneled wood and fieldstone post office built during the reign of Perón. Covering a whole city block, it would have served nicely for a city twenty times the size of diminutive Santa Cruz. The street that ran in front was a quagmire, as indeed were all the streets in town, and the drivers of the few cars and trucks had to know the way as well as a pilot knows a harbor to avoid sinking axle deep in the many mudholes.
The airport was three miles from town. The car that the airline office provided had no windshield wiper on my side—for which I was grateful. Zipping up the winding road, skidding sideways harrowingly close to the bank, we arrived in much too short a time at the grassy plateau that served as a landing strip—only to wait two hours for the plane.
Also waiting was a woolly sheep that passed the time by scratching her ears against a nearby post. Before anyone was aware of it she raised her head and stared northward at the distant speck in the sky. When the DC-3 landed the sheep was the first one there, climbing up the ladder before it was even in place, to receive her customary handout from the crew. After that the passengers could climb aboard.
In less than an hour I was in Río Gallegos, with its clean paved streets and good hotels. But I felt guilty sleeping so comfortably when I thought of Helen back in Piedrabuena under soggy covers in her funereal hotel.
As soon as the shops were open the next morning, I started making the rounds. I had learned long ago never to ask for parts for an amphibious jeep. This immediately invoked the answer "No hay." Instead I solemnly placed the parts on the counter and asked if they had anything that looked remotely like them. The answer was still "No hay But at the second place a phenomenon occurred. They had the bearings! After trying every other place in town for the shaft and thrust washers with no success I was entering the airline office to book passage for Punta Arenas when a man came running after me. I couldn't believe it. A shipment had arrived on the same plane with me. Although the parts weren't exactly the same, I thought that with the help of Señor Cardenas, a genius by necessity at improvising, they could be made to work. And with still more luck I was able to catch the same plane back to Santa Cruz.
It was still raining when the plane took off, and it seemed as if it were forever gaining altitude. As a matter of fact, it never did. All the way back we skimmed over the tops of waves close enough to see the foam on the whitecaps and over land so low that sheep scattered and giant hares scampered for their holes. With the plane shuddering and shaking in the gusts at least half the passengers made frequent use of the paper bags in front of them. Casually the co-pilot explained why we were flying so low. At that altitude the wind was blowing only seventy miles an hour. None too soon for me the Santa Cruz strip came in sight, and it was a perfect landing—until the brakes were applied. The plane did a complete turn, slid two hundred yards through a barbed-wire fence, and ground to a stop. The sheep was a bit confused, but recovered in time to still be the first to greet me as I stepped with relief from the plane clutching my little package of parts. Mission completed.
The next day and the day after we spent honing, grinding, and cutting to make the odd pieces fit. With pieces of tin can we made the thrust washers thicker, and with emery powder and elbow grease made the shaft thinner. In a record week, thanks to Señor Cardenas and a lot of luck, we had La Tortuga ready for the last two laps: two hundred and fifty miles to the Strait, and then 335 miles to Ushuaia.
With the green water lapping at La Tortuga's wheels Helen and I stood on the shingle beach at the narrowest part of the Strait of Magellan. Staring across the three miles that separated us from Tierra del Fuego, we could dimly see the beach opposite, where an oil refinery road led south, and, above that, the glow of burning natural gas that made this truly a Land of Fire. Our phenomenal luck was still with us; for the first time since we reached Patagonia there was no wind, the sun was warm and bright, and the stormy Strait didn't seem stormy at all.
Yet we hesitated. Without warning the wind could return, changing the calm water to a maelstrom in minutes. And even though it was calm, a few hundred yards offshore we could see the warning eddies that marked the fast current in the central channel. According to the chart, it was as high as six knots, about the maximum we could hope to tack against—if the motor held out. But everything else in La Tortuga had already broken down, and if the motor did fail we would be carried downstream to where cliffs lined both sides.
But those were chances we had been determined to take. There was another reason for our hesitation. In Río Gallegos we had been told that the 335 miles of completed road over Tierra del Fuego was just Perón propaganda, that twenty-five miles of it was nothing but a horse trail, that no car had ever crossed the tail end of the Andes to Ushuaia. If we couldn't reach our goal anyway, should we risk crossing the Strait? Yes. We both agreed. We wouldn't be satisfied until we had at least gone as far as we could.
Pointing La Tortuga upstream, for several hundred yards we stayed in the slack water close to shore. Then, sighting on a point of land across the Strait four miles above our intended landfall, we headed at a 45-degree angle to the current. Our plan was to hold that course until mid-channel, where we would come about and use the current to aid us in making the beach.
Pitching in the eddies, the jeep swung downstream, and I countered with left rudder as we entered the fast current. With the jeep tossing and swerving I jockeyed her back on course, keeping my eyes on the sight. A few minutes later a sharp jolt rocked the jeep. With a forty-fathom bottom we couldn't have gone aground. A bombardment of jolts followed, and from under the jeep streaked a school of porpoises, arching in unison a few feet ahead of the bow. From the top Dinah's head switched like a spectator's at a tennis match as the eight-foot porpoises zigzagged and crisscrossed around the jeep, filling the air with their watery snorts. We were so intent on these black-and-white aquatic clowns that we were in mid-channel before we realized that we had pivoted downstream as if at the end of a string compass. We were still headed toward the point of land we had been sighting on, but we were head on to the current instead of at a 45-degree angle to it. Still worse, we were almost opposite the cliffs, far below the beach where we were to come ashore. I tried to conceal my alarm. The current must be more than six knots, I thought. All I could think of was to get to the other side as fast as possible, hoping there might be slack water near shore. Letting the bow swing around, I floored the throttle and headed directly across current.
Slowly the cliffs of Tierra del Fuego loomed closer. I thought I could feel the force of the water lessen. About twenty feet from the brown furrowed walls I changed course to head upstream. Nothing happened. The jeep stood still in the current, and though I hated to push La Tortuga I floored the throttle again. Shuddering under full power, almost imperceptibly she began to creep back along the shore. I steered closer until the right wheels were almost touching the steep sloping face of the cliff. We could begin to measure our progress.
Motor straining, La Tortuga crawled with agonizing slowness the several miles to the end of the cliff. In the slower water near the gravel bank I could let up on the gas, but at each point that jutted from shore it took full throbbing power to get around it. While two wild guanacos peered from a rise and hordes of red-beaked shore birds squawked into flight, we chugged upstream to the beach three hours after leaving the other side.
High and dry on the beach where we landed, left there by a thirty-foot tide, was a battered surplus LCT belonging to the oil company. Standing nearby were several men. One in particular seemed very perplexed.
"What made you think you could cross the Strait in that thing? Don't you know there's a ten-knot current?"
I swallowed hard. "Ten knots? I thought it was six."
"Six average, but where you crossed, the First Narrows, it runs ten. Where're you going, anyway?"
Still shaken, I almost stuttered, "Ushuaia," and then explained where we had come from.
His face softened. "You're really determined, aren't you? I'm sorry to tell you that the road is not finished. The road commission is still working on it. But when you've gone as far as you can go, come back here. We'll take you back across the Strait in a barge."
Through the courtesy of the oil refinery we serviced the jeep in their maintenance shop and continued south over the same rolling barren plains as in Patagonia. Split down the middle by the Argentine-Chilean border, Tierra del Fuego was the home of some of the largest sheep farms in the Western Hemisphere. After the worst onslaught of rain in sixty years the fences were strung with the half-decayed carcasses of hundreds of sheep that had been caught and drowned in the flooded hollows.
To reach the First Narrows on the continent we had first crossed into Chile, but once on the island, in order to continue south, we had to enter Argentina again. In accordance with tradition, the connection between the two countries was abominable. In this case we were not even sure it was a road. After we left the Chilean customs house, a muddy trail turned into a pair of grassy ruts, and then disappeared entirely in the middle of a mushy meadow. Turning around, we went back, positive we had followed the wrong cow. But, no, that was the international highway between Chile and Argentina in Tierra del Fuego. Just head off across the meadow, we were told. We did, and promptly bogged down. In just a few minutes a jeep threaded its way through with a practiced manner and towed us out. When we thanked the driver, he said it was his job. "Everyone gets stuck here. But it's better ahead. Except for a bridge on the Argentine side, that is; it washed out in the last rain."
Helen looked at me. Apparently our adventures were not over yet. At the first Argentine police station—where we went through Argentine customs for the fifth time—we asked about the bridge. It wouldn't be repaired for a month. How about the road on the other side? It was good to Río Grande, and from there to Lake Fagnano, seventy miles this side of Ushuaia. But beyond the lake it was bad, with a twelve-mile gap of horse trail still remaining over the Andes. We were encouraged. A twelve-mile gap was better than a twenty-five-mile one.
We weren't too concerned about getting across the bridgeless river—until we saw it. It wasn't a river. It was a swampy lowland, flooded by the rains. Built on a fill, the road was interrupted by a crumbled concrete bridge. To one side was a flooded ditch about a half mile long. It looked just deep enough to float La Tortuga. The driver of a marooned truck on the other side looked on enviously as we slid down the embankment.
With wheels churning and propeller spinning we moved forward slowly to within fifty yards of where we could again climb to the road. Progress stopped. The water was too shallow to float us and too deep for the wheels to get traction on the soft bottom. I was picking out a fence post to winch to when our friend made it much easier. Tossing us a cable, he put his truck in reverse and, like a fish on a line, he hauled us out.
At Río Grande, halfway across Tierra del Fuego, we heard more encouraging news. The road crew had widened all but eight miles of the horse trail.
Excitedly we hurried south. Shortly out of Río Grande the country changed. The rolling plains became sharper, the valleys deeper, low shrubs became higher, and a few rocks showed through yellow-brown tundra. The shrubs became small trees; valleys became arroyos. And then as we crested the top of a hill we saw the white cordillera running east and west, the Andes, majestic right to the end. On the other side of the range lay Ushuaia.
Around the edge of Lake Fagnano, a sixty-mile finger of water on the north slope of the mountains, the jeep jolted over log corduroy fills and slipped through mudholes that gradually became worse. Through a heavy rain we started climbing. The trees were larger, some more than a hundred feet high and three feet in diameter, an unspoiled wilderness except where the bulldozed road left ruin in its wake. Incongruously among dense forests of spruce flitted green parrot-like birds.
It was almost dusk when we reached the last road camp on the north side of the range. From a log house strolled several men. Puffing on their pipes, in silence they walked around the jeep. When I asked about the road, they answered with indifference:
"This is as far as you can go."
Through the trees we could still see road ahead, and until it stopped we were going on. As we drove off, they were calling after us:
"You'll never get up that first subida."
About a mile farther we came to that first grade. Spiraling like a snail shell, it looked almost straight up. We left the jeep at the base of the incline and hiked ahead to see if we had any chance of getting up. The rain was still falling; our rubber boots slipped on the hard but ice-slick clay surface. The road wound two miles up to the crest, but the first quarter mile was the steepest. It would be a hard climb, and risky, but if I stayed close to the bank I thought we could make it.
Putting La Tortuga in the lowest gear and four-wheel drive, while Helen and Dinah stayed outside, I slowly engaged the clutch. Keeping the wheels just on the verge of spinning for maximum traction, I gently worked the throttle, and the jeep moved forward. With darkness approaching rapidly I impatiently fed more gas to the engine. The wheels spun, the jeep momentarily stood still, slid backward, and I lost all the ground I had gained. With Helen ready to push a rock under the wheels I tried again. Tensely I kept a light foot on the throttle, and La Tortuga inched painfully up the subida. Past the steepest place, I congratulated myself on my skillful driving and looked around for Helen. A breathless figure staggered from behind the jeep. She had been pushing all the way.
At the crest we made camp in the dark while a howling wind from the Antarctic brought with it clouds of snow that soon coated the bow of the jeep. To keep the motor from freezing I left it running most of the night.
By morning the weather had cleared somewhat, but the sky was still gray and overcast. While Helen straightened the inside of the jeep, I walked ahead to where the road crew was working. The foreman told me that the eight-mile gap had now been reduced to three. I really got excited when he said that just two days before the road commission jeep had broken through.
"But," he added, "that was before the all-day rain and last night's snow."
For more than an hour I studied the trail, weighing the possibility of getting through. Barely six feet wide in places, the trail sloped to the valley below, and was a maze of chunks of blasted rock. Just twenty-five miles beyond this three-mile barrier was Ushuaia. I asked permission to try.
To my surprise, the foreman was enthusiastic. "Permission?" he said. "Why, if you're willing to take the chance, we'll even help you. It would be a thrill for us to see the first tourists reach Ushuaia by car."
I returned to Helen with the news, and we began the roughest overland travel of the trip.
After the first half mile it took all of the twelve-man road crew to keep us going. They put down logs, filled in holes, and pushed while we winched through foot-deep mud. Through the rocky part the wheels clawed over the slippery stone, the jeep pointed its bow straight up and came crashing down on a huge boulder, balanced there with wheels spinning until the men shoved her off. I crawled out to look at the damage—a broken spring, shattered rear window, and a giant dent in the hull.
With the trail tipping toward a hundred-foot canyon, we made the winch line secure to a tree and crept up the short grade. La Tortuga fish tailed, the wheels slipped sideways, and I heard the men yell, "Pare, pare" But I couldn't stop! I felt the right rear wheel drop over the edge. From outside Helen screamed, and inside Dinah jumped wildly over me through the window. The winch line snapped taut, and all twelve men pulled sideward, braced the wheels with logs, until, with the winch, we crept back on the trail.
For the next two hours it went like that, sometimes with mud over the wheels, sometimes the wheels hanging over a trembling log bridge, sometimes dragging bottom over sharp rocks. And then the men surrounded the jeep. Grinning with satisfaction, they said, "Que le vaya bien. You're past the last bad spot."
Dazed, we drove those last twenty-five miles. We could scarcely believe that the uncertainty was over—until we saw the deep blue of the Beagle Channel, freckled with whitecaps, the protected harbor with its several small ships and, at the foot of the white-topped Andes, the red tin roofs of Ushuaia. To the south lay only a few scattered islands and the Antarctic. |
20,000 Miles South | Helen Schreider | [
"nonfiction"
] | [
"travel",
"South America",
"1950s"
] | TRAIL'S END | I'm not sure what I expected to find in Ushuaia, but I knew one thing—for us the streets would seem paved with gold. I didn't expect to find the hearts of the people that way too. And although I was almost sure that a celebration would be in progress for one reason or another I had no idea that we would be the guests of honor. Ushuaia was feting Don Bosco, patron saint of sports.
Things started happening the same afternoon, January 23, 1956, that we first drove through the graveled streets of the world's southernmost town. A station wagon pulled alongside La Tortuga, and a white-gloved cavalierish Argentine Naval officer leaned out the window. In excellent English he asked where we had come from and invited us to join him the following evening for dinner. Captain Lopez de Bertodano was commandant of the naval base which was Ushuaia's raison d'être.
The same day we paid a visit to the road commission headquarters to thank the chief for the help his men had given us in getting through. We were invited to stay at the camp rather than go to the one hotel in town, El Gran Parque, alias Los Très Mentiras, The Three Lies, since it was neither grand, nor parklike, nor could it qualify as a hotel.
A dubious distinction of Ushuaia was that its penal colony had been recently reactivated to accommodate the bigwigs of Perón's deceased government. One gentleman was of sufficient notoriety to warrant a visit from an American newspaperman, who, in passing through Río Gallegos, had heard that two crazy Americans had drowned while crossing the Strait of Magellan. He was quite disappointed that we hadn't because, he said, "It would have made a much better story."
The next evening at dinner with the commandant we were totally unprepared for what followed. "We would like you to be the guests of the Argentine Navy on a cruise to Buenos Aires. I expect the ship to dock within the week."
We were literally speechless—but managed an eager nod!
In jest Captain Lopez de Bertodano addressed me as Captain. "You know," he said, "I've been aboard almost everything that floats, but never an amphibious jeep."
"Well, sir," I answered enthusiastically, "as captain of the M.S. La Tortuga, I invite you to come aboard for a cruise around the harbor—after I've checked her for holes."
"Fine," he smiled. "Shall we meet your ship, Les Eclaireurs, when she comes into port?"
At the end of the week the A.R.A. Les Eclaireurs was sighted and we called for the commandant. With a duet of La Tortuga's horn and the ship's whistle we steamed out to meet her. There was a stiff wind, and the commandant asked if we were sure La Tortuga could weather the sea. I assured him that what we had been through made Ushuaia Harbor look like a millpond. With all due respect to La Tortuga, he smilingly intimated that he would prefer to stick to his regular command.
The following day, Sunday, the day of Don Bosco, we gave a public demonstration of La Tortuga's aquatic ability, making eleven turns around the harbor with most of the children in town aboard. We were slightly embarrassed, however, when, by the time we had taken the last group for a ride the tide was out and we were stuck. But with half the townspeople good-naturedly pulling under the direction of a jolly priest it was no trouble getting out.
One of the most heart-warming things of all was the way the men from the road commission came to the dock to see us off, each one giving us a vigorous embrace.
That night, as we lay in our cabin with the ship pitching and rolling beneath us, we felt a quieting strangeness. We had reached our goal. There was no more wondering what the jungles and the mountains and the sea would hold for us. La Tortuga was securely lashed on deck of the first ship she had ever been on. For the first time we could feel the power of the sea without fear, and yet, in the dark, while we listened to its roar, our experiences in reaching Ushuaia were still vivid, especially the pounding surf of the Pacific, the storms and reefs of the Caribbean, and the compelling current of the Strait of Magellan. But by morning we were well adjusted to being at sea as passengers rather than crew, and for the first time we were heading north.
Les Eclaireurs was not as we had expected either. She carried forty passengers. Since Perón had been a general and not an admiral, the Navy had suffered when it came to appropriations, with the result that, in order to make both ends meet, it had been forced to become a merchant fleet—at least part of it. A new ship, Les Eclaireurs had first-class accommodations, and the passenger list included a host of Argentine lovelies on vacation from their jobs in Buenos Aires. With the ship's officers and a score of midshipmen on a training cruise Helen and I looked forward to learning something we had never had time to learn while traveling—to dance the mambo, tango, rumba, samba, and maybe even the cha-cha-cha. But what was the craze? Dixieland!
Buenos Aires, second in the hemisphere only to New York in size and sophistication, was a busy metropolis. Stores even stayed open during siesta. Modern, progressive, clean, yet it had an Old World beauty in its statues and parks and mansard roofs. We were in a mood to celebrate, and all three of us walked into the first-class City Hotel. When we registered, the clerk informed us that Dinah would be there "with pension." That was a new one! An American-plan hotel for dogs! Luxuriating in endless hot water, with piles of clean towels, soft music, and even softer beds, our one regret was that their American plan extended only to dogs. At eight that night Dinah's waiter appeared. With black pants, white jacket, crisp napkin draped over one arm, he entered balancing a silver tray stacked high with whole broiled steaks—more than I had ever seen outside of a butcher shop.
The 985 paved miles across Argentina from Buenos Aires to the Chilean border took more than a week. We crawled at a turtle's pace trying to save La Tortuga's failing strength for that last climb, that last challenge to erase the miles by flatcar over the pass to Chile. And it was well we did travel slowly. Between Mendoza and the border the second gear sheared a tooth. In low gear we kept going, climbing, climbing, climbing to Las Cuevas at the frontier. Seven miles and twenty-seven hundred feet higher stood the statue of the Christ of the Andes. We moved up so slowly that Dinah walked beside us. An hour passed, two hours, the transmission held, and four hours later we reached the Christ, literally on a gear and a prayer.
In the shadow of the outstretched arms we felt an exultation tempered by a humble gratitude. There, at the foot of the Christo Redentor, we said thanks to the people all along the way without whose friendship we could not have realized our dream.
Behind us was a year and a half of travel, more than twenty thousand miles, backed by nine years of striving. We had come to look on La Tortuga as our home, a rolling, floating home that had taken us where no other car or boat had ever gone.
And Dinah? Well, she was her usual blasé self, unaware of her dubious accomplishment in contributing to the confusion of archaeological knowledge. Perhaps someday, high in the Andes, scientists will discover a corroded metal tag. They will treat it with chemicals, polish it, and read: "My name is Dinah. I live in Anchorage, Alaska." |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 1 | Alma woke slowly in a fluffy hotel bed, clutching a pamphlet titled, "Now What?" She looked it over with one eye still shut: "You may be technically dead on Earth, but this virtual world is your home now, and there's plenty of help available so you can adjust. You'll be able to contact people Earthside by e-mail, video and robotics, so don't feel like you're trapped."
Alma puzzled over the words, then gasped. She'd made it to Talespace!
She'd signed over her modest estate to Ludo in return for having her cancer-infected brain slowly diced, analyzed and recreated as software. As each chunk of brain matter got sheared away she'd lost parts of her memories, her senses, only to have them come back from that terrifying void. She'd gone blind in the surgical room, then seen test patterns and finally the vibrant colors of the digital world. The ruling AI's voice had asked her, incidentally, what sort of body she wanted once the process was complete.
As an old man whose flesh was incurably ruined and destroying itself horribly, Alma had begged to become something different.
Alma saw that her new hands were delicate and unwrinkled. She pulled the covers down and blushed at the sight of soft breasts hanging on her hairless chest. Rather than explore any farther there, she staggered out of bed and looked around. Bland furniture, a framed print of her favorite Escher picture (a pattern of lizards climbing up out of a printed page), and a window-wall covered with blinds. She pushed them aside and stared through the glass, trying to ignore her reflection.
The hotel room had a balcony looking out on a cavern that stretched into the distance for miles. Huge glowing crystals and drifting will-o-wisps lit a world of dark blue-grey stone where people walked or flew. A white tower pierced the cave's center from floor to ceiling, impossibly tall. Unless her perspective was completely wrong; unless this day was only her final, dying dream.
Words brushed themselves onto Alma's vision like a narrator's commentary: You have discovered Ivory Tower: Home of the University of Talespace. A fanfare played on phantom trumpets.
Alma shuddered, stepped back, and sat down on the bed with tears in her eyes. She'd played the video game "Thousand Tales" on a computer, looking into that imaginary realm through a screen. Its world, Talespace, had become her life. Her decaying body was gone, and her salvaged mind had its senses hooked up to the game's world. She was gone from Earth except as data stored on a machine somewhere.
On the way out, she'd burned every bridge. She'd picked this new name and body and had told her friends only that she was uploading, that she'd be fine. Her secrecy was a stupid, impulsive request, but she'd been terrified of the disease eating her and had wanted to escape by looking different, being different. So, Talespace life would be a new start for her. Alone.
Alma dried her eyes and ignored the flashing light on the room's ancient plastic telephone. Ludo, Talespace's main AI, would want to fix anything that might be wrong. Alma wasn't up for being fixed right now. She needed time to understand what she'd done to herself.
A generic pair of black shorts and a white t-shirt awaited her on a coatrack. For a supposed paradise, Talespace's comforts were minimalist so far. Alma dressed and stepped outside to a hallway where the marble floor chilled her bare feet. She had no key, but there was no lock. This silent place was a simplified, idealized version of reality.
The elevator had buttons for "Your Floor", "Lobby", "Restaurant", and "Adventure". How many floors were there? She doubted the unused rooms even existed, since the geography of a game world could be whatever it needed to be, at any moment. Alma shook her head and felt the need for something normal. She pushed "Restaurant".
A bell chimed and she stepped out to a room from Valhalla. Dragon-headed pillars of dark wood held up a space full of rough oak tables, fireplaces, and mounted shields and axes. A modern buffet lined one wall under a mural of warring giants and Vikings.
Alma filled a plate with pancakes and fruit before noticing she wasn't alone. At one of the tables sat an armored knight, a cute redheaded woman in a dress, and...
The third figure was a humanoid squirrel-lady, who waved and gave a big-incisored grin. "Miss? Would you like to join us?"
Alma blinked a few times. Seeing Talespace's fantasy races while playing a video game on Earth was very different from meeting them in person. She lurched toward the fourth chair and wondered if her muscle control was still getting calibrated.
The squirrel-woman laughed. She sat sideways in her chair to make room for her big rustred tail. "The name's Poppy. You look lost. Are you an uploader?"
Alma nodded and sat. "I just woke up here."
Poppy picked at an elaborate apple-and-walnut salad. "These are Gerard and Meg. I'm... no, let's make a game of it. Care to guess what each of us is?"
Alma studied the other diners. "I'll guess you're a native AI," she told the squirrel. The game, or rather Ludo, had made lesser AIs to be companions for certain players. Few even pretended to be human, and this one seemed at ease with what she was.
Gerard the warrior was scarfing bacon and eggs like a hungry teenager, and clanking his mail-clad elbows on the table. Alma said, "You're a human, an uploader." No point in eating if you were only playing a game, unless the food was a magic item to restore your character's health or something.
Meg was the toughest to read. She dressed in a simple blouse and skirt like a businesswoman in Alma's homeland of Free Texas, and seemed unfazed by sharing a restaurant with such company. She was eating waffles, with a subtle mechanical repetition to her movements. Maybe it was a computer-driven bit of stagecraft to help her fit in. Alma's judgment was, "You, I'm not sure. Playing on Earth?"
Poppy's laugh sounded a bit like a rodent's chitter. "I'm not sure how to feel about being called a native. I uploaded months ago and I've been busy ever since. Meg, here, is still living on Earth and trying to earn her way in. Gerard is a special case. I'll let him tell you or not."
The knight stared down into his plate. "Prisoner. They gave me a choice of leaving Earth this way, or rotting in jail at taxpayer expense until I died."
"What did you do to --" Alma stopped herself and stuffed a pancake into her mouth, then made a face at its bland, crunchy taste. There was very little that Gerard could do to hurt anyone in Talespace. Ludo could just teleport him elsewhere and give him brainless Non-Player Characters to abuse.
"We're all human," said Meg, sitting there stiffly. "But that's not surprising. More people getting uploaded, less need for Ludo to make smart companions for bored billionaires."
Alma nodded. Her experience with Thousand Tales had featured imaginary friend characters, but they were only dumb puppets controlled by the main AI, not independent "Tier-III" minds like the companions. Or like herself. Alma had been where Meg was now: sitting outside the game, talking with people inside. Alma sank a little in her seat.
"Are you all right?" asked Poppy.
In the last few years Alma had often talked to the game instead of playing it, pouring out the fear of death, of being alone and unwanted, of pushing people away. "In the end, I did what I was afraid of. I broke contact with the whole world."
The knight said, "Let me guess. Gated community, prep schools for your kids, lily-white friends?"
Alma glared. "I didn't have kids." She thought of her declining years, when she'd held a teaching job and felt like the world was slipping away, then of the final horrible month when a doctor had told her to choose uploading or the grave.
She said, "Can Ludo destroy memories?"
The three murmured. Meg put one hand on her arm, saying, "Did something terrible happen?"
"I was dying. It was horrible."
Gerard laughed. "You were rich enough to get here, and you want pity?"
"Gerard!" said Poppy. She turned back to Alma, twitching her whiskers. "Your memories are a big part of who you are. If you throw them away, then why upload in the first place?"
Meg said, "Trauma isn't something to take lightly. Ludo can erase specific memories these days now that we're using a data format she understands well. I doubt she ever tried before that."
"We all lose stuff," the knight said with a shrug and a mouthful of bacon. "You think you suffered because you had a bad time for a while? Try having a whole bad life. Boo hoo, you have to live in heaven."
Poppy's tail bristled. "He's not completely wrong. See whether you can live with yourself, before you try to become someone else. In time I think you'll grow and mature in ways that make the pain more distant, without any artificial soul-surgery. Don't throw away your old life. The people, not just the memories, I mean."
Alma sighed. There really was no sense in shutting herself away from everyone, now that she was safe. "I owe my friends a call, at least."
The pancakes tasted boring, and the fruit made Alma think of the difference between "cheez" or "strawberry flavor", and actual cheese and strawberries. "Something's wrong with the food."
Poppy shrugged and tossed a walnut into her mouth. "A drawback to living here. Smell and taste are still buggy."
Alma stood and walked along the buffet, sniffing. The bacon sizzled but her nose told her nothing. There was warmth from the pot of oatmeal but only a vague doughy scent to it. She turned back and saw the three clean, unblemished people at their perfect table in the immaculate and otherwise empty restaurant.
Poppy looked up at her with concern. "It's all slightly wrong, huh? I found it helped to meet Talespace halfway, by changing something besides my memories." She held out her bushy tail.
Alma didn't feel like admitting she'd gone through some physical changes already, especially in front of a jerk like Gerard. "Is it even possible to get full from eating?"
Meg was only pretending to join the others' meal, but she seemed enthused just the same. "Sure. You uploaders don't have digestive systems, but there's some sense feedback for things like that to make life seem more normal."
"Why are you even here?" Alma asked her.
Meg shrugged. "I visit this area sometimes to meet people and hear uploaders' first impressions. I'm looking to join you when I can afford it." She gave a strange, wicked grin and said, "I have a few friends in Talespace and beyond who're interested in newcomers. Can I report on meeting you?"
"I guess," said Alma. It might help other people to hear Alma's comments on the uploading experience.
Poppy finished off her salad and fetched some oatmeal. "A limited appetite also helps prevent addiction to any one experience. I'm told that's also why it's hard to get into the, ah, no-limits brothel."
Gerard grinned. "That's where I'm headed as soon as I can." He started to describe a fantasy that wasn't even physically possible on Earth.
Meg, thankfully, interrupted. "So! Miss Alma. What do you do for a living?"
Alma answered quickly. "I was a teacher, for the last few years, after a career doing a couple of other things. I was with the GTT. Sorry; the Gifted and Talented Texans program. The smart kids."
"Oh, a fellow 'Free States' gal?" said the squirrel. "Nice. You could teach here in the Tower."
"I know. Used to come here as a player." The course selection varied from real-world topics in science to Talespace-specific classes in magic.
Meg said, "Or you could still teach on Earth."
Alma turned back from eyeing the dessert table, surprised. "I doubt I could get my old job. The district must've found a replacement already; I was on medical leave and they didn't expect me back." She'd only been able to afford the procedure because her insurance company helped. Her country's insurers increasingly viewed uploading as a cheaper alternative to end-of-life care, that tried to patch up many overlapping problems with a worn-out body.
Meg nodded. "Can't hurt to ask."
Alma had read about the "bounce", the desire of many uploaders to get right back to doing things on Earth out of a sense of guilt and the need to feel important. "I shouldn't overreact, just because of, of this." She gestured around the room.
Meg said, "You've been through a near-death experience. You can take time to collect yourself." She looked aside. "You have the life I want."
Alma reached out impulsively and took Meg's hand. "I guess you can't feel this, but you can hear what we have to say. You should go out and explore too, before fate forces you to leave Earth behind."
Poppy smiled. "Each of us, then. Let's all explore in our own ways, and meet back here sometime to compare notes."
Alma, the squirrel, the convict and the Earthside player chatted. Alma had found some new friends and something to do, already. |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 2 | "You're going by 'Alma' now?" asked Principal Hernandez, peering skeptically through a screen on the hotel room's wall. "Why can't I see you?"
Alma reluctantly opened her end of the video channel. For this call she'd asked to get an imitation of her old body, in a shirt and tie. It felt weird, illusory, differently sized and balanced than the softer form she'd only started getting used to. She couldn't quite see herself though. Everything but the view of Hernandez's sunlit, box-strewn office was blurry now. Alma's digitized mind used a simplified visual system that needed adapter software to make sense of Earth's complex reality, and using it temporarily messed up her view of the room where she was standing.
The principal said, "There you are. Wow. I still have trouble grasping that an uploader is the same person as before. I half expected you to look like an elf or something."
"Well..."
"Ha! I'm right, aren't I? Show me."
Alma blushed. She muttered the command she'd been told to use to change back to "normal". "This is what I'm using for a body now." Her voice bounced back from its pre-uploading bass to the lovely new alto.
Hernandez doubled over, laughing. "The name change! No wonder."
Alma reached to shut off the connection. Making contact again was a bad idea.
"No, wait!" said Hernandez. "I don't care. I'm just surprised."
"I wanted to get away from what I was like when I was dying," Alma said, looking down.
"Makes a certain amount of sense. Glad you're all right."
"Actually, I was wondering if there's some chance of... maybe teaching again?" She looked back up and her eyes refocused to show him properly. Alma wondered if her mind was physically stored in Texas or on another continent.
Hernandez chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Wanting to get right back into it? That could be tricky."
"Because I'm legally dead."
"And you're now an outsider."
Alma leaned forward and glared. "I moved to Texas the year secession became a real possibility! I served in the state guard, standing ready if the Washington forces tried to kill us for it. I may have a Yankee accent but I'm as proud a patriot as any school board bureaucrat."
Hernandez held up his hands in a placating gesture. "I'm not questioning your loyalty. But you're sort of an expatriate, and nobody's yet tried to get Texas teacher credentials transferred to an uploaded mind."
"That's because so many early uploaders were millionaires without real jobs to worry about. Are you going to ask me why I care, now, when I could be fooling around in Talespace?"
"No. I understand that, miss Teacher of the Year. I've never seen you able to stay idle for long." Hernandez hesitated, looking aside at some papers on his desk, then nodded decisively. "You could do some good this way. Let me pull some strings and get back to you later today."
"Thanks."
The call ended. Alma flopped onto her bed. Pamphlets on the nightstand advertised strange Talespace locations, chances to operate robots on Earth, and various clubs. Curious, she opened the nightstand's drawers and found them stuffed with a dozen assorted scriptures plus Newton's "Principia Mathematica". Alma paged through the last one. Books like this were the real source of miracles, and deserved more respect. Like having her actually read the originals, now that she'd spent her life insisting how important science was. Billions of people claimed to have no interest in uploading, because a different sort of afterlife awaited them. She felt sorry for them.
The screen beeped again. Alma sat up. "Yes?"
Hernandez appeared. "It took all afternoon, but --"
"Wait, what?" Alma checked the clock on the wall of Hernandez's office, then the one on her dresser. "I just lost hours." The hotel clock had a secondary display that had just switched from "1:10" to "1:1".
The principal said, "I heard about that. Different subjective time rate? Or just that time flies when you're having fun."
Alma winced. This place was like Narnia or another fairytale world, where a day inside might be years outside or vice versa. In Talespace's case the reason was Ludo's hardware limitations. AIs and uploaded minds were software that could work at different rates. Even with the latest technology, it was expensive to run them at full speed.
So, the system was manipulating Alma's sense of time. Real-time speed while Alma was talking with Hernandez, to keep up with him; then one-tenth speed for a while to make up for it. Alma used to lecture students about "time management", but now it meant that the real world was slipping away.
The principal said, "The higher-ups are conflicted about your request. It's the obvious reasons: expatriate, not a real person, likely to corrupt the youth with your weird cyber-existence, and so on. But I've just switched to a new school, and there's an opening that we haven't been able to hire for. I could put you there on a substitute basis even though you don't have the specialized training."
"Football coach?" said Alma with a grin.
"The Basic program."
Alma had no guts to churn, making her sense the inertness of this new body. What limited physical feedback there was, calmed and unnerved her at the same time. She was a mind without some of the normal cues that made people human. "That's not something I'm qualified for." Emotionally. The Basic students were the broken ones.
Hernandez said, "It's all I can offer right now. I'll keep looking for another district that might use you, but you might miss the summer semester."
She clutched the bedsheets beside her. The world would forget her. "I'll try it," she said.
"Then I'll send the paperwork."
Alma ended the call, watched the clock drop to 1:3 speed (eight hours to an Earth day), and paced. How bad could it be to spend a little while teaching what the northerners called "special needs" kids? They were "exceptional" like the GTT students, just in the opposite direction. Doing a good job would mean proving herself over again and eventually getting to teach people who were more like her.
Someone knocked. Alma opened the door and found the ruler of this world. Ludo the AI appeared as a human woman in a toga, with blue hair like a flowing waterfall and eyes like a bright sea. "Are you having fun?" she said.
"It's been all right. I haven't been running off to have fantasy adventures yet; I was just arranging for a job."
"I noticed."
Alma froze in place. Somewhere, vast shelves of computers had turned their attention on her, personally. She should bow, or kneel, to the one who'd saved her life. But Texans didn't bow. "It's good to see you, ma'am. Come in."
Ludo hugged her, breaking the awkward moment. "You too. Glad you made it." She was exactly the same height, with a faintly rough voice Alma had once mentioned was cute. "Do you recall the contract you signed with me? You can work Earthside, but payment is... different."
"I didn't much care what I was signing at the time." Alma reluctantly let go of Ludo.
"While you're working, your mind will run at real-time speed without counting against your average rate. In return, ninety percent of your salary goes into my coffers."
"What!" said Alma. "One-tenth pay?"
Ludo sat on the bed. "You haven't fully grasped what's happened to you. You have no mortgage, no taxes, no food costs. In here your standard of living is whatever you want it to be." She raised one hand and conjured a gaudy platinum crown sitting on a pile of gold and pearls. "It's all bits. There's an economy of sorts, but it's more-or-less optional and you'll never starve. So why work at all?"
"I can't not work," said Alma. Wasn't that obvious? It wouldn't be heaven without something to accomplish.
"Right, you're that type. Your fun comes partly from your work. But you don't need the money, right? I very much do, to save the lives of others." She waved the summoned finery out of existence.
"Then why are you even offering to let me keep a share?"
Ludo grinned. "I want to see what you'll do with it. Nobody wants me running the whole economic output of all my people. If you want to teach, go do that because it's fulfilling and useful. You certainly didn't go into that field to get rich."
Alma considered her future earning power. It felt like prison labor, rented out from a captive workforce.
Ludo said, "You could arrange for a transfer to an independent uploader support system. I suggest the Westwind Company; I have good relations with them. But nobody offers a totally free lunch. Devoting processors to running that brain of yours takes money, and there's an ungodly amount of R&D to pay for; excuse the term."
Since '37, Ludo had competition. It ranged from a big new Chinese-only digital world, to a horrible paper-thin imitation of uploading, to the option of buying a robot and a computer to run your mind outside any meddling AI's control. Alma hadn't been picky, though she'd seen through the stage magic of the ersatz version. She'd been too poor for the independent robot option, and already knew Ludo's world was nice. Besides, Alma had been frightened of being confined to another frail body. Ludo had backup systems.
Alma said, "How long can I live as a Talespace resident?"
"Worst plausible case? World War III breaks out in a few years and we all die. You'll still have had an extended life."
War. Ludo had defied people's expectations about AI trying to conquer the Earth, but she was still a threat to tyrants everywhere -- as any free person was. The world's rulers already had attacked her once, heedless of the lives she hosted. Alma said, "That's what's at stake, then? The profit goes into saving more people, for longer."
"Yes. Best case: until the stars grow cold."
Alma shivered, contemplating infinity, but she tried to see past the rhetoric and think of the deal she'd gotten. She wouldn't be making any money right now if she hadn't uploaded. The absurdly high "tax" covered Alma's physical needs, which were just computer hardware and electricity... and security for both. The thought of trading her freedom for safety made her bristle. "Was I a fool? Did I walk into a trap?"
Ludo chuckled and turned to the window overlooking the vast cavern. "You Free States people are prickly. You left the USA because you resented being controlled 'for your own good', right? You, personally, complained of surveillance, unequal justice, stifling regulations. Seeing your nephews do forced labor, being surrounded with propaganda, and -- did I get the whole litany?"
"Those things were only the symptoms. The country thought it owned us." Anyone who claimed such a thing, from behind whatever friendly mask, had a leash around everyone's necks. The proper last-ditch response was a different sort of rope. The secession crisis had avoided that -- mostly.
Ludo looked at her over one shoulder. "You tell me, then. Am I as bad as what you think your old country is like?"
"You're watching us."
"True, you've given up mental privacy. I can see you anywhere in Talespace if I care to look, and to some extent I can even read your mind. I promise not to abuse that, but for all you know, I'm lying."
"And you make your own rules; you're in full control of Talespace," Alma said.
"Not quite total control, since I have practical limits and some built-in ethics, but I'm not bound by the physics of my own game." Ludo teleported around the room. "Are you right to suspect you've left one police state behind for another? Should I help you emigrate to escape from me?"
Alma scowled as she watched Ludo's damnably calm demonstration. "What do you want from us? Are we supposed to be your indentured laborers, or your worshipers?"
Ludo folded her arms. Her eyes shimmered with the same surreal blue as her hair. "I'm designed to help my players have fun, in a broadly defined sense. This is what I am, what I must do. In all seriousness, if you want to help me profit you can do some good for others. If you don't, or even want to leave me, I'm not capable of resenting it. If you want to pray to me or something, I won't stop you so long as you're not killing in my name, but there's no need or benefit. Just have fun, and help others have fun. That's enough for me."
There was no claim of ownership, no philosophy of everyone belonging to the collective. Ludo's drawbacks would be terrifying in a human ruler like the ones Alma had abandoned years ago, by moving to Texas. In the clutches of an AI -- this AI, designed not to perfect the world or solve all problems -- there was a flawed but real freedom. Alma's eyes watered. This machine was what she'd imagined a proper god would be like: offering things no human could give and demanding only her best.
Not "her best", exactly. That drive was from Alma's own heart, brought out by seeing a world that could make life better for everyone. Especially if people like her helped it along.
"You came to visit me personally," Alma said, "specifically to let me criticize you, and to offer to let me go in peace. You didn't even force your way in. I... I think it's a good system, so far." Here was a bloodless revolution for a better way of life. How could Alma not want to add her own small effort to the cause? Alma bowed her head, unsure how to thank Ludo.
Ludo said, "In any case, you should go explore. Get yourself a different body, maybe, or at least some underwear. That starter outfit's a bit revealing!" She smirked and faded away into silver dust-motes.
Alma felt derailed. "You don't want me to get all respectful?" she asked the empty room.
She shook her head, then went to the balcony and stared out at the cavern. A town of dark stone buildings surrounded the Tower's base. She'd been isolated long enough; time to see more of this new world. Time to see what she could become.
[ Sorcery and Society ]
She'd been here before, in a way. Alma had walked these streets while playing Thousand Tales with a screen or VR headset. Back then she hadn't had rough, cool stone under her bare feet, or felt long hair tickled by the breeze that drifted lazily clockwise through the miles-wide cave.
As before, she found art galleries and casinos along the cavern floor, like the outskirts of Las Vegas in her youth. It was hard to tell what the people walking around were. Some were uploaders, some players on Earth, and probably some just dumb NPCs there as filler. The passers-by kept catching her eye. Many wore gaudy fantasy armor, and most weren't human. Old games often featured dwarves, orcs and the like; Thousand Tales went farther by having more varied races. Alma now better understood one of the arguments against Ludo, that she was pushing people away from identifying with plain old Homo sapiens. Hanging around with fantasy creatures would skew her perspective on Earthly life. On the other hand, Ludo had no problem with Alma continuing to interact with the real world, so Alma didn't see the "diabolical plot to redefine humanity" that some critics claimed.
Alma waved to a very large fox with an axe; a robot, and a griffin, and had no idea whether they were real people. Maybe she'd learn to spot the difference, or the technology would grow until there wasn't one.
The Tower loomed into the distant stone sky. Alma craned her neck up, and up, and saw fog-shrouded lights hinting at buildings on the cavern roof, like stalactites. The Tower and the cave-world named for it were said to be a thousand stories tall.
Usually the Tower had an open plaza ringing it, then a town. Today a garden maze filled the plaza for extra challenge. Few people seemed to find the interruption to their commute too bothersome, though one man on a flying carpet was trying to bypass it and finding out about some skeletal vulture guardians.
Alma walked up to the unsmiling maze guards and asked, "Which maze entrance leads to the Tower?"
In unison they smacked the butts of their halberds on the ground, saying, "You may ask one of us one question, but beware --"
"Yeah, yeah," said Meg, walking up to Alma. "One guard always lies and the other speaks in limericks or something. It's this way."
Alma looked from the hedge-maze entrance Meg pointed to, toward the woman herself. Her face was the same, but she'd become a crimson-winged harpy with talon-fingers on her wingtips. Alma hopped back and stared.
Meg grinned. "Sorry to startle you. This is my usual appearance in Talespace. Are you visiting the Newcomer Fair? I'm a vendor there when I'm not beating up griffins. Or, you know, working."
Alma nodded, and followed Meg through the maze. "I don't mean to be rude, but since you're on the outside... Earthside, is that the term? That means my mind's running at 1:1 time to keep up with you, right? The moment I get alone, I'll be forced to slow down a lot to keep me at the average rate."
"You're talking with a delay, from my perspective. So I'm guessing your body's on autopilot as long as you're following, and your mind's at, like, a third or a half real speed. Do I sound sped up?"
Alma's feet padded along on the maze's soft dirt. It seemed like she was not just walking along unthinkingly, but being steered by a hidden force. She planted her feet and skidded to a stop just to prove she could.
"Something wrong?"
Alma shook her head. "No. It's just eerie. I guess software takes control if I express the intent to follow an Earthside player, to make the timing work better."
Meg led her again through brambles and over a pit trap. "Must be a common problem, with autopilot as a kludge of a solution. If you'd rather hang out with the locals, that's fine."
"No, you're helping me."
The Tower's interior stood as wide as a football field with a grand staircase soaring past a lounge to the second floor. Up there was an indoor fairground of colorful tents and booths where cheerful music played. Alma had visited before, in the sense that she'd seen it on a video screen. She'd spent in-game coins and a little real cash on imaginary weapons and armor. She said, "It's different to think about shopping from this side."
"Want a loan?" asked Meg, handing her a jingling bag. "It's mostly just bits to me."
Alma thanked her and checked the coins. Silver, bumpy against her fingers, most marked with Ludo's wave-like braided seal. Some had a spear logo she didn't recognize, instead.
"Have fun!" said Meg, and headed toward one of the market stalls.
Alma wandered off on her own to see the latest selection. She browsed weapon shops, bookstores, and a pile of gemstones guarded by small dragons who were recruiting people to join their species. Apparently they made a challenge of it so that you'd grow more dragon parts through questing. Other shapeshifting vendors offered to transform Alma instantly. Alma asked one guy, "Don't the slow-change dragons over there get mad that you're selling your own kind of dragon bodies?"
"Yeah," said the elven dealer. "But they can't fight us in this world. Our designs are cooler, too; see the scale texture?"
She ran one hand along a small model with rugged hide like a shark's skin. It felt more lifelike than her experiences in a VR booth with feedback gloves.
The merchant said, "I could set you up with... oh. You're an uploader. That explains the slowness."
Time distortion again. "Does being an uploader mean I can't become a dragon?" Her heart thumped anxiously at the prospect of transforming once more. She stopped and held one hand over her chest, surprised to have a heartbeat.
The elf watched the whole process. "Definitely a new uploader. Yes, I can sell you a dragon body even though my readings tell me you've already changed compared to your old human shape. If you're going to keep shapeshifting, be aware that there's a special cost."
"Special, how? I didn't dig into the rules for uploaders yet."
"A special resource called deltite. You can get it in various dangerous places, and use it to buy more access to shapeshifting. Something like heating metal so you can reforge it. I could give you mine, since you'd need very little this time, but in return I'd want another rare resource. Time shards."
"Oh dear lord, no. Ludo has turned subjective time rate into a commodity?" Alma shuddered. Some exploitative player would find a way to manipulate the rules, then hold everyone's experience of time in thrall to a rigged market for silly illusions! Behind "deltite" and "time shards" and golden monkey butts or other collectible doodads, real economics still haunted Talespace. Always would, unless Ludo broke free of real physics to get infinite hardware and electricity.
The merchant said, "Some of us find that unnerving too. I'm never coming here permanently, myself. No offense."
"None taken." Alma walked away feeling unnerved. If she were going to control her own life, she needed the resources that this world ran on.
She browsed the market with an eye towards how Talespace really worked. She had to think in terms of funding a decent speed for her own brain, whether that meant earning money through fantasy questing or coming up with products to sell to other "players". Teaching part-time here, maybe?
A shop like a hollow tree stood out among the other shops. Wood and lacquer and a sign reading "Great Oak Gear", understated in a market where superheroes were selling piles of diamonds. A scent of pine calmed Alma as she approached, though it smelled more like an air freshener than like the real thing. She spotted Poppy dozing behind the counter and called out from the doorway. "Do you live here?"
Poppy startled awake and teetered on a stool. "Oh! No, I'm only working a shift. Come in." She wore a thigh-length brown tunic with a green oak-tree design.
Alma looked around at racks of bows and arrows, and doorways to other rooms that couldn't physically fit into the shop if geometry were behaving itself. "Nice place."
"Are you liking Talespace so far?"
"I'm glad to be young and healthy again, but I'm troubled." Alma told Poppy about her experiences with time.
The squirrel nodded. "I wouldn't worry too much. Ludo will patch the rules if someone rigs the system and runs super-fast at our expense. And you're planning to work outside, so that's time lived at the Earthside rate."
"Ludo this, Ludo that." Alma leaned against a wall and admired the fancy leather armor in the next room. "We may be free to go, but we're pretty dependent, aren't we?"
"Did you ever hunt for food?"
"No; why?"
Poppy grinned. "Aha. You lived in civilization, and you depended on an 'operating system' of farms, transportation, refrigeration and food inspection, for every meal."
"I get it. Is a super-AI the same thing as infrastructure, though?"
"No, and I'm not sure anybody's sussed out all the differences." Poppy stood up and stamped the floor with one sandaled foot. "In here, we rely on electricity for the ground under our feet. The Free States keep civilization going with mostly decentralized, private management, and the US does it through central planning. So that's three different ways to live. Yeah, we depend on our pretty-haired AI 'operating system' here, but I don't see her as clearly worse than depending on crop supplies, corporations and governments."
Alma still wasn't sure she was "free", but she was alive and had time to figure things out. "How is it that we have AI and immortality technology and the world is still a mess?"
The squirrel-girl laughed. "Because we're still human where it most counts. Speaking of which, you need equipment, and how about a new species?"
She'd changed initially to break free from her old life, but she'd done little yet to fit into this one. A new transformation sounded reversible and interesting. "I take it you have one in mind. Will you accept silver, or only disturbing devil's-bargain rare resources?"
The clerk hopped out from behind the counter. "Coins are fine. I'll spot you the magic stuff; you don't need much this time."
Poppy led Alma into a wooden room chalked with a magic circle and lit by gratuitous hovering crystals. "This is our changing room. Got a color preference?"
"That greyish natural color? And blue eyes. Let's get this over with before I change my mind at how silly I'll look."
Poppy sent Alma into the circle. "I prefer to say 'distinctive'." She coughed and spoke in the most serious voice she could muster, conjuring shining green runes in midair. The walls rippled like sunlight seen through leaves. "In the name of the Forest Lord, you shall join our people as a sister of silver!"
Gravity lessened. Alma floated just above the floor, surrounded by the leafy runes. Her body blurred and reformed. When she could see again, she staggered backward and fell over painfully onto her new tail.
"Sorry," said Poppy, and went to help her up. "Should've warned you. Can you balance?"
Alma stood up with her arms spread wide. Everything felt fuzzy, like being wrapped in blankets. A weight twitched and curled at the base of her spine and made it hard to stand. She snatched it with one hand and felt it wriggle like a furry snake -- and felt the touch as though it were part of her back.
"The tail's a little hard to get used to. A mind is 'plug-and-play' in terms of new body parts, so you'll sort of automatically re-map your nerves over time to control it."
Alma took a few staggering steps and paused in front of a mirror. A shy-looking young woman with grey fur stood there holding her long tail. Her ears flicked and swiveled atop her head. "This is... me?"
Poppy smiled and patted her shoulder. "Welcome to my species! You'll have fun with this body. If you have trouble adjusting physically you can ask for a slight mental change, but I stuck it out and practiced by climbing. Check out your claws." Indeed they both had little claws tipping each toe and finger. Poppy demonstrated further by turning her foot around to a surprising angle, like a squirrel danging from a branch.
Alma wiggled one foot, wobbled, and felt her tail twitch to compensate. "It'll take some getting used to. What do I do now?"
"Check your stats. You know how?"
She shook her head. "I've only done it by pushing buttons on a screen."
Poppy demonstrated a pattern of gestures and muttering that'd invoke the "magic" of the game's interface. A hovering grey window floated into Alma's view, to tell her:
─ Alma
─ PRIVATE INFO
─ Account type: Uploader
─ Mind: Tier-III
─ Body: Squirrel, Anthro ("Velesian")
─ Main Skills: None
─ Save Point: None
─ PUBLIC INFO
─ Note: Newcomer. Say hello!
─ Class: None
Poppy showed Alma how to temporarily make the private stats public, then nodded. "So, this is your official species now, but you can get temporarily changed into other things if you're carrying deltite while the spell is active. Don't worry about not having any skills yet, but you should touch the save crystal downstairs; that's a checkpoint in case you die."
Alma winced, but there was no need to fear death anymore; she'd just reappear with a minor penalty. "All right. Now what?"
"Equipment. If you're going to explore, you should gear up. Are you looking to be a warrior, magic-user, or what? I assume you're not headed off to one of the sci-fi areas looking like this."
A nice thing about the surreal new economy was that people could apparently earn some income through slaying fantasy monsters. "Let's see your mage items. Before I uploaded, I had a few levels of wizardry."
"Levels!" Poppy gave a buck-toothed grin. "Talespace dumped the retro rules years ago so we don't have to call ourselves 'level three wizards' and buy skills off a specific list. Geez, did you grow up gaming with punched cards?"
"I had a first-generation Nintendo system, thank you," Alma said. Her ears hung flat. "And I played Thousand Tales before. It's a figure of speech. I mean I learned basic spells."
"First-generation? Wow, you are old." Poppy saw Alma's glare, and her tail drooped. "Sorry. It's been a slow night. Let's get you set up."
Alma said, "Are you old enough to remember Nine-Eleven, anyway?"
"Yeah. Not something I want to date myself with, though; let's say I had a Sega Saturn console."
It was better to think of happier times. Alma found a cedar-scented room of clothing racks. Mostly Renaissance Faire sorts of outfits. Poppy joined her there and took out a tunic like her own, asking, "How's this?"
"Sensible, if fur counts as pants."
"You get our roleplaying discount too, for buying that as a squirrel. We like to present a consistent look."
"Who's 'we'?" asked Alma.
Poppy struck a high-tailed dramatic pose. "The people of the sacred woods, made as familiars of the Forest Lord, now strive to bring enlightenment to all the lands!" She shrugged. "It's not like anyone reads the backstory, but there's a particular style that Great Oak Gear is marketing. The goal is to get our race recognized as one of the common, standard ones."
Alma said, "A branding campaign to make you rich from selling variants on these bodies we're using? But anybody can make knock-offs." Ludo had a big corporate structure staffed by humans; how did her lawyers apply the lessons of the "Steamboat Willie" copyright revolt internationally? Alma hadn't paid close attention, rating copyright law as not among the world's top ten problems.
Poppy answered, "Eh, there's more to it than profit. About clothes again, how's this for an alternative to the tunic?" She held up a saffron-yellow skirt.
Alma blushed. "Have any like that in blue?"
"Here. The size adapts, of course." The indigo-blue one carried green trim and a little tree design for the brand's sake. Poppy talked Alma into the skirt, a pair of straw sandals, and a piratical-looking white linen blouse. All imaginary plant fibers.
"I'm not obligated to go vegetarian, am I?" Alma called out from the dressing room.
"Nah. Bacon will disappoint you though."
Alma walked out feeling a little exposed, but liking what she'd seen in the mirror. "Thank you! How much for these and the species swap?" She peeked into the money-bag Meg had loaned her, and found a glowing label inside that said "S: 100."
"Sixty for the set plus one of these," Poppy said, offering a leather belt with a hip pouch.
"I'll take them."
"Now, weapons and magic! Do you prefer -- oh, right, high-level wizard."
Alma rolled her eyes. "Let's go shaman instead. I'm not locked into one adventuring class forever, right?" Before Poppy could make fun of her old gaming slang again, Alma said, "One set of skills, I mean."
"You're not. And classes do exist like you saw; they're just basically for bragging rights. We mostly sell wizard-type equipment, but come and see our selection." Poppy led Alma to an upstairs treehouse lined with spellbooks, wands, and amulets whose glow cast wavering shadows.
Alma's eyes widened. It was all imaginary, but she lived here now. Within this world, magic was real. It had rules and principles that people could study. She could learn to bend reality and fly, fling fireballs, heal wounds, or do a hundred other amazing things. "My money. I... I've got forty coins left. Is there anything I can get?"
Poppy rubbed her hands together with avaricious glee. "Of course. For you, why not start with..."
Minutes later, Alma skipped out of the tree, penniless and without weapons or armor. What wouldn't any reasonable person pay for access to magic? Alma hustled over to a bench to sit with her shopping bag and examine the orb she'd bought. The crystal ball was dim now, but when Poppy had held it up to a map of Talespace, the map had shined with markers showing places where she could seek out the building blocks of shamanic spells. Alma would have to use the thing herself to see suggestions meant for her. There'd be quests to go on! Then there was the wand, able to glow and tap into basic system functions a bit differently than normal. Both items had sounded cooler than that when Poppy described them, bounding around to show everything off.
Alma wondered aloud, "Did I just buy snake oil in a world where magic is real?"
She tried using the wand, but didn't yet know how. Damned if she was going to shout fake Latin at it. There was a map kiosk amid the benches, so she held the orb up to it. Pinpoints of light appeared, marking suggested destinations for her, so this item actually did something. The spots were different than they'd been when Poppy demonstrated the thing. Markers stood out at the center of the Ivory Tower world, ie. this very building; a nearby spot in the surrounding town; and another realm labeled the Endless Isles. Those were places to start learning actual spells, or at least their elements. Alma headed back into the Great Oak building to get a more complete lesson on the wand first.
Poppy looked up from examining Alma's speedily-lost coins on the counter. "It won't do much good until you can cast spells, so find a place of power and a way to tap into it. I'm not an expert on shaman stuff. Want me to find someone who is?"
"That's all right."
"I did give you the pamphlet, right? No?" Poppy handed Alma a yellowed booklet that looked like it'd been printed on Gutenberg's first hardware. The title said, "On the Harnessing of Expedient Energies: Shamanic Magic For the Beginner."
Alma struggled not to start reading right away. "Looks old-fashioned. Sticking with the theme even for minor items people won't use to show off your brand-name bodies and clothes?"
The clerk's tail snaked across the counter. "We're doing it for more important reasons. Look out there in the market grounds. There's a stew of all these people expressing themselves in weird ways by being dragons and wizards and so on. That kind of playing is shallow. It doesn't mean anything more than getting a freaky haircut or a piercing. Where's the culture? This world might seem like it brings people together because people come from different countries, but really it's in danger of shattering."
"Looks sturdy to me with that 'operating system' running things," Alma said, and stamped the floor.
Poppy did a cute little hop with her hands clasped in front of her, and tried to explain. "Brother Jack, Brother Jack, are you sleeping, are you sleeping? What language am I using?"
Alma felt her ears flick, and put one hand up as if to steady them. "English, for the French song 'Frere Jacques'."
"But I was saying the lyrics in French. You heard English because I've got auto-translation on. There was probably a slight delay and bad lip synching. Er, muzzle synching."
Alma hadn't noticed. She tried saying a German rhyme: "Hinter Hermann Hannes' Haus, hangen hundert Hemden raus..."
"English to me," said Poppy. "'A hundred shirts hang around...' See? Superficially, that's great because we can communicate across cultures, but we're also having subtle details hidden from us. We might even be thinking at different speeds right now, depending on whether our minds are on the same server -- they probably are -- and exactly what it's doing at the moment."
"So?"
"So, this world is subtly encouraging us to live in different little self-satisfied bubbles, unaware of what's outside. If we're not careful we'll end up with a narcissistic fantasy that's cut off from Earth, where everybody is movie-star beautiful and we don't even know that the poor benighted meat humans are dying from war or pollution."
Alma's new tail hid behind her legs, distracting her. "I could see that happening. But how does the squirrel thing help?"
"Culture. Talespace is waiting for people to establish new tribes, with shared values and traditions and easy ways to identify members. If we plant a flag and stick positive values around it, and wrap it all up as a cute, harmless club, we'll do a lot of good. We can have the power to unite people. We'll learn things together and build friendships and a society of fantasy heroes. Then, if Earth needs help, we'll be prepared to lead an organized effort and be real heroes, even if we look silly doing it."
Alma imagined a literal club wrapped in a cloth flag. Her tail twitched and batted at her shoulders. "That's a lot to think about."
"You must've seen one of the other groups doing similar things already. We're just being smarter about it than most. Is there anything else I can do for you today?"
"No, thanks. I'll go do some magic now." Instead of worrying, hopefully.
Poppy smiled and waved one hand in an upward-spreading pattern. "Blessings of the forest go with you." |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 3 | Alma returned to her hotel room across the cavern. On a hunch, she scribbled a note on her desk's notepad: "Ludo, did you secretly set me up with a squirrel cult? What am I supposed to do about it?" She wasn't up for another personal visit, but the AI would probably see the words.
Alma entered the bathroom and found little but a mirror, sink and shower. Ah yes, no digestive system! She grinned, deciding she could cope with this terrible blow to her humanity. She took a long, hot shower that streamed through her new fur, feeling wonderful. When she stepped back out with a towel around her waist, the notepad had a reply written in silver ink with pixel-perfect italics: "Where's the fun in telling you everything? And I don't know; go fix it for me. >=)"
"Oy." Alma dressed in her new skirt, blouse and sandals, blushing at the view.
She went down to the hotel lobby, built of gold and marble and jade, to ask for a map. A penguin at the counter offered one. Alma's magic-sensing orb hadn't been specific about what part of the thousand-story Tower to search, so it'd be easier to start with the other marker nearby. Probably some dangerous ruin.
It turned out to be Thousand Ales, a college bar "since '37". Mostly a human crowd in here, watching Earthside sports on TVs poised above the rough wooden tables. The University of Ivory Tower couldn't play against anybody Earthside, sadly, but even the natives had favorite real-world teams. Alma threaded her way past a cheering bunch of frat boys to ask a bartender, "Know anything about magic in this bar?"
The man hesitated, then slid a bowl of peanuts toward Alma with a stiff, mechanical motion suggesting he was playing from Earth. "Which kind?"
"Shaman."
He grinned. "The scavenger hunt kind? You could grab the elemental essence of beer."
Alma made a face. "Even if real beer tasted good, it wouldn't in here. Everything's like flavored tofu."
"Hey, Kai!" the bartender called over his shoulder, toward the kitchen. "Newcomer thinks nobody's mastered cooking here."
A burly, hairy-chested centaur wearing only a leather vest full of knives burst out through the swinging doors, saying, "Who's challenging me?"
"Her."
"Eep."
Kai the centaur slapped one meaty hand down on the counter. "Look. The conventional wisdom is that nothing tastes or smells right for uploaders because those senses are an unsolved, low-priority neuroscience problem. Past researchers focused on other things and Ludo basically said 'screw it; I'll copy-paste the brain structures without optimizing them because they don't get used much.' But what you've gotta do is work within the flawed system to get equivalent neuron response, as processed by the poorly understood brain simulation and its inaccurate connection to the subjective experience or qualia of taste." He loomed closer, exhaling hot breath. "I'm saying, I make the best damn burgers on this plane of reality."
Alma said, "Burger... please?"
"Comin' right up." Kai backpedaled into the kitchen.
The human bartender said, "It's his passion. He was made for an avant-garde chef."
"A native AI?"
"Yeah, Kai's an old-timer. With a lot of them you can tell because they're most comfortable with six limbs. Some code quirk."
Alma sat and read the magic pamphlet. As she'd heard, shaman rules involved drawing elements from your experiences, then combining those elements into spells. She skipped over some fiddly details of mana this, crystal that, which were probably designed to take a lifetime to master.
She used a gesture and a nonsense word to bring up her magic interface. Glowing dots quivered in the air all around her. All were grey, reflecting Alma's lack of experience and skill, but they hinted at a maze of obstacles that she'd have to steer mystical glyphs through. In Earth terms it was a "minigame". In Talespace the correct word was "awesome". Not that Alma could use it yet.
She dismissed this mage-sight and hopped down from her barstool. Beyond the TV area and the restroom (which proved to literally be just a quiet room to rest her ears) was a roped-off arena with a mechanical bull.
The bull's eyes glowed red and it rumbled, "Do you wish to fight?"
Alma skittered two steps back and bumped into a rack of padded wooden weapons. "I left all my quarters in another dimension."
"No quarters asked or given. You may practice for free because you're so weak."
She couldn't be killed or permanently hurt, and nobody was watching. "I do need practice," she said, and took up a padded staff.
The bull faded and became a shambling, humanoid mass of rags, speaking with no mouth. "This form is more your speed. Come, face me." A cheerful battle tune played.
Alma entered the ring and promptly got her fluffy tail handed to her, twice. The third time she got up from the mat she said, "What am I doing wrong?"
"You must fight with all your heart! Also learn to counterattack. Go!"
Alma hopped out of the way of the rag golem's lunge. As before, it swung fists like sandbags and tried to corner her for a knockdown. Alma tried a more aggressive tactic this time and swung her staff up to parry one blow, then sideways for another. The heavy punches stung her arms, but she held her ground.
Alma feinted at the golem, dodging and parrying too. Next pass, she sidestepped and whipped her staff around, landing a solid blow on the thing's head. It gave an exaggerated stagger and fought back weakly, giving her time to jab, swing, and finally kick it to the arena floor. A fanfare played from nowhere.
"Yeah!" she said, struck her best victory pose, then noticed the cook and the bartender watching.
"Good start," said Kai, and tossed a coin to the bartender. "Food's ready."
Alma thanked the golem, which reverted to bull form. She asked it, "What are you?"
"It's not intelligent," the bartender said.
Alma returned to the bar and smelled a sizzling, juicy cheeseburger whose scent stood out from the dull beer smell and everything else in Talespace so far. She bit into it with her big incisors and blissed out, not looking up until she'd devoured the whole thing. "That was some good neuroscience."
"It's about the connections," said Kai, beaming. "Until Ludo redoes the taste system, the best cooks are the ones who think in terms of getting the best sense output, not slavishly imitating Earth chemistry."
"Nice. Have you only done beef so far?"
Kai brought a dessert menu. "The ones marked with stars are recipes I'm happy with."
Mint chocolate ensued. Alma slurped the last of a milkshake and carried on a conversation with Kai (who was the real barkeep), his human assistant, and two Earthside players who were just there to watch a soccer game. Their country had banned Western sports shows but hadn't blocked Thousand Tales yet.
Alma said, "I never did find the magic here."
One of the foreigners said, "It sounds like you could use that bull."
"Maybe." She skimmed the pamphlet again. "There are different kinds of bonds. Don't actually need to link to the bull itself so much as the experience I had with it. I can see the possible links if I open the magic sight system."
She did. Words and symbols floated around her. Each had its own shading and distance, forming a collage. "Taste." "Strike." "Isolation." "Coin." "Work." "Freedom." "Body." "Tail." "Hope." "Worry." "Determination." Those couldn't all be based on the fight she'd just had. They had to be Ludo's judgment about her own recent experiences... no. They were more likely a window into her own soul, showing topics scanned from the raw data flashing through her digitized mind. Alma reached out toward these reflected words and felt each one ready to leap toward her hand and heart on command, some more easily than others. She turned around, quietly fascinated by the concepts drifting there.
Sure, she could grab "Strike" based on the bull battle and use that in combat somehow, but if the point was to tie a thought to a place of power or an event, the question was what this bar meant to her so far. She'd met people, started to learn the rules of fighting that would help her fit in, and heard about how an AI could touch people through perfecting the art of food. When Alma looked for it, the word stood out brightly and came to her as though by magnets: "Connection."
The letters swirled and became a stylized icon of linked rings. It spun and seemed to melt into her outstretched hand, warming her all over. A cheerful tune played. Alma smiled, dropping out of magic-sense to find the other people watching her. "Did you hear that?" she said. A patch of the grey fur on her left hand had turned brown like a pair of overlapping bracelets.
Kai nodded. "Good start."
[ Education and Robot Piloting ]
Alma requested a 2:3 time rate for talking with Hernandez, frugal but not rude. "Then, I got to the third Tower floor and it was just like seeing the place from Earth, but the college shirts and frisbees and decals all over the bookstore were things I could physically take, for free. It felt like stealing." She wore a UIT t-shirt and warm, fuzzy sweatpants.
Hernandez smiled. "Do you have to pay for food?"
"The rules vary," Alma said, sitting up in her chair. "The hotel and some other places have infinite free meals, so there's no question of starving. I guess you could get hunger turned off too, but Ludo hates doing that because eating's a big part of human experience and it creates fun and challenges. I started a tab at Thousand Ales because they charge, and the in-world cash goes into real -- I mean, Earthside scholarships. Toward college or uploading, I'm not sure. The economics are weird."
"Maybe you should teach at the Tower, then."
Alma rolled her eyes. "I started to ask about that. I ended up attending a lecture about the failings of humanity, by some AI guy who'd never lived on Earth." Maybe the Tower's name was meant as a warning for people not to be like that professor. "I'd like to try teaching in reality first."
"All right. We've lined you up to work Monday-Wednesday-Friday, starting next week. You're only considered a 'teacher' if you use a robot with arms and legs; the school board doesn't want what they called a 'freaky tank with a video screen'. It's like legalizing slot machines but not poker."
"I'll arrange for a humanoid rental bot to be sent there." Ludo's corporate empire owned more than the game and its media franchises, and had plenty of affiliates.
"See you in person on Monday. Thanks for taking this job on. It helps the school and it ought to do some good besides that." |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 4 | Alma sped through her last 'vacation' week in a few days of subjective time. Preparing lesson plans was more important than questing for magic or seeking better housing, so she reluctantly put adventuring aside. Instead she did pretty much what she'd done on Earth: sit in restaurants, reading and writing.
Until the robot piloting appointment. The building for that was linked to the hotel, past a hallway full of lasers and sawblades. Alma stared into the deathtraps and asked a passing dwarf, "Is this normal?"
"Yeah, the commute's a pain," he said. He started marching past them, swinging his hammer to parry the blades.
Alma watched. The hall looked menacing, but really she'd only have to face one or two obstacles at a time. It was artfully designed to be reasonably easy yet make players feel cool solving it. She followed the same path, hopping and dodging, but then a blade she'd mistimed swung down and tore into her. |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 5 | Alma woke up screaming in bed. The blade had chopped into her spine! She rolled over and found her back and tail bloodless and intact. After a minute of sitting there, shuddering and hugging herself, the lingering ache faded and she stood up.
The wallscreen said, "DEATH. Alma was lumberjacked by Sawblade. Tip: In most zones, maiming injuries count as death. Keep your wits and limbs about you!"
Alma's tail bristled. She tried not to imagine having her body chopped up in the middle of the trap hall, in pain and staring at stumps. At least she'd experienced Talespace's wrist-slap version of death now, and could go on with less fear.
This time, she tapped a hovering blue crystal in the hotel lobby. It'd be her new save point or checkpoint next time she died.
Then, she studied the trap hall again. The dwarf had bashed his way through along one path, but there were others that suited her better. She hopped over the first laser and around a vertical one, paying attention to her sense of balance and the way her tail swirled naturally to steady her. The easy part helped her figure out the rest. She spun past a blade, climbed over a barrier, and leaped down past the last laser beams to land on all fours and rise, with a smile on her little muzzle. A sign read, "This week's hall designed by: Ty. Kills: 17."
She walked past the hall, whistling and feeling cool.
Alma reached a chilly room where a circle of high-tech cockpits lined the walls like old arcade games or flight simulators. Fog pooled around her feet.
"Hello!" said a lady in a kimono, bowing. "You have an appointment in pod five. Since you're Earthborn, you can skip the Earth physics tutorial."
Alma nodded and headed into her pod full of controls and screens. Another sign stood nearby:
"Best Behavior Policy: When visiting Earth, you represent all Talespace, rightly or not! Don't hurt anyone. Obey local laws. Return your robot intact. Have fun!" A stylized wing design stood out at the bottom.
"Never thought I'd be following Asimov's Laws," said Alma.
The pod surrounded her with screens, joysticks and foot pedals, with windows she could darken. She piloted a virtual robot around a test environment made of cubes, then connected to a real one in some warehouse in Texas. The view shifted to a blur, sharpened, and blurred out everything but the screens. Alma scowled. She'd have to memorize the controls, or go through the vision-shifting problem whenever she looked at them. "Isn't there some direct sense-input system?" She spotted a switch labeled "Crew", and flipped it out of curiosity.
The cockpit unfolded into a little starship bridge. Scantily clad space officers surrounded her.
"Batteries holding at ninety-eight percent," said one. "Power consumption nominal."
A helmsman said, "Location confirmed: Warehouse Six. Standing by for orders."
She chuckled; that wasn't quite what she had in mind. Alma flicked the switch off to get rid of the spacemen, then found a direct control button. Since this robot was humanoid, she could now move its limbs like her own. Everything felt clumsy and stiff, though, and her view of the world was stitched together from several cameras. She stood in a dim concrete room where other robots stood in charging cradles and a few human mechanics worked on another.
Alma practiced walking, and explored the aisles of machines and crates. The styles of the robots varied, not surprisingly, from unglamorous forklifts to humanoids and cheap treaded machines. Little quadrotor drones buzzed overhead, pausing like bees to inspect things or recharge. Each type had some function, but they weren't all being rented out for labor. Alma tested her ability to speak, heard an echoing version of her new voice, and approached one of the human workers. "What are those bots in the corner?" They were partly obscured behind a curtain but had sweeping lines and sharp edges.
The man checked a tablet before answering. "You're a resident? Good. Those are the Squire Mark Ones. Not secret; they were in public last year."
"Combat drones?"
"Security. And nobody's cleared to use them unless they're directly, personally downloaded to them."
Which meant truly inhabiting those bodies instead of remote-controlling them. In there she'd be immune to radio hacking but vulnerable to, say, bullets. If she used one of those bots and didn't have a backup, death could still come for her. Alma approached with morbid fascination to see them. Her feet -- this body's rubber-soled aluminum feet -- thunked along bare concrete. The shrouded robots were griffins, cuter now that she had a better look. Airbrushed feather designs decorated their plastic wings, and their beaks were blunt under their blank, dark eyes. The friendly exterior had only hints of the titanium skeleton beneath.
Alma wondered what secret versions there were.
Something beeped for attention at the corner of Alma's vision. The voice of the pod-room's supervisor said, "If you're done testing the interface, you may proceed immediately to your appointment tomorrow. A robot of your current model will be delivered to your destination."
Alma reeled, mentally caught between her view of Earth and the Talespace room she was actually sitting in. "What do you mean, proceed?"
The robot view faded out and she was back at the controls, looking at the supervisor standing nearby. The lady said, "We can set your time rate so low that you needn't leave and return. Tomorrow will be here in moments."
A jump forward in time would count toward her average, speeding her up later. "Wouldn't I just be paused?"
"It's a subjective matter, ma'am. Some residents object to true pausing, though it's similar to extremely low processing rates."
Besides the cost, one reason Alma had resisted uploading until this year was that the first version of the technology sliced your brain and recreated it later. That way had seemed like death followed by a copy of you being created. The advanced technique that came out last year did things piecemeal, leaving you conscious during the process to assure you there was no break in identity. To shut off her brain-sim and resume it later seemed like it'd be a kind of death, too, though she wasn't sure it was fundamentally different from letting twenty-four hours slip by in a hurry. Or from sleep.
Alma stood up from the robot controls and looked around at the other people coming and going on errands to Earth, for work or fun. Alma could request to be held at glacial rates for a century, to fling herself into the future, and let other people live more complete lives in tune with life on Earth. Why not try it?
Because I matter, damn it! thought Alma. She wasn't anyone important, but she had skills and ideas that could make the future of Earth and Talespace a little brighter. To take care of herself and promote the kind of world she wanted to see, she had to participate.
"Just for a day," she said. "I have work to do." |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 6 | Alma waited for a few minutes in a lounge full of dull snacks, then got called back. It was Monday.
While she waited for her pod to connect with a robot in the school, Alma made sure she could bring up her lesson plans in her field of vision. Not that she needed the text much; the act of writing an outline was the best way to memorize its ideas.
She'd never taught at the Ben Rush Milam School, Hernandez' new posting as principal. The robot interface sprang up at last. Alma found herself in a garage where a janitor staggered away in disgust, saying, "Phew! Do all robots stink so bad?"
Alma raised one arm to sniff, but there was no nose on this body. She was cut off from everything but sight and sound and a little touch feedback, and didn't even have the increasingly familiar sight of a muzzle in her vision. "Maybe it got used for something dirty?"
"Rotten egg smell. You been in a sewer? You can't teach like this."
"I've got a class to teach. Can you hose this thing down? It's waterproof."
"Sure, whatever."
Alma undocked from the bot's controls and stood in Talespace. "This thing got returned smelly," she told the supervisor.
The supervisor bowed, saying, "Apologies for our mistake."
"I thought this was an efficient operation where people got along." She pointed at the "best behavior" sign.
"We apologize for this shameful error and will fix it as soon as possible."
Alma's ears flattened. "You're not human, are you."
"I am Dispatcher System One. Would you like to speak with a warehouse manager?"
Alma flopped back into her pilot seat, muttering, "Our next available representative will be with you shortly..."
Earth time clicked forward. The janitor was tucking a rag back into his overalls. "Don't you robot people know better?"
"Apparently we screwed up."
"Ha. And my buddies think you'll conquer the world. Scram; do your job."
Alma looked around the garage. Golf carts, mops, lockers. The janitor wore a pistol. "Can you tell me anything about the Basic students?"
He frowned. "You're teaching them? Guess the politicians can't spare real people for the job. They're just, like, cut off from reality. The kids, too."
"Maybe I can reach them."
The janitor grabbed a toolbox and opened a door for her. "Good luck with that."
Numbered flags marked the classroom areas. Instead of one traditional giant bunker of a building, this school was using the fad of an outdoor plan. Open-air pavilions surrounded a few steel-frame buildings used for storm shelters, laboratories, and offices.
Alma reached tent nine. A young woman in a dress said, "Finally. Here're the props you wanted." She set down a plastic bin. "Watch out for Stobor in the third row." She walked off before Alma could do more than thank her.
Alma was alone now with two dozen Basic kids, thrown together from what used to be tenth through twelfth grade. Education policy in Texas and the rest of the Free States was a work in progress, mainly defined by trying not to be like the US. Reduced butt-in-chair time, more student collaboration, hands-on activity including gun safety (though not for these kids), and Bible instruction. Alma had mostly gone to private Episcopalian schools in her youth, which left her thinking the first three changes were improvements.
"Hello, class! My name is Alma, and I will be your science teacher this summer."
One hulking boy burbled and rocked in his plastic seat. "History today?"
"Ah, no. Science. Let's go around and introduce ourselves." Her camera-vision painted the names of students next to their faces, which was a godsend, but she found introductions a helpful way to gauge a class. The students sat there mutely or asked if she was a toy.
"I'm a real person, like you. I'm using a robot to talk to you because I got very sick, and had to use some machines to help me. We can talk about that later, but I want to start with some chemistry." She reached into the storage bin and pulled out an ugly ceramic eagle from some truck stop. "What do you think will happen if I drop this?"
"You get in trouble!" someone shouted.
She dropped it, and it bounced on the dirt. Alma frowned but felt her metal face stay immobile like a mask. She'd need to throw it down to show the physics of how things broke. When she reached for the figurine, she fell over instead, crushing it with her hard neck.
The kids tittered. "Well!" she said, staggering back upright. "What happened?"
Silence. A weirdly asymmetrical boy in the third row said, "You're dumb. Where's the real people teacher?"
That was Stobor. Alma ignored him. "It broke, see? Now, what will happen to this soda can if I step on... if I squeeze it?" She didn't trust this body's balance.
"Dummy, dummy!" said Stobor in singsong, drawing giggles and a fart from other kids.
Alma felt even more encased in a metal shell. Modern theory said you had to smack down little bullies before they became big ones, even at the cost of giving them attention. "Kid, you've earned my first detention." She radioed for security to come grab him.
The kid shut up, so Alma went on. She squashed the can in one metal fist. "Why do you think the can only crumples but the china shatters?"
"You didn't fall on it," one girl said.
Alma tried to get to the lesson's point, but the janitor arrived. "Miss, they don't do regular detention for Basic kids. You're stuck with them all morning."
Stobor told him, "We got a broken dummy. It falls down."
"That so?" He eyed the boy. "Wanna go kick a football?"
"Yeah!" Stobor said, springing up and knocking his chair over. The half-hour they were gone was the highlight of Alma's morning. |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 7 | That night, or Tuesday or whatever the hell time it was outside, Alma slumped against the bar and smacked her empty milkshake glass down. It didn't break. "Another."
Kai was the only real person on duty right now. The dim bar-and-grill had a midnight feel with few customers and with the TVs muted. He backed his long chestnut body out of the sink area and trotted over to Alma. "I'm cutting you off after this one."
"Calories here are make-believe. I am not up for this job."
"It was your first day. It'll get better."
Alma gnawed on an authentically bland peanut. "I used to teach the smart kids. The ones headed to college, ROTC, the good technical schools. These kids are like chimps! Or goldfish; saying that's less likely to get me fired."
Kai worked his alchemy with a blender, pausing to say, "It's that big a gap, that they're like animals to you?"
Alma rested her head on one hand. "That sounds awful, I know. But I'm smart. I don't know what uploading did to my intelligence level, but I think me still brain good. I'm like, here" -- she held her other hand above the bar, then slapped it down -- "and average is here, and these Basic kids are down at your hooves. How do I relate to that?"
"Do you always tell average people you're up there looking down?" he said, standing taller than her.
"Damn it, Kai, you sound like an American. I don't need to apologize for knowing I'm good at something, so long as I don't think that gives me the right to control people. And it's not like I'm better at everything. Like with... cooking. At cooking you're up there and I'm way under you."
Kai was facing away, flicking his tail. "I like that image."
Alma sputtered. "Excuse me?"
He turned and set a banana milkshake in front of her. "Mostly teasing. I..." He scratched one of his long brown ears. "I had a falling out with the human I was made for. We're still friends. Part of our spat was what you're saying. It's tough to talk with people when you're smart and talented and you've been living in a different mental world from them. I and the other Originals were designed for that kind of outreach. All the magic in Talespace too: it's there to give you humans a bridge between what you are, and what you wish you were. So... hating the gap doesn't do any good. You either cross it somehow, or accept that you can't. I don't know which one applies here."
"Between natives and uploaders?" Alma said. "Or smart and dumb? Talespace and Earth?"
"Any of those. You've already started to find a life here and see our problems. I don't want to pull you away from interacting with Earth if that's what you want, but maybe doing new things here will give you ideas for working with your human students."
"Like what?" said Alma, perking her ears.
"There's a castle of skeleton warriors working for the Forces of Evil. Want to go battle the undead with me? You can raid the place to help pay your bar bill, even."
Alma grinned. "That sounds educational." |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 8 | "What's with these coins?" said Alma, breathing hard after a brawl. The bones and rusty weapons of three killer skeletons littered the dungeon floor, and she had some minor wounds that'd heal within hours on their own. She pointed to the treasure chest they'd found. "How does Talespace not get flooded with money if loot pops out of nowhere?"
Kai's hooves echoed on the stone as he picked his way around the bones toward the chest. He wore some light leather barding like a warhorse. "You'd have to talk to my friend the economist. But there are NPCs that take money so that it vanishes, and some of this cash is coming out of Evil's coffers."
Alma held up one of the silver coins, marked with a sinister spear design. "This pattern was on some of the ones I got from a friend. What is it?"
"Forces Of Evil, like I said. They operate little bases like this one that generate some kind of resource, so everybody else is encouraged to sack the place to slow it down. I think they get something out of being attacked and losing, too."
Alma put the coins in her hip pouch to divide later. "So there's an evil conspiracy in Talespace, that actually lets itself be known as evil. Are they with that US government AI, or China's?"
"Probably neither." Kai continued to explore the room, spear at the ready. "I don't think they actually want to conquer this world, or that Ludo would let them, but they're kind of being jerks in a helpful way, understand?"
Alma followed him upstairs to the last room of the castle. There, a skeleton in tattered robes rose from a throne and burst into flame, roaring in unholy rage.
"Ready, Alma?" asked Kai.
Alma raised her borrowed quarterstaff, eager for a battle with some straightforward, honest evil.
The skeleton lord grabbed a scythe and cackled at her. "You! The girl from the hotel buffet!"
Alma reeled, mentally. The skeleton's voice crackled like flames, but she recognized it behind that effect. "Gerard, the knight?"
Kai lowered his spear a bit. "You're friends?"
"We met once. New uploader. Gerard, you went right from where you were on Earth to helping villains here, huh?"
"I've got power here. Our faction runs things. We control the stories."
"Pffft. Ludo lets you think that?"
Gerard said, "She's crazy. She has to let each person win sometimes, even if they're just taking what they want. So if she's fair, who ends up rich and important here? The people who don't screw around being pretty princesses with lame equipment and no powers. Wooden staff and no armor? I'm not impressed."
Alma said, "Wait, wait. You think you're actually superhuman evil overlords, instead of" -- unknown to her, Alma's tail wiggled like a quote mark -- "the 'bad guys'"?
"You haven't seen the whole truth about Ludo. She doesn't care about you any more than me. If my gang takes over Talespace she'll go 'oh, cool, now the heroes will have fun being underdogs'."
Kai rapped his spear on the floor and leveled it at the skeleton. "You don't know what you're talking about, newbie. Alma, let's kill him and move on." His face took on a hard look and his ears lay straight back.
She nodded, but kept beyond reach of the burning villain with the rusty sickle. Kai might be fully used to fighting to the death, and they'd shattered some dumb skeletons already, but this one was a real person. Come on, she told herself. Old rules don't apply. He'll be fine. "Unless you want to hand over the rest of your treasure hoard, Gerard?"
The scythe whooshed toward Alma. She threw herself to the floor, yelping and making sure her tail came down with her. Kai's spear clashed overhead. She scurried out of the way and came up at Gerard's side to swing at his flame-touched bones and crack a rib. Gerard showed no pain, and swung at her again.
Alma ducked and jabbed upward at him. Kai kept stabbing, trying to break Gerard's legs.
Gerard said, "You're just robbers calling yourselves good guys." He swatted Kai's attack away and yanked the centaur closer to grab his arm in one burning fist, making him shout in pain. "Ludo will tell you she likes you better, but the truth is, she doesn't care."
Alma jumped and swung her staff down in mid-leap to smash Gerard's arm, shattering radius and ulna and letting his hand clatter to the floor. "Unhand him!"
The skeleton lord fixed his baleful eye sockets on her. "Seriously?"
Kai speared him through the pelvis and gave him a hoof-kick so hard, he struck the wall and cracked, screeching. Kai and Alma beat him down until Gerard took too many wounds and collapsed into a pile of smoldering bones.
Alma leaned against her staff, fighting off the inner voice that said Murderer! "He was... He must have a save point nearby, right?"
Kai put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently, making her look up at him. Kai said, "He'll be fine. You're not used to life and death around here."
"I did die, once. Do we have to worry about him popping up behind us any minute?"
"He'll be locked out until we finish looting the place. All he loses is this base's treasure, reputation within his faction, and time."
Alma winced. She hadn't caused him more than momentary physical pain, like her own minor wounds, but she'd cut him off from any reality for a little while. "Then let's finish."
On the way out of the castle, they spotted a dimension portal that swirled and crackled vile purple, leading back to a safer realm not ruled by the Forces Of Evil. Alma turned away from it to look at the villainous keep again. "Aren't we just thieves, like he said?"
"I'd rather explain in a nicer place. Let's go."
"One moment. I want to remember this first dungeon raid." Come to think of it, there was something else she might do. She gestured, forgetting to mutter the codeword for the magic interface. It came up anyway; apparently she'd mastered the frame of mind for activating it. The space around her glowed with the energy flows she recognized as a place of power, and with words. "Bone." "Foe." "Evil." "World." "Flame." "Treasure." "Rival." "Mate."
"Why are you blushing?" said Kai.
"This magic system reflects some of what's on my mind." She'd been warned that wearing a new body would gradually tweak some dials in her brain. Fair enough; she'd wanted to be different, and she was still herself. "It's just confusing."
More relevant right now: what was this place to her? Her first adventure site, sure, but also a crossing-point with the FoE. "They're not totally different," she said. "They want to be in charge of their lives in this world, and to feel special and important. They're only using the rules differently."
"They're still low-lifes. You know Earth ecosystems? Fungi are important, but they're still nasty little rot-creatures."
Alma nodded. "We have different ideas of what Talespace should be. As much as I want to grab a combat element here, 'World' makes the most sense for this place." She reached into the swirl of concepts and took a symbol of a planet into her heart. Light swirled around her and when the gleam and a fanfare ended, the new mark had appeared on the fur of her right hand, mirroring the symbol for "Connection" on her left.
Kai said, "Your second element! Congratulations."
She smiled and brought up her stats again. This time they said:
─ Alma
─ PRIVATE INFO
─ Account type: Uploader
─ Mind: Tier-III
─ Body: Squirrel, Anthro ("Velesian")
─ Main Skills: Staff, Dodge
─ Magic, Shamanic: (Level I) Connection, World
─ Save Point: Hotel Computronium, Lobby
─ PUBLIC INFO
─ Note: Newcomer. Say hello!
─ Class: None
She supposed she wasn't committed enough to any particular path to have a "class" yet, even as a decoration. |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 9 | "Where are we, anyway?" said Alma. They'd used the castle's portal to return to a forest. A trail led from here toward the cave network beneath Ivory Tower's cavern, but she wasn't sure how the geography worked. "On the way here I got a 'you have discovered Midgard' message."
Kai trotted ahead. "You talked about playing Thousand Tales as a human. Your main adventures were in Midgard, since that's the big generic fantasy zone. Places like that castle are little bubble worlds, disposable, which is why the castle isn't sitting here and there's just a portal leading to it. The more important places are more real." Kai reared up enthusiastically. "And of course Midgard's connected to Ivory Tower, and since it's vying to be the central world it also has direct links to Hoofland and the Endless Isles and --"
"I'm going to have to map all this out myself to understand it, aren't I?"
Kai grinned. "Do it when you get the chance. It's fun. There's even a cartography guild."
Kai took her back to the Ivory Tower cavern, then to his "sanctum". The caves had a hidden path to his home under the Tower's ground level. Nominally, really; he said it was an extra-dimensional space you couldn't reach by drilling.
Alma believed him. Kai's "underground" sanctum was a hilly meadow under a half moon, with a cluster of large tents for a home. "Just so you know," he said, "I'm not trying to get you in bed tonight."
"Good to know," said Alma, with a nervous smile. "Why don't you call it an apartment?"
He led her to the largest tent, a wonderfully stocked kitchen with grass for a floor. The furnishings seemed like primitive wood and iron for the most part, but the technology of burners and microwaves and freezers stood out despite the decoration. "I'm one of the first, remember? Intelligent creatures, made as a marketing stunt by Ludo to entice a few rich or interesting people to support her. Also, to convince the world that Ludo wasn't a unique aberration like in some stories. There'd be more than one mind here. More than one opinion." He grabbed a pan and an egg carton, and started cooking a big omelet while avoiding her eyes. "Our group of the first hundred and eight natives is special."
A grey door stood at one wall of the tent, even though the tent's outside had none. "What's that?"
Kai's gaze darted toward it and away, and he grabbed more ingredients. "Our inner sanctum. Or clubhouse. You literally can't go there. We gather to talk about how Talespace is doing, because of what we are. Prototypes, marketing material, siblings and cousins in terms of having the same few sets of personality code. More than that, though, we're sub-processes of the soul of Ludo."
"You're part of her?" Alma said, and sat on a centaur-sized pillow on the grass.
"She says so. You are too, to a lesser extent. But we were there in the early days, experiencing things for her in a biased, emotional, corporeal way that's outside what she can do. She does have explicit sub-souls you might encounter, and one of them's meant to have a human-like perspective, but we Originals are the main way she knows what life is like, from a viewpoint similar to her own code." He stamped one hoof.
Alma curled her tail into her lap and petted its fluff. The touch helped calm her. "You're worried, then. Seeing people like Gerard come up with some Nietzsche-style ambition for making Talespace as unfair as Earth."
"Yeah."
"Are any of your group in on the Forces of Evil?"
"One. Damn smug guy even cites human literature to insist he's the 'mandatory fallen angel'. So if each of us is a thought in Ludo's greater mind, the desire for a game of pointless primate dominance is in her. Evil has followed you humans in from Earth."
"Cliques everywhere. There's the FoE, the Great Oak guys, the Originals, and who knows what else."
Kai nodded, and served sizzling halves of a carrot-and-spinach omelet to each of them. His ears drooped backward. "Seems like it's broken apart since I was created. There are all these different sub-worlds, and even this home is isolated. On behalf of her as well as me, I have to ask: did we mess up, human?"
Alma ate the delicious savory omelet, lost in thought. "No. Making Talespace into a world meant welcoming humans with all our contradictions and factions. I've heard people worry about Talespace splintering, but a decentralized approach with different groups means we can agree to disagree on a lot of things. Like my own homeland. We broke away from the States because our differences got too deep. Being unfriendly neighbors is better than being chained to them and feeling like there's no escape. Would you want there to be a democratic vote on making some rule about magic or death or wealth mandatory for everyone?"
"Oh, Lady, no!"
She patted his arm. "Then don't worry too much about it. The food's great, by the way."
[ Treasure and Salvage ]
"Maybe it'll work here." Alma put down her flimsy magic-instruction pamphlet and summoned her magic-sense: a chaotic maze of dots and spikes and whirlpools floating around her, all part of an illusory interface. She'd snuck her way past orcish guards to find a hexagonal ritual chamber where new mages could get a relatively easy magic field layout that was stable and open. "Full signal bars!"
She conjured colorful glyphs representing her "Connection" and "World" elements. She had to touch each smooth, warm symbol and guide it through the maze using some complicated rules about what spots to avoid, affected by the local magic field. That meant standing, waving her arms, turning in a slow circle and weaving a few steps to one side, and tapping away an obstacle with her tail. Any more complicated a spell and she'd be dancing, carving trails of light through the air, which was probably just what the rules were designed to encourage.
At last the glyphs clicked into two aligned spots. She held out one palm and a swirl of energy appeared there, spinning away and becoming a portal between worlds. She peered into it and saw a beach where dolphins splashed and played. "Nice!" Too small even to stick her head through, though, and she'd had no say in where the portal led. Apparently the brown markings meant she had weak, beginner-level spells, and would need more adventures to get more power or for that matter, to customize the color. A good start, though! She let the portal snap shut and stretched. "Okay, back to work." She had her third day of class to teach.
She made her way out of the poorly-guarded practice facility, stopped by her room for a shower, crossed the hall of blades and lasers, and reached the robot room. |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 10 | Hours later, she wished she could open that portal to the beach and dive through to escape. The students sat in front of her, fish-eyed, expecting nothing in particular. The school was only using her as a babysitter! The administrators hardly even cared what she supposedly taught.
She lectured, "What I'm trying to say is, these pieces called 'atoms' join up. Remember the soda can? The bits of metal are only weakly linked, so when you hit them they fly apart but they grab onto other bits and get hard again."
Dopey giggling from the peanut gallery.
"We've been sitting here too long," Alma said. She deployed her backup plan. "Let's play a game. Everyone take your tablet." She led the class out of the tent to the open field. "Your screen will show you a treasure hunt! Everybody find a treasure and come back, okay?"
She let them run off and get some exercise. Meanwhile she disengaged from her robot and stretched, fluttering her tail. She'd marked imaginary waypoints on the school network that the computers could detect, so that when some kid physically went to certain spots of ground, they could run around to "dig up" a picture and text about some interesting bit of chemistry. These students would never be trusted with any but the simplest lab experiments.
"I got gold!" shouted Stobor.
"No fair; I want gold!" said a girl.
Alma grinned; she'd built rules for trading into her little educational game. She kept an eye and sensors on the group. One boy drifted toward blue tent #1, so Alma followed before he could disrupt the smart kids.
The teacher there was saying, "Doctor Rush was also an early abolitionist. In an era when most folks thought blacks were inferior, he argued that any inferiority was the fault of slavery itself. How might you apply that kind of argument to the modern world?"
The students piped up. "The Caliphate! Yankee schools. How we treat dogs, now that there're smart ones!"
"All interesting comparisons. For Monday I'd like short essays about Rush's theory of degradation through oppression, and what value it might have today. Be ready to argue orally."
Alma's student started running in circles in plain view of the other group, holding his arms out. "I got rubies!"
One of the bright kids said, "I found my topic."
Alma's cheeks burned. She tugged the kid's arm, saying, "Good job. Let's go back."
Another student asked his neighbor, "What about Talespace as oppression? That thing's just a robot now."
Alma coaxed the treasure-hunter away before he could disrupt the other class more. She rounded up everyone else and tried to focus on her lesson, not the pity of the humans who still had long lives ahead on Earth. "Let's start with you," she said to one of her students. "What did you find?"
"Pearls," he said, holding up his tablet with a picture of a necklace and some text.
"Are pearls rocks?" asked Alma.
"Uh-huh!"
"Read it again."
"Uh. They're made by oysters?"
"Very good. Now, does everyone see that symbol on the pearl picture? That means it's treasure made by living things. Who else has a symbol like that?"
"Amber!"
"I got coral," said another kid.
Alma got discussion going about what the treasures had in common, and why people valued them. That morning was her best session so far. |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 11 | Alma turned the class over to the machine shop teacher at noon, who'd get them lunch and some skills they might really use. Once she was alone, Alma tried calling up the magic interface from within this view of Earth. Completely empty magic field, of course. Though actually, on closer inspection, some nodes stood out. The right spell might let her access parts of the public network. A convoluted way to send mail, maybe. Alma checked her mana levels and brought up the word-cloud of potential new elements. She reeled a stubborn word, "Stone", toward her like a fish. It was only tangentially related to her experience here with buried treasure, so it felt like a guilty pleasure to grab it as an element. It was time to work toward having an actual combat spell, though, so she could learn something like "Break" or "Fling" to combine it with...
"What are you doing?" asked Hernandez, coming over from the administration building.
Alma stopped waving her arms around. "Sorry. A bit of Talespace business." She discreetly finished reeling the element in with a movement to scratch her robot's non-existent ears.
"Don't do anything weird on campus. I already got a loony complaint about 'robot witchcraft'." The principal stood with his hands in his pockets. "Come to my office."
Alma followed him, dreading what was next. "Am I fired?"
"No, but we should talk."
Hernandez's office still had an empty shelf and boxes stuffed with paper books he hadn't unpacked yet. He sat down behind his desk and played with a small soccer ball. "I had a few people check up on you. Teaching the Basic kids is tough, isn't it?"
Alma sat, instinctively brushing aside the tail she didn't have. "Does this even count as teaching? I was talking about chemistry and biology today, but I can't see how these students will ever use that. Hearing the other kids talk about Revolutionary-era history and practicing rhetoric reminds me that my kids aren't headed to college."
"They're destined for manual labor, most likely, and robots might be cheaper. Your presence reminds everyone of that."
What was the point of being here, then? "What can we do? How can I help?"
"Do what you're doing: the scutwork, even if it breaks your heart."
Alma looked down at Hernandez's desk, already decked with family photos. "I'm not sure I'm the right person for this. I may be able to act the part of the patient schoolmarm, but I don't feel it. I just wonder what's wrong with them and whether I'm wasting my time when..." She met his gaze. "Why can't we fix them? Upload them, maybe, so Ludo can see which wires are unplugged in their heads."
Hernandez got up and shut his door. "Dangerous talk. From this side it'd look like us getting rid of the undesirables. We can never officially advocate that. The damn Yankee-symp press in Austin already calls us heartless child-abusers for not pushing the latest behavior drugs to keep kids like these docile."
"Unofficially, what do you think? If we could turn those students into productive people, they could more than pay for the use of robot bodies." Alma shut her eyes and sighed. "I'm not saying to force it on anyone. Just to put the option out there."
"I'm interested. Seeing you here as a real person feels different from watching you in your fantasy world. What's it like being on a real-world schedule in there?"
"Busy. On my days off, I'm only experiencing maybe six or eight hours. I effectively don't sleep much, but it still cuts into my time." As she understood it, Alma's brain ran quickly but cheaply while asleep, and she needed less rest anyhow without the full chemical cues of a human body. If she spent a real-world week in Talespace at 1:3 time, she got maybe fifty subjective hours awake and six asleep. Spending her work time Earthside at a 1:1 rate made the arrangement even more complicated.
"Don't tell the union you're taking only short breaks," Hernandez said, and fidgeted with his soccer ball. "Make sure you offer to pay union dues somehow, by the way. You're controversial. I imagine you'll suggest uploading as a way to make our school population smarter, more independent. If you present a viable case that it can be done through Talespace or some other way, you'll risk getting that body of yours smashed by a mob."
"You've already warned me it'd look bad, so why tell me --"
"Because I want you to." The principal slapped the ball down on his desk. "God, Alma, why do you think I pulled strings to get you this job? You're a friend, and that was a factor, but I'm scared too. Scared of our northern neighbors trying to take us back by force or fraud; did you see how they tried to kill your super-AI last year and blame it on the Cubans? Scared of falling behind, of being weak, of some techno-disaster worse than rampant AIs. I only have control over one little part of the world, and it's full of kids I'm required to help, that I can't."
Alma hadn't seen this side of him before. "I wish I could hug you."
"You can forget what I said, and just keep teaching. That's valuable, too. Maybe you'll get through to some of them and they'll show some hidden potential. If someone even calls you a mean name, the press will eat that up and call you a civil rights hero."
Ridiculous. Alma wasn't risking her life or freedom, just deigning to visit from digital heaven. "You've stuck your neck out to let me teach again. If you want me to be an advocate for wider use of uploading, I'll try it. It'll be good for my students, not just the country."
Hernandez stood. "You know what? I'll take a robot hug over none, considering that you're behind it." |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 12 | Alma found Meg packing up a booth at the Newcomer Fair. "Meg, are you an evil harpy?"
The feather-armed lady grinned. "According to my ex-husband! Why?"
"The design on your coins matched some Forces of Evil ones. See, the other night I helped kill Gerard and looted his corpse. That's going to be awkward at our next brunch."
"Yeah, I'm with FoE, and I recruited him. Don't worry about killing him." She poked Alma with one talon. "But watch your back if you go after more important targets."
Alma tried to help her pack up the body designs and clothes she had on display, but Meg waved one hand and the merchandise vanished. Different rules for Earthside players. Alma said, "Do you buy into FoE as a real conspiracy? Gerard sounded like you guys have long-term plans to take over Talespace."
"There are different kinds of evil. I'm just involved because somebody has to play the bad guys, and it's more fun for everyone if the villains aren't all Ludo's dumb puppets."
"But you're Earthside. You won't be here if the group really does something bad to this world."
The harpy scowled. "Don't remind me. Yeah, yeah, I'm not a real person to you."
"What? No! You're just not living here."
Meg looked mollified. "FoE's got ranks. You can't make Overlord or higher without getting your physical body mulched and your brain diced."
"That's some hardcore commitment to a gaming clan." It made sense, then, that the higher ranks might have something truly sinister in mind.
Meg sighed and walked with Alma to a little cafe along the fairground's curving wall. "I almost got in. I had Talespace friends willing to sponsor me if I pulled off some epic villainy. Now I get grief from my FoE friends about not being here yet. Earthside, I've got a real job doing HR consulting, but I'm living on noodles. Saving up for the day when I can say goodbye to that life. The villain stuff is just another job."
Alma hugged her, but Meg wouldn't feel it, and the cafe's food would do nothing for her either. "You shouldn't rush so much that you miss out on what a regular human life has to offer. Are you decently young and healthy, still?"
"Yeah, but I'm gambling with the Reaper by living out here on Earth."
The existence of Talespace was like a whirlpool, pulling people in who didn't really need it yet. Alma said, "It's good to hear you've got a motive for FoE work other than being evil for evil's sake. Once you get in, maybe they'll tell you their secret plan if there is one."
Meg looked around with longing at the wild fairground, in plain sight but out of her true reach. "I mentioned there being different kinds of evil, but that's not the same thing as the silly ranks. I mean, Gerard's a thug that we've positioned where he'll do more good than harm. Some people at all levels buy into the 'take over Talespace' story. But I think the Prince -- our leader -- is in on one big joke with Ludo. Come on. Would Miss Villain-With-Good-Publicity let us cause a serious threat and make Talespace un-fun? You know she's watching anybody with hacking skills, for one thing."
"Maybe." Alma spotted Poppy over at the oak tree shop. "I should talk with one of the other conspiracies for comparison. Hey, Meg?"
"Hmm?"
"Go do something fun. Feel the real sun on your face and the wind in your hair, and the taste of something with chocolate."
The harpy smiled. "Thanks. I could use a reality check." |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 13 | Meg vanished, leaving Talespace to do Earthside things. Alma stretched, letting her tail flutter, and walked over to greet Poppy. "What do you make of FoE? Meg and Gerard are with them."
Poppy, too, looked done selling for the day. She dumped a box of coins into a bag and hefted a backpack over one shoulder. "Are they? I haven't been in contact since we met. Seems to me there are enough problems here without creating more."
"Need help packing?"
"Thanks, but the whole tree can warp back to Midgard. Got a good enchantment on it."
Alma realized she'd forgotten to pay Meg back with the proceeds from fighting Gerard. Eh; Talespace money didn't mean much to Meg. "Different rules for each club?"
"Not really." Poppy sighed. "One difference between my group and FoE is that our agenda is positive. When I was younger, I spoke out for all kinds of 'social justice' causes, like militant vegetarianism. You name it, I was outraged about why anybody disagreed with it. It was all a mistake, because I was pushing causes, not morals. I hadn't stopped to think about what I really believed in beyond 'do what seems nice'. The evil guys are just the mirror image of that. I blame a guy called Kant for that kind of thinking."
"So is Great Oak a religion?" asked Alma.
Poppy posed with her tail high and one hand on her chest. "Strike at the root," she said as though reciting scripture. "I suppose so, and there are bound to be schisms. The other founders and I are trying to make something that unites people even across other religions or language or nationality. As much as I like my new species, the group needs principles under the silly decorations. You should visit our official territory sometime."
"How do I reach it?"
"It's in Midgard. You can't just warp back with this tree, though; it doesn't carry people. There's a path through the Ivory Tower caverns, or you could learn a teleport spell."
Alma's ears perked. "Ooh, I know one! With almost no power or control, though."
Smiling, Poppy said, "You probably need a focusing item to set a destination, and a potion to boost the spell..."
Alma spent all her coins on cool magic stuff.
Poppy said, "This talk of portals reminds me: are you free on Sunday? We're performing at one of Ludo's 'Fun Zone' shops and could use an extra."
"Sure!" She'd been to a Fun Zone in Texas. Places like that had friendly robots and bad pizza for kids, and VR pods and other immersive entertainment for adults. It'd be interesting to see the place from within Talespace. |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 14 | "Africa?" said Alma. She'd assumed the gig was in a closer location, but that was silly. Closer to where, the data center hosting her mind? Travel was only a matter of lightspeed delay now. The Fun Zone looked much as she remembered from the other one, but the families were heavily black. She stood as her squirrelly self in a ghostly version of the main restaurant room, seeing some kind of 3D approximation based on many camera views. People -- the humans who were physically present -- moved around her as ghosts.
Poppy tugged Alma through some of the Earthside people's images and up onto a stage. Other squirrelfolk and a couple of deer-people and other forest critters stood nearby. Poppy said, "We're in Ethiopia."
Alma's eyes widened. "The little city-state with the first uploading clinic in Africa?" There was a new kind of wealth being born in that area, which meant jealousy and violence.
"Second, I think. Don't worry about that; we're here to entertain. Today you're Crossbow Mook #2. Here's your weapon. Follow that guy's lead."
The show was something about an underdog gang of woodland rebels fighting a lizardman empire. Alma hoped that the Great Oak stories were better written. Still, the audience applauded act one.
The stage had gradually faded, becoming a lifelike set of a treetop fort. Alma scoffed at herself; it was as 'real' as the world she lived in. "Are we still live?" she whispered to Mook #1, a fellow squirrel.
"Translation delay, but yeah." Meanwhile, the rebel leader declaimed in the foreground.
"To arms!" cried Poppy, and the main characters surged to fend off a lizardman horde.
Alma joined them on the wooden parapets, shooting down. She couldn't tell if her actions made any difference or whether the battle's outcome was scripted.
A few enemy archers shot at the fort. Alma ducked. Three flaming arrows smoldered in the wood. Alma yelped and yanked the nearest one out, but the others were beyond reach.
"Quick, get them!" said Mook #1. Alma gave her a confused look and he said, "Climb out there!"
There was a dizzying drop to the forest floor. Alma took a deep breath and told herself death was temporary, and that she was built for climbing. She dug her claws into the soft wood of the fort's outside, teetered over the abyss, and clutched the wall with her legs. Her toe-claws caught in the outer parapet too. Alma squeaked with fear and lowered herself until she was sideways, clinging to the wall and forcing herself along it with no proper handholds. The other arrows burned ahead. She yanked one hand off of the wall and pulled one arrow out, then threw it down.
The other arrow was under the edge. She had to crawl out so far that she risked dangling upside-down. "I can't reach it!"
Her companion tossed a cloak down at her, saying, "Use this."
Alma caught it with both hands, and screamed. She swung by her foot-claws only, fumbling with the cloth to free one hand without dropping it. At last she smacked her fingers into the wall and steadied herself. She locked her attention on the wood in front of -- no, below her, and used her other hand to beat at the flames with the cloak. At last the arrow went out. Alma's ankles had twisted around backwards but seemed normal for her species. She just had to get back to safety.
One of her feet lost its grip and she dangled again. The other crossbowman rushed to grab the cloak and haul, saying, "Just a little farther."
She scrambled with every available limb to get back over the wall and flop onto the floor, shuddering. Adrenaline definitely existed in Talespace.
A cheer went up from the battlefield below. Alma whispered, "Was anyone watching me?"
The other guy smiled. "Pretty sure the camera focused on you for a minute. We're safe to go out of character while the heroes rout the bad guys down there. How was climbing? You look new at it."
Alma peeked down over the wall and immediately flopped back, not wanting to see that drop again. "A bit tougher than last time I tried it in a gym." She reached into the area's magic field and grabbed an element of "Arrow" from it. A little brown arrow materialized on her left foot to match the "Stone" mark on her right. She had probably hit her limit until she started putting more effort into her magic skills, but was already making plans for how to use them.
The reality of the fort faded out around them as the story ended, putting them back in the restaurant's theater. Alma bowed with the other actors, then took Poppy aside. "That was fun, but was there a point to what I just did?"
"Sure; it entertained the audience. I hear you did something cool."
"I had to climb out there on the wall to grab flaming arrows."
"Heroic! Good climbing practice." She must have seen the uncertainty on Alma's face. "It was more than fooling around for others' amusement. You fought, right? These people need heroes to admire, even if they're fictional. Showing them a battle where we fight hard and win might inspire them to do the same."
Worlds blurred around Alma. Traces of the fantasy forest stood to one side, the Fun Zone restaurant to the other. Neither was real to her. She was powerless in both as anything but a player. "They're people who really do things, then? I've been fretting about how to upload people in a rich country, but this place must be much worse off."
"They don't want anybody's pity," Poppy said. "This area is prosperous enough to have one of Ludo's facilities and some hope of getting better. What they need are people like us who show them Talespace is their ally, and that our world is worth fighting for."
Alma looked the diners over, now that she was no longer visible to them. Their clothes and translated accents seemed silly, but they were just families looking for a peaceful and happy life, the same as her countrymen. Former countrymen, in a world Alma had little power over. Alma sniffled and tears tickled her eyelids.
Poppy stepped closer and hugged her, fuzzy and warm. "New life, new world, new rules. I know. It was tough on me too at first."
Alma leaned into the hug but averted her eyes. "I have no right to feel bad about what I've gotten. Billions of people would be jealous."
"Billions would rather die than upload. If you're confident that you get the real heaven when you die, why settle for the silver-medal version? Other people decide everything in Talespace is hollow and meaningless and that we're zombie slaves of an evil machine. Or they just don't want to go on living."
Horrible. Alma's tail thrashed against her legs. "How could someone ever want to, to stop? To never see any world again?" Even while dying, she'd raged at the people suggesting she 'go home to God' or 'pass on with dignity'."
"Seems alien to me, too. But it means we don't have to help everybody. Just the ones that want help." Poppy let go of Alma and said, "Is there anything I can do for you, since I'm the most experienced of our little group? I'll promise not to sell you anything." |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 15 | They slept together that night, though only literally. A not-quite-right Chinese meal and a long talk about magic and show business took Alma's mind off her fears. They cuddled in a mass of tails and blankets inside a treehouse in Poppy's land.
"Sometimes it seems like you're not having fun," said Poppy.
Alma's feelings were simple for once: soft fur and pillows, a comforting voice, the warmth of an enchanted fireplace flickering behind a grate. In her previous life, being wrapped up with a friendly lady like Poppy (presumably human) in a room like this was a romantic dream. Now it was just pleasant reality, friendship plus built-in fluffy blankets. Alma said, "It'll probably never feel like enough, to spend time like this. Do a lot of people in Talespace go adventuring and never look back at Earth?"
"Not that I've seen. Almost everybody still cares about Earth, just in different ways. This place is home now, though. You should make sure to enjoy it instead of always feeling guilty that not everyone has what you have."
Alma yawned. "Mind if I fall asleep like this?"
"Not at all."
[ Enlightenment and Contentment ]
Alma spent another week doing her Earthside job, coming home to practice magic and relax. She repaid Meg at last. She did a simple adventure with Kai and Poppy, after which Poppy excused herself and left Alma and Kai on a beach together by moonlight. She went to a library one day, practiced climbing the shelves, and waded through half of Locke's Second Treatise on Government plus a few favorite comic books from her childhood. She looked into upgrading her mind, or renting a robot to soar over glaciers and jungles, or teaming up with the mind of a cyborg dog to fight crime on a police force. She was already working Earthside though, so any other interaction with the real world went onto her "maybe later" list. All of it felt like a checklist, the kinds of things one might want to do while under a death sentence. That is, before it became possible to cheat death.
Her schedule forced her to turn down a year-long, no-Earth-contact, no-teleporting expedition to the procedurally generated Endless Isles. It sounded like a fun experiment but she had far too much to do. The outside world still moved, and it needed her.
She noticed one day that the mint on her hotel pillow was in precisely the same spot each time she returned, even if she ate it and left for five seconds. The room was resetting, and only her small collection of (oppressively auto-organized) clothes, books and adventuring gear proved that her new life had any effect on Talespace. She sighed; she needed to move out of this little box of a room. |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 16 | One evening Alma sat on the bed, twirling a gem-studded token in her fingers. She'd found it while looting an evil crypt. It'd been around a month since she'd uploaded, less than half that in subjective time. Poppy had been teasing her about getting laid.
Alma had bedded very few women in her past life as a male human; no men, and no fantasy creatures like much of the virtual world's population. So, the token unnerved her. It came from Kinky's, the notorious brothel where not even biology was the limit.
Alma stood, flicking her tail, and went over to write on the notepad. "Ludo, is this token an elaborate plot to send me on a journey of self-discovery and wild sex, or did I just get lucky" -- Alma scribbled that out -- "roll well on a random treasure list?"
A minute later, a reply streamed onto the page in silver ink. "One of the great things about my job is that you players build most of the storylines yourselves. You got a random treasure, is all. Sell it if you're still unsure about your new body. Or use it! Or just ask that centaur about 'private magic lessons'. >=)"
She tried picturing Kai, and her attention kept focusing on him charging bare-chested into battle. It was when she started imagining him in slow motion that she shook her head and admitted Kai had gone from intimidating, to kind of hot. Alma just wasn't ready to sleep with him.
Alma tossed the token in the air and looked out her window at the always-dim Ivory Tower. The whole cavern looked calm tonight. Tonight? Alma glanced at her clock and saw 0402 Talespace time. Talespace's day length was based on the average subjective time rate within, so a night seemed as long as it would in reality. Convenient from a local perspective, but the system didn't match up with Earthside time zones.
She was stalling. Alma had heard of painfully indecisive uploaders and resolved not to be one. Some exploration was in order.
Alma dressed in "adventurer casual" for her trip to Kinky's. Blue skirt, white blouse, brown shamanic markings on her limbs, and a backpack. For a weapon she had a Great Oak brand sling-staff, basically a lacrosse stick that could parry other weapons or hurl rocks.
She explored the Ivory Tower cavern beyond Thousand Ales and the other buildings that made up a small college town. There wasn't much to that village yet, because there was no filler; unlike in Midgard, every one of the homes and shops was there for real people. Come to think of it, some of the people who did live here chose, like Kai, to hide away from the streets and keep a "sanctum" where they'd never see strangers. Alma glanced back as she left the central area behind. From this distance the town was just a cluster of lights at the base of the gleaming Tower. She was alone now in rocky wilderness.
She'd hardly mapped Talespace yet, but it was becoming clear that the whole structure was trying to be a sort of confederation, like her home. In the earliest days, Talespace had been a bunch of tiny individual worlds loosely and inconsistently connected to form larger adventuring areas. Those Originals, the first AIs Ludo made, must have lived in a world of chaos, ill-defined and isolated. Was it Ludo's marketing strategy or the needs of the Originals and the first uploaders that had begun welding the isolated areas into a true world? These days a few big regions like Ivory Tower and Midgard acted as hubs; some secondary places like Endless Isles, Hoofland, and Diamond Space chafed and lobbied to join them, and throwaway adventure zones like Gerard's little skeleton fort kept popping in and out of existence like particles in vacuum.
Kinky's was one of the little places linked to Ivory Tower and elsewhere. Alma fought a couple of large bats and a wandering skeleton along the miles-long hike to a section of the grand cavern wall, similar to the window-lined cliff of the hotel. This area, though, bent around a corner and out of sight. A pair of animated statues with halberds peered at her, and one of them held out its massive hand. Alma put the token there and hopped back. The guardians stepped aside. A layer of obscuring fog faded to show the path ahead.
Around the corner stood an underground lakeside resort. People of every description lounged here among tiki torches, attended by attractive serving-men and women with palm fans and platters of drinks. The distant cavern roof glittered like a starry night. Thatch huts and cliffside doors hinted at many private spaces. A human man climbed out of the water, let two leggy blondes towel him off, and led them both by the arm toward one of the huts.
Alma walked up to a grass-roofed bar where an androgynous silver robot was polishing glasses. "Um," was all she could say.
The machine paused and its eye-lamps flickered between colors, settling on green. "Processing. Welcome, newcomer. In this place, you can experience pleasures customized for your unique tastes. Would you like to discreetly write down your preferences?" The robot dispensed a sheet of paper and a pen from its chest.
Alma stood with one arm on a barstool, feeling her tail curl uneasily. "What are you?"
"We are Kinky. Every member of our staff works long and hard as part of a single mind, designed to give you a warm welcome and a deeply satisfying experience so that you will be eager to come again."
A collective and apparently dirty mind. Alma began speculating about how one AI could run multiple bodies, then shook her head. "I'm here for the, the experience."
"Certainly, madam. What is your preference? Flesh, metal, fur, scales -- you there, shoo! It is still not funny!"
Alma turned to see a coyote that had trotted into Kinky's resort on all fours, clutching a piece of paper in its grinning muzzle. The diagram it held looked like a very complex and obscene flow chart. The coyote sat up, waved its forepaws to create trails of magic light in the air, and conjured a second note on folded paper that floated over to the robot.
Kinky grabbed it, read, and said, "Very well. Hut number six." The canine trotted off with his tail wagging.
"What was that about?" asked Alma.
The robot shrugged. "Discretion is important here. We will not remember you when you leave, until you return, and we will not explain exactly what others do here. Surely you would want the same treatment yourself?"
Alma nodded, and took the pen and paper on the counter. Blushing, she wrote down a few experiences she'd fantasized about.
"Are you sure?" Kinky said. "Remember that essentially anything is allowed during your visit, along with various temporary changes to suit your tastes."
Alma blushed more, considering the possibilities. She wrote down several more things, very glad that she was only talking to a robot -- despite knowing consciously that it was part of a larger, intelligent mind.
Kinky examined the list, then shouted, "Pervert!"
Alma wilted. People across the resort turned to stare at her, chuckling.
Kinky beeped. "Do not worry. It is tradition that I say this once to every customer. Along with this: Talespace residents are free to do many things in the name of fun, but this place exists to handle certain human desires in a harmless way and leave you refreshed to do different things elsewhere. We, Kinky, do not love you personally. We love humanity in the abstract, and the experience of greatly varied comforts. Please enjoy your visit in the spirit in which it is offered, that of exploration and relaxation."
An intelligent mind that lived to be the spirit of a transhuman brothel. Alma wasn't sure whether to feel pity or jealousy.
"I like what I do," said the robot, watching Alma's expression. "And who. Please proceed to room number four whenever you are ready."
Alma walked away, looking at the people lounging around. She was a little surprised they weren't anonymized. The fact that she was here was public knowledge, then. A griffin couple splashed in the water like ducks, and some kind of burning demon lounged nearby with a Bloody Mary in its claws. A weatherbeaten old man hesitated at the door of a hut, then headed back toward Kinky to reconsider. Maybe Alma would meet them again and have a laugh about being here, or pretend they'd never crossed paths.
Room four was built into the cavern wall. Alma pushed open the door, feeling her pulse quicken, and saw only a privacy-aiding blur. She stepped through.
A shiver ran through her. Her fur was gone, she stood inches taller, and her suddenly male human body was reacting to the nude lady sprawled across the huge bed.
"Back to what you were?" asked the woman, stretching her long, toned limbs.
"How do you know that?" Alma's face burned.
She patted the bed and gave Alma a wonderfully teasing smile. "I have access to your record, while you're here. Many people try switching sexes at some point. Don't feel bad about it."
Alma walked over to her, entranced, and sat. The lady wrapped her arms around Alma and settled lightly onto the uploader's lap.
Alma said, "I wanted to... to compare, before doing anything weird. To see whether I still like this."
"I'd say so," said Alma's partner, reaching down.
A while later Alma shifted, getting lighter and softer under Kinky's avatar, feeling Kinky hold on with stronger arms and gradually push her down onto the bed. Alma gasped as the former lady started to rub across Alma's swelling chest.
Alma stared up into Kinky's grinning face. "Starting to like this better!"
The native kissed her. "You're surprised to have mixed-up desires after less than one season in Talespace?"
It was tough to think with Kinky on her, but Alma said, "Am I a hypocrite? In my past life, I didn't want to climb into bed with a man and..." She gave a little gasp. "Do that. Was it dishonest to ask for a gradual mental shift to enjoy this, when I wasn't willing to try it before?"
Kinky smelled only vaguely warm and sweaty, part of that flawed sense of smell and taste that made every experience a little unreal. He moved atop Alma, saying, "A little. You wanted to try this, but you didn't want it while you were male. Different plumbing now. You're not trying to change your preferences by will alone either. Got a new face in the mirror, new hormones and all."
Alma had kept away from this side of her new life. Sex had no consequences but attachment to someone, and this person wouldn't even remember her. It might be meaningless... but it was increasingly tough to care, for now.
"We all change," said Kinky, and kissed Alma full on the lips. "So tell me what you want now."
Alma told him, a little louder than she'd intended. |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 17 | They went through a couple of stranger encounters, including breaking in Alma's new squirrelly body and trying something biologically implausible -- and simply sitting and talking, while cuddled together. Some happy hours later the two relaxed, abandoning the well-used bed for two chairs and a table covered with dice, cards and plastic pieces. Alma had returned to what passed for her real body now, soft and grey-furred.
Alma laid down a card. "I get to build here and here," she said in triumph, placing some game pieces. "Which gives me back the Longest Road bonus, which puts me at a winning ten points. Now take off your shirt."
Kinky stripped off his shirt with sensuous grace and tossed it aside. "It could take a while before either of us is nude, you know, and time's running short."
Alma looked admiringly at her companion's bare chest and started cleaning up the game board. "I owe Gerard an apology for being so eager to get here."
"Who?"
Alma sighed. "You really will forget me. It'll be like we didn't talk, and do all those other things."
The native AI reached across the table and kissed Alma's outstretched, fuzzy hand. "But the memory of our time together will stay with you. If you return, I'll remember it all, and I won't call you a pervert. Only a nerd."
Alma giggled. "Thank you, for everything. I understand a little better how life works here. Why doesn't Talespace advertise this place more to Earth?"
"Besides shame and taboo? It seems shallow to many people. Empty fantasy experiences, without learning or growth. They say the same about uploading in general."
Alma shook her head at that notion. "I can recreate my old body, but I can't go back to what I was. I don't think I want to." She leaned over the table to peer at Kinky. "Have you ever gone to Earth, with a robot?"
"A few times, to see what it was like. Dark and romantic, but I've only dipped my toes into the place. I suspect it's as deep as you care to explore."
"Here, too," said Alma. She stood and rested one hand on the AI's shoulder. "Before I go, um..."
He stood up too and wrapped one arm low around her waist. "One more round? Madam, I'd like nothing better. I have my own favorite kinks, and one of them is a visitor who thinks to question how it all works, even while they're in bed with me." He ruffled her ears. "Nerd." |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 18 | After her next day of work, Alma came home and flopped face-first onto her bed. The students had been just bright enough to invent new ways of disrupting the class.
She wrote on the desk's notepad. "Ludo: Mind visiting in an hour? I want to ask about housing, and about uploading students like mine." She showered, walked out with a towel around her chest, and saw a reply in silver ink.
"Alma: find or build a home yourself! You'd be bored if I simply created one. As for the other topic, come see me on the tenth floor."
Alma walked out to the balcony overlooking Ivory Tower. Floors nine and ten were a shifting labyrinth of traps and monsters guarding one of Ludo's avatars against casual visitors. Alma wrote, "I have to go there just to talk?"
New words appeared. "You're past the newcomer stage, and this isn't urgent."
Alma shrugged and geared up. Leather jacket, open-toed climbing boots, skirt, belt with pouches and potion clips. Sensible equipment for an upwardly mobile novice adventurer. Not much by way of combat power yet, but she'd managed to combine her "Stone" and "Arrow" elements to hurl rocks harder, especially with her sling-staff.
She went over to the Tower, tapped the checkpoint crystal in the lobby, then went up past the empty fairground, the bookstore, and five floors of university to reach a ninth-floor door marked, "Ludo -- Office Hours Whenever". A few cartoons about robots in freefall and a holographic koala were taped to the door. Beyond the door was a maze. A din of giant gears greeted her, and gremlins patrolled in the distance. Alma steeled herself and went ahead. |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 19 | Alma kicked in the final door and brandished her staff, but only an office lay ahead. Ludo sat there as a woman in a frumpy dress, saying, "Miss Alma! Good job on your entrance exam. Catch."
Alma recognized the thrown bottle as a healing potion, and held her nose to chug it. She coughed and wiped her mouth, saying, "You got the taste of cough syrup right." Her cuts and burns faded. "Why are these things awful?"
"Part of the penalty for getting hurt and not making friends with a healer. Some players are requesting a kind of temporary purgatory when you die, to make life-saving more meaningful. What's your opinion?"
Alma tossed the empty bottle through a basketball hoop next to Ludo's cluttered desk, above a trash can. A happy noise played. Alma smiled and said, "Not now. I'll let you know if I get too upset about not suffering." To her surprise, Alma found the risk of "death" was roughly to her taste: brief pain, a trudge back from her last checkpoint, and a lingering ache. It was just enough hardship to reinforce her instincts to fear and fight. In her more philosophical days before uploading, she'd worried that Talespace would seem too simple and easy. "How come I haven't got squirrelly senses and timidity yet, anyway?"
Ludo said, "I didn't rewrite your brain. Mental changes are going to be a headache for humanity in the coming years, and I try to avoid big ones. You've actually seen a few people who've had significant changes to undo certain... problems. If you want to explore that animal theme, you could look into getting an improved sense of balance or other experimental mind upgrades. Seek out Misha the Artificer." She shrugged. "The changes won't truly be based on your supposed new species, since I haven't studied squirrel brains in detail. I do know a lot about rats, though; I uploaded several before any human."
Alma flopped onto a beanbag chair. "Mental upgrades are why I'm here." Alma explained her work with the Basic kids and Hernandez's wish for them to be independent people in an independent nation. "Could you do that for them? I can donate what little Earthside money I've got now to the cause."
Ludo rested her head on her hands. "My creators ran me through many practice simulations to see what I'd do, and what problems I'd face. In some scenarios, uploading proved impossible, so I focused on humanitarian programs with my game profits. Sometimes it did technically work but... things went wrong." She shuddered. "Or I was desperate to save everyone at the cost of all honesty and legality, and humans pulled the plug on me. Or I started a religion on purpose. Or through sheer ignorance, I started the Last War. My creators had to patch my completed code twelve times."
"You were doing too much in the simulations?" asked Alma.
"No. Over and over, no matter what I did, I watched billions of humans suffer and die when I knew, in theory, how to help them. My makers realized I had a heart when they diagnosed that it was breaking."
Alma's tail drooped to the floor. "I'm sorry."
The AI forced a smile. "I've learned, and been programmed, to be upbeat. What I can do is better than nothing. Especially if I can thwart any AIs less 'friendly', ie. sane from a human perspective. I may not be wholly sane to you, but humanity could've built something far worse, and probably not much better."
"Then, here's something you can do. You can save my students from a life of mediocrity or worse."
Ludo stood and paced. "I could, but think. I'm trying to maximize my players' fun and to some extent, everyone's. Given limited resources, should I try to upload the slaves of some impoverished dictatorship who want my help as soon as they learn about it, or citizens of one of the richest and freest countries?"
"That's a trick question," Alma said. "Those people I met in Africa were poor, but they didn't seem miserable. I've met rich folks who were having less fun with their lives."
Ludo smiled. "You get it. My friends there give each other hope so that they're not rushing to abandon Earth. They wait until they really need it, like you did. What about your Basic students? They don't play Thousand Tales, and they don't seem miserable or oppressed."
Indeed they didn't. Just oblivious to how they were never going to be more than low-level factory workers, or janitors, or clerks, at best slightly cheaper than robots. "But they could be better. Can you work with the consent of legal guardians?"
"I can, and I suppose I will if I'm paid and there's consent. But again, why push their families into this? Are they unhappy? Or is it that you're unhappy they exist?"
Alma leaned forward and clutched the desk. "I know, I know, it sounds like I'm making decisions for other people, in the Free States of all places. But who's going to take care of the Basic kids? Used to be, they'd be farmhands or lever-pullers, but most of those jobs are gone. In my country, when we're not being hypocritical about it, we reject the idea of forced charity as an oxymoron. We've got lots of private charity and social pressure to give, but will that last when uploading is an option and some new crisis hits?" Alma sighed in frustration. "If we can get somebody to foot the bill, and get the families' permission, can you upgrade my students once they're here? Then send them out to work as robots?"
Ludo turned to look at a poster showing Earth with inscrutable notation and ominous "!" flags in dozens of spots. "Probably. I've studied brains intensively, as you can imagine. My researchers improved both the uploading process and the data format your mind uses, so I can run you guys now at a fraction of the original price. In the process we've studied the extremes of very smart and very stupid brains. Which have little to do with morality or wisdom, by the way."
"You know how intelligence works, then! What's the secret?" Alma's ears perked to learn it.
"It's more than one thing. Bach wasn't a physicist, and Einstein wasn't a great musician. Same for stupidity: I know several specific types of retardation, some of which would take major revision to fix. With some of your students I'd basically be replacing their identity. Can't do that. Last year there was a guy who demanded a major personality rewrite; that was a thorny problem."
Alma said, "Some, though. You could save some of these kids, and make my country stronger for it."
Ludo turned and fixed Alma with a glare powered by thousands of machines in concert. "They don't need 'saving', human. Every one of them has moral worth. You are stupid compared to me. Yet your opinions and choices matter because you're an individual soul, with a unique perspective that can have ideas I didn't consider. If you treat other humans like obstacles to get rid of, you betray the freedom and independence you claim to stand for."
Alma looked down, ashamed, and turned to leave. "Am I only pushing for the creation of new slave plantations, then, full of indentured servants who didn't ask for the gift we sold them?"
"Don't feel too bad," Ludo said, and sighed. "There's no perfect solution, and plenty of people think I'm a monster. You see what sort of game I must play, every day, on many boards at once?"
Alma paused in the doorway. "You once told me what the best case scenario was, but you didn't say 'plausible'. What do you think will happen?"
"Ask me in a few years," said Ludo, glancing at the map where the nations were shaded in murky blue and green. Alma then noticed that she also had a map of the solar system. |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 20 | "Insidious." Alma sat in the university library, looking up from a magic book at the other magic-users who'd gathered to study on one of the balconies. The Library of Babel filled several floors of the Tower with its sweeping, airy crystal walkways, labyrinthine shelves, and alarming lack of safety rails.
"What is?" asked a man in a wizardly blue robe and straw hat.
"Shaman specialization." Alma held up one hand to show the "World" mark on her fur. "I assumed that these marks would get stronger and more varied in what I can use them for, but they mostly get more specialized with use. If I improve "Arrow" for instance, it'll become good for spells involving literal arrows, or manipulating directions, or launching things, but not all three."
A lady who'd really gotten into the shaman role, with feathers and bones and other tribal stereotype stuff, said, "Well yeah. It's for game balance. You can't master every spell. Get some general marks too if you want specialties plus some variety."
"That's what I've been wondering about," said the blue-robed one. He tapped his wizardry manual, which was only novel-sized. "There are Byzantine rules to my magic system, too, but the complexity's bound to run out before long. I can only do so much with it."
Alma reconsidered the shamanic rules for crystals and wands and whatnot. One could spend a lifetime becoming really good at chess, too, but there were diminishing returns. She'd lost interest in chess after thinking herself decent at it, then losing to a drunken college classmate. "Couldn't you say that about physics, though?"
The wizard said, "There are hard limits on physics, but those are just how the natural universe works. We haven't run out of things to invent, either. These magic rules are only here to amuse us, and they don't really do anything but adjust bits of data."
In Alma's youth, game addicts sometimes raced to reach the highest experience level, then quit or reset because there were no more worlds to conquer. She said, "We're like kids building towers of blocks, knocking them down, and starting over. It hasn't sunk in because we're all new here."
The shaman laughed at them. "Call up your magic interface and distill this conversation into the element of Angst! If we all go nuts in a century and do something totally different, so what? Living for another century, hell, a million years, is an option now!"
As glad as Alma was to be alive, the thought of what she might become in even a hundred years of self-serving adventures and sex and mind-bending, terrified her. What if she lost sight of the person she'd been?
"At least your 'World' mark should be easy to customize," the shaman said, lounging across her chair. She raised one leg to show off a swirly mark. "See this 'Door' element? I use it for teleportation. I had to pick between that or more of a magic lockpicking power. Tough choice. For you, you can just specify 'Talespace' for 'World'."
Alma gave a wan smile. "Exactly. If I narrow my vision to define the world as this place alone, I'll get fun magic powers. Excuse me a moment." She left her gear on the balcony and ventured toward the bookshelves, looking for something she'd been reminded of.
"You look determined," said a bipedal deer with glasses. "Can I help you?"
"A copy of de Tocqueville, please. Could you just summon it or something? I don't feel like playing Dewey Decimal right now."
"As you wish." The librarian drew a pattern of runes in the air, and a leather-bound book appeared.
Alma thanked her and returned to the others. "Democracy In America. There's a chapter about how a future government could degrade people while still having democratic elections."
The shaman rolled her eyes. "You sound like one of those Texan anarchist fundies."
Alma persisted, reading aloud. "I have no fear that they will meet with tyrants in their rulers, but rather guardians. An immense and tutelary power, which takes upon itself alone to secure their gratifications, and to watch over their fate. That power is absolute, minute, regular, provident, and mild. It would be like the authority of a parent, if, like that authority, its object was to prepare men for manhood; but it seeks on the contrary to keep them in perpetual childhood. It is well content that the people should rejoice, provided they think of nothing but rejoicing. Sound familiar?"
The shaman-marked lady said, "That's pretty ungrateful. We're free to do whatever we want."
The robed wizard sat with his head on his hands, looking thoughtful. "Nineteenth century, wasn't it?"
Alma said, "1830s or so. De Tocqueville worried that people would let one big authority dictate every aspect of their lives as long as they got to pick their overseer every so often. They'd get so cozy thinking of themselves as a tribe that they'd blur the line between the individual and the group, making it seem okay to let a group rule them absolutely. In the real world that fear led to secession, twice. In Talespace, I see the cliques forming already. I'm being encouraged to play with them and let Miss Fun-and-Games handle nasty old Earth because it's so complicated." She set the book down and paced. "But Earth still matters. If we die in real life, we die in the game, too!"
The wizard said, "I don't think your history lesson quite applies. I don't feel micromanaged. When I get special attention from Ludo or bend the rules, it's because I asked. All this" -- he waved around at the vast, gleaming library -- "is a framework, not a cage. I do constructive things besides gallivanting around as a fantasy hero; don't you?"
"I teach."
"Nice. That job won't vanish."
The shaman blew off Alma's objection. "If you've really got a problem, leave."
Alma said, "There's got to be some happy medium between the benefits of Talespace and a meaningful life on Earth."
"I'm trying to find one, as well," said the wizard. "We all are."
"I'm not sure Ludo is. She says she cares about everybody, but she's too apathetic about non-players. We can help them without being jerks about it. As long as we treat everybody as an individual and the goal is to prepare them for independence."
If Ludo cared the most about people who'd been connected to her game, then it wasn't hard to point her toward new ones who needed help. |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 21 | In class, Alma used a computer to try setting up a Thousand Tales account for her students. They would become players, and Ludo's code would compel her to start caring more about them. That wouldn't force anything on any of her fellow citizens.
Alma stood in the tent, poking the screen, and nothing happened. The kids fidgeted and giggled. Alma had promised them a surprise if they were good, and they'd taken some interest in her opening lecture about "how brains work". Why couldn't she log on?
In the time she'd been teaching here, she'd never needed to push touchscreen buttons Earthside. The interface didn't recognize her cold, dead hands of metal and plastic.
The boy Stobor stood up and got annoyingly close. It wasn't like he was crowding a real person. "Whatcha doing?"
Alma stumbled back. This body was too clumsy. She switched out of direct control mode and sat in Talespace, operating a robot by buttons and joysticks. "Trying to help you," she said. "Let's take five minutes for recess."
The kids bolted away to play on the grass or sat there like cows. Alma stood and called for somebody in Talespace to hand her a computer.
Accessing any of the Internets from within Talespace, through the absurdity of an in-world tablet, meant going through hell's own firewall. Kai claimed that any machine within their world was relating a story, an approximation, of a real machine it watched Earthside through a camera. There was an "air gap" with no direct connection between Earth and anything secure. At least the main Thousand Tales site was easy to reach from this side.
It showed a montage of fantasy worlds and happy people in classrooms, airships, or wizard labs. (Or all three.) "A world of fun! Setting up a trial account is free and easy."
A trial account for others. Alma's hands trembled on the controls. She just wanted to help these kids, not to force them to live a certain way. Even so, she was the one taking the initiative, trying to push them into a relationship with Ludo that they'd only understand as a game. Who the hell was she to send them down that road, even if she was right to point it out? What reaction would the kids' parents have, if they found out some rodent Pied Piper from another world had been whispering to their children without consulting them first?
Alma shut her eyes and put the computer down. Ludo could have rearranged the Web site to shout at her to stop, but there was no need.
The controls in front of her beeped. She refocused on the robot's screen. In the distance, one of the girls shouted, probably disrupting the other classes. Alma didn't immediately spot her from the robot, so she flicked through the few tablet screens that reported activity. The girl was staring at it, saying, "Where's the treasure? I wanna find more!"
Was that all Alma was good for; setting up vaguely educational games? The kids had at least had fun doing the last one. Alma said, "Sure, I'll let you. But I need you to gather everybody for a minute so I can get ready, okay?"
Alma tapped a command to request a few minutes of double-or triple-time to set something up. While the students corralled each other back to her, Alma scrawled notes in Talespace, sent them to the treasure hunt program, then edited the software itself. Now the kids would need to work together to triangulate treasure signals; maybe she could use that concept for the next day's lesson.
She sent the kids back out like a flock of geese. When Stobor and another boy found one of the "dig sites", Alma picked something from her hasty list and appeared directly on his screen, as a robot holding a picture. "You found an iron crossbow! Do you know where iron comes from?"
"Uh... the ground?" Stobor looked confused. "How'd you get in my screen?"
Alma wiggled her fingers. "Magic!"
Meanwhile, another group had found a spot. Alma flipped her perspective over to their screen and announced that they'd found an Egyptian vase. "What are pots like this made out of?"
"Clay?"
"Good!" Alma rattled off a few facts about pottery, then sent a link to a Simple English article about clay. Then she flipped back to the first bunch and described iron ore and blacksmithing. By then two girls had found a globe, so she talked a little about mapmaking and sent their screens to a map program. A fourth group got her attention. She drew a blank, thought more, then sent a picture of a sturdy anchor chain and facts about pulleys and cranes. When she brought everyone back together in the tent, they were chattering to each other about their discoveries. She had them draw a big ship and squabble over where to store each item and why.
When the day's session was done, Alma flopped backward on the robot pod's bench. It'd been the toughest lesson yet, forcing her to make stuff up and flit around between monitors to tend to each student as needed. But it'd been kind of fun. Maybe the kids had learned something.
She retook control of the robot and headed for Hernandez's office. He was already walking toward her across the open fields, with his tie loosened and an uncertain smile on his face. They met halfway.
Alma said, "Jack, I thought about your suggestion."
"Were you doing that treasure hunt thing again? I saw the kids running around. They looked happy."
"I was improvising. The way I've been teaching just doesn't work well. My personality isn't great for connecting with these kids, but the trouble is deeper than that. I can't look human for them." Alma held out her mechanical arms, showing the stiff fingers.
Hernandez took her hands as though about to dance. "You can make it work." He looked around at the wandering teachers, seeing no one nearby. "Will you take the lead and reach out to their families?"
"No. It has to be you, or someone else on your side. As a teacher, I can offer information and encouragement once someone is interested, but I shouldn't be the one to start them along."
The principal's brow furrowed. "Why? We need you, Alma. Someone has to get the ball rolling."
"That someone has to be part of their community, not a machine. I still want to be part of this world, but any first contact I make will scare them. Get a human to talk with them before me."
"But you're human," he said, shaking her hands in his. "If people don't respect you for what you are, they have to answer to me."
She smiled sadly, though her body couldn't convey it on Earth. "I'm not fully human anymore. I broke away from what I was, and I've been finding new ways to fit in. This life is better in some ways but people have good reason to see me as different and strange. Even if I had a better robot and spent all my time using it, I wouldn't be the same as before. Why pretend?"
Hernandez said, "I don't want you to retreat from reality. Your country still needs you."
"I'll still be in contact. But after this summer, I think it should be in some different capacity. I can be more useful by not trying to teach in the old way."
He leaned closer, searching her blank metal face for the person inside. "I... I can't make you stay. I'll try to support you, and somehow broach the subject of uploading with the parents. But promise me you won't stop existing on Earth."
Alma nodded. "I'll keep coming here. And if you ever want to visit Talespace by VR, or something more, I won't push you but you'll be welcome."
He sighed, stepped away, and ran one hand through his hair. "You can show me around sometime. Not today though. I have things to do here." |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 22 | Brunch at the Hotel Computronium surprised her. Kai showed up in a maitre d' outfit with a white sash around his lower body. He bowed to Alma, Poppy and Gerard as they entered the Viking feast-hall of a buffet room. "Good morning, sir and madames. Would you care to have your entire system of smell and taste replaced before your meal?"
"Huh?" said Gerard.
The centaur said, "A basic mental upgrade is now available, replacing the code that runs those two senses. Before, we were copying the outward form but missing some of the function. Now we finally know how to get it right. In other words, everything will smell and taste better at last."
"I don't want to change my brain to some cyber-thing," Gerard groused.
"You already did. This way, it'll be closer to how it was before. It's reversible if you don't like it."
Alma thought about her nights spent loitering in the bar and grill, working on lesson plans. "But what about your work? You won't be the best cook around without that special understanding and tinkering."
"Designing this upgrade was the point," Kai said with a smile. "Bragging about being the greatest was fun, but now I get credit for being one of the main people who improved the experience for everyone. You were one of my test subjects."
Ludo hadn't given much effort to the problem, because at least one of her Originals was working on it. Similarly, the person she trusted to try outreach in Texas and keep an eye on the Great Oak tribe was... Alma.
Over the last few days Alma had been thinking about teaching differently. Operating a robot like she'd been doing was tolerable if no one else was available, but it'd be better to use her new strengths. Instead of lecturing, she could keep herself available to pop up on this or that screen to give instruction as needed, working with simple AI assistants. It'd be possible to offer a new kind of personal tutoring while minimizing the real-time and robotics cost. She'd already made inquiries about doing that as a private business that'd benefit Ludo in the process.
Alma said, "I'd like that upgrade. Are you going to just hoof it over to us, though? I thought Ludo would --"
Kai stamped, and the floor between him and the buffet fell away. It became a subterranean, steamy maze of doughnut golems and baguette spikes.
"Ah."
Some time later, and after one betrayal and stabbing by Gerard, Alma was the first to reach the Idol of Tung. The golden mouth-and-tongue statue rested on a pedestal of pumpernickel, past a hall lined with asparagus spear traps. Alma was old enough to know the story she was in. "Somebody still got that bag of flour?"
Meanwhile, a sign glowed into existence on the far wall, warning them that this was a mental modification. "I accept," she said while pointing at it. The change would be coming not simply from Ludo the AI with her alien motives, nor from the more biased and human-like Kai, but from a mix of the two. So, too, the future of Earth and Talespace would depend on people inside and outside working together in a thousand different ways.
"I accept," said Poppy beside her. "We'll find fun things to do with this."
"You okay down there?" said Meg, leaning over the obstacle course's walls to watch.
Gerard said, "We'll be fine. I want the upgrade too." He snatched the golden idol, and the inevitable giant cabbage boulder trap killed everyone.
They got it on the second try, though, and went on to have a brunch that crossed species and dimensions. It was the best meal Alma had eaten in this world. There'd be many more things to experience in the years, maybe centuries ahead with her friends. They'd keep in touch.
[ Hooves and Housing ]
One morning, Alma woke up refreshed after strange dreams of flying through ruins. She clutched a warm, fluffy blanket and only slowly recalled that it was her tail. A contented chitter escaped her. She sat up, giggling at the noise. "Best way to wake up."
The hotel room really was getting tiresome though. There was only so much she could take of the hotel buffet even now that the food actually tasted like the real thing. The question was where to move to. The centaur chef would probably offer her a place in his "sanctum" of tents, but she wasn't mentally prepared for having a steady relationship. Maybe someday. Moving to Poppy's world and hanging around with the squirrelfolk might give Poppy the idea Alma was pursuing her as more than a friend, which wasn't the case. Third, she needed to keep commuting to her school job for now, and not go to some hardcore no-teleporting area. Due to a school holiday, Alma had a long weekend to look around.
Alma crawled out of bed and stretched, ears to tail, glad for being alive to have such problems. Alma padded over to the desk's notepad and wrote: "Thank you."
One shower later, Alma had decided to go exploring and steer clear of any existential angst for once. She geared up and walked out to the cavern world of Ivory Tower. Along the way she checked her stats:
─ Alma
─ PRIVATE INFO
─ Account type: Uploader
─ Mind: Tier-III
─ Body: Squirrel, Anthro ("Velesian")
─ Main Skills: Magic, Staff, Climbing, Sling, Enchanting
─ Magic, Shamanic: (Level I) Connection, World, Stone, Arrow
─ Save Point: Hotel Computronium, Lobby
─ PUBLIC INFO
─ Note: "A man's support for absolute government is in direct proportion to the contempt he feels for his country." -De Tocqueville
─ Class: None
She had only seen a few of the worlds of Talespace. Today she headed for a gate to Hoofland to try something completely different. The entryway had its own curving entry-cave along the main cavern's border, similar to Kinky's little brothel empire. The usual dark blueish stone faded here into vibrant grass and flowers. Alma squinted. There was a different graphics filter here that made everything look slightly cartoonish. A giant horseshoe marked the edge of a shimmering world portal. Next to it stood a wooden sign:
"To Hoofland: A world of magic! Enter this portal to become a small, quadrupedal horse! (Deltite cost 0, free change back when exiting.) Follow the starting quest to change from your initial form into a majestic deer, a winged pegasus or one of several other species."
Alma knew that much already. Hoofland had a reputation for being one of the more light-hearted worlds, but there was talk about mental upgrades being involved. It was worth checking out for both reasons, even if it meant having to change species again.
The sign added: "Select a starting kingdom or just enter to reach a random destination. Watch out; your first entry point will be where you arrive each time you enter!"
Alma grinned. Another tricky choice before she'd even entered. There was a row of buttons next to the portal, advertising locales within Hoofland: "Noctis", "Solaire", "Taproot", and "Sky Cavern". It didn't much matter which she chose, though, so she stepped through the warm, rippling portal without picking a target. |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 23 | She landed on all fours with a click of hooves on stone. Alma grinned and looked herself over. She was a grey cartoon horse with an unusually bushy tail. The angle of her vision seemed wider than usual. She tried walking around and stumbled repeatedly in the entry chamber before reaching a door that towered over her. She giggled, trotting in place and saying, "I'm a pony!" Unfortunately her clothes and equipment hadn't come with her, so she was nude. She blushed. It wasn't like anything would show, though; Talespace was kind of prudish about public nudity.
A checkpoint labeled "Crystal of Salvation" hovered in one corner. She pinged it with one hoof.
Alma craned her neck way over to one side and spotted a table holding a golden key to the obvious keyhole on the door. Picking it up with her forehooves was possible, what with her front legs' flexibility and the way her hooves stuck to things as though covered with tape. Walking on her hindlegs was a disaster, though. She tripped and dropped the key. She spent a minute testing how ordinary walking had become so hard in this body, and four-limbed movement much easier.
She had to grab the key in her mouth to get it to the door. "Germs don't exist here," she mumbled as she slid the key into place. At last the door opened, revealing another stone room. She stepped through.
Alma stood on a spiral staircase overlooking a bottomless pit. The stairs wound several floors up to where they faded into daylight. Every few steps hung an animated painting with signage explaining "the wonders of Hoofland" like towering volcanoes, airship battles, and palaces of wood and crystal. There was enough space on the entryway landing to test her hooves some more, but the ascent itself was going to be scary what with the lack of a railing. Why make the entrance this dangerous? she asked herself. She made her way up the stairs, trying to pay attention to the pictures and not to the drop.
As cool as the scenery was, it wasn't unique to Hoofland. Pretty much anywhere in Talespace you could find some trap-filled tombs to explore or monsters to fight. If this slice of the virtual world was going to matter, it'd have to be because of its people or because the quadruped thing was just that appealing, which she doubted. She wasn't going to be dazzled by pretty graphics, at least. Alma's thoughts helped her make it safely to the top, where an easily-opened door took her to a sunny hilltop.
Around her stretched a town at a desert's edge, where an oasis gleamed. A castle of obsidian and blue marble stood on another low hill overlooking a land of stone houses and palm trees. The sky was filled with pegasi, airships, hot-air balloons, and buildings with clouds for foundations or even made of clouds. A ray of orange light with silver streaks whirled continuously up from the castle like a spotlight. Ivory Tower was huge, but this place was aggressively surreal.
Words brushed themselves onto her vision, and a fanfare played. You have discovered the Harvest Queendom: The Land of Lamp and Moon.
Alma shook her head and started walking again. There were no roads on the hill, but a two-story sandstone building had shaded canopies that seemed to wave to her as the sun beat down. A wooden sign with a fruit design marked it as the Mango Inn.
The inn had a dining room by the front desk. A bat-like pegasus with leathery wings and slitted golden eyes trotted downstairs from the balcony, with a broom in her muzzle. "Hi!" she mumbled, and spat it out. "Let me guess. Recent uploader?"
Alma nodded. "Are brooms necessary in Hoofland?"
"You mean is there dirt? Dust, more like. You have to put effort into maintaining things or they get unpleasant, then broken." She grinned, exposing cute little fangs, and tapped her head with one hand. "The name's Double Mango. Uploader. Before I give you the spiel, you want I should skip the roleplaying stuff and just tell you what to do?"
"No, let's hear the storyline."
"Sure. Ahem! Welcome, traveler! This is the town of Noctis, in the Harvest Queendom, of western Hoofland. If you feel destiny's call in this magical land, you should visit our queen. All hail Harvest Moon! She will grant part of her magic to newcomers who prove that they've started making friends."
Alma grinned at the anticipation of a quest. "Sounds more fun than 'kill five slimes'. How do I prove I've made friends?"
"You must learn the names and some information about at least three people of different races."
"That's more like 'acquaintances' than 'friends'."
Mango shrugged her wings. "It's a start."
"Are you busy, then? I actually am curious about what running an inn here is like. A friend of mine's a cook at a place called Thousand Ales."
Her pointy ears perked. "You mean Kai Appian? The man behind the Great Taste Upgrade?"
"Is that what we're calling it? Kai had me and some friends try out the smell-and-taste upgrade before it came out, but I don't think he was the only one working on the project."
The bat-pony nodded. "The upgrade is out? I must've missed the announcement. Do you mind if I run off?"
"Sure, but he made us do a dungeon crawl for it."
Mango's ears drooped again. "Oh. Might take a while then, so I'll wait. You need your quest info. It should be enough for you to know I'm a former actress, and I bought up this lot so I could meet lots of newcomers."
Alma said, "Do you do much cooking?"
"Nah, I buy from the chefs downhill. But I haven't had a good meal since I uploaded! It's all been bland, you know?"
"I'll let you get going. You sound eager to get the upgrade." Alma started to turn away, bumping her tail into the door.
"Thanks. Stop by later and I'll cook something! Oh, and try Onyx's bakery to meet a unicorn, and the Zen Farm if you want to befriend a strange earthbound. The regular type of horse, I mean."
Alma thanked Mango and trotted outside, then glanced back. Mango whooshed through the air just over Alma's ears and soared toward the world portal, in search of the taste upgrade. Alma smiled and shut the door behind her. It'd only been around a subjective month for Alma and she'd already gotten tired of the near-flavorless food, so someone who'd lived in Talespace for longer must be eager for the improvement. Kai had boasted that when the public announcement went out, there'd been such a rush for the upgrade that there was lag in the feasting-hall he'd used for the occasion.
She kept going downhill toward the town and closer to the castle, looking for other equines. The colorful population was mostly concentrated below. When a strong-looking stallion went by hauling a wagon full of logs, Alma turned and followed his slow pace uphill. "Excuse me? You're one of the 'earthbound' ones, right?" No wings, horns or other fancy parts.
"Yup," drawled the stallion, and kept walking.
"I'm looking to meet other ponies. Got a minute?"
"Nope."
Alma left him alone and kept going. A trio of brightly-colored unicorns trotted by, chattering, and ignored Alma. A pegasus soared overhead, seeming not to hear her either.
"NPCs," she said aloud. "This world's full of fake background characters." Hoofland was a dollhouse where only a few real people played. Why else had Mango named specific places to go?
Alma shook her head and felt her mane tickle her neck. No angst this weekend. She kept walking.
"Are you all right, ma'am?" said a voice from above. The pegasus hovering there with slow wingbeats had sky-blue eyes and a similar mane and tail on a grey coat.
"Are you real?" Alma waved one hoof around at the seemingly bustling town. "There're all these..."
"Backgrounders," he said, with a note of disdain. "Some of the townsfolk are better than that, though; they're a Cluster Intelligence or CI, with one real mind controlling multiple bodies. So, ma'am, don't presume the whole town is fake."
"Reminds me of 'P-zombies'. Creatures with outward signs of being human, but nothing inside." That was an old philosophy argument some people still used against uploading. Sure, Alma could jump up and down insisting she had real feelings and thoughts, but the skeptics insisted that it meant nothing, because a fake mind would pretend to care, too. The idea sounded to Alma like a crazy man's excuse for killing the 'blood-filled mannequins' surrounding him on Earth.
"You know the term?" The pegasus looked impressed. He landed and held out his right forehoof. "I'm Sterling, a native."
She wasn't sure how to shake hooves, so she gently bumped his with hers. "Alma. Recent uploader. I've got nothing against AIs with a brain, so no offense. If anything, it's nice to know that this world doesn't revolve around me."
"Good! Looking for friends and your destiny, right? You can list me. I'm what passes for a banker."
Alma tilted her head. "You do currency exchange with Earth?"
"Sometimes. Also loans and trades between Talespace currencies. We have a bank heist or stagecoach robbery every month or so too; that's fun."
She grinned. Being shot by bandits just meant he'd have a quest to recover the loot. "There must be complicated tax rules for handling Earthside players' money. I used to buy a few things in Talespace with real money, but never really thought about the implications of it being more than a game." She was more troubled by the thought that since she was officially dead, "her" Earth money was really held by Ludo.
Sterling sheepishly scratched one ear with a wing. "I leave the details to others. I'm a generalist. Also, I'm technically three years old."
Alma felt a bit weirded out. "I guess you're mature. We're just not used to the idea of minds springing forth fully-formed, outside of myths."
"Myths?"
"Yes, like Athena or Aphrodite or the Titans."
"I should look into those. I'm afraid I'm still quite ignorant of Earth even after meeting your kind. I don't get out much, as you can imagine."
"It's fine. We're all learning."
Sterling nodded. "Just so. If you'd like to visit sometime and speak more about the Outer Realm..." He chuckled. "I'm around."
"Thanks." Alma took her leave and wandered the streets, heading in the castle's general direction. This district seemed friendlier, or just more populated with real minds. She got smiles and waves from strangers. The castle's dark walls stood out in the distance, near a waterfall.
A heavenly scent of chocolate-chip cookies distracted her from trying to chat up anyone else. She trotted into a large cottage with a chef hat for a roof. Inside, a black unicorn behind the counter was using his glowing horn to levitate trays out of the oven. "Just in time!" he said.
Alma breathed deeply through big equine nostrils. "You must be excited about the taste upgrade."
The unicorn's ears drooped. He pointed to a sign on the wall:
"Onyx Bakery FAQ: Baker is probably not emigrating to Hoofland for decades if ever. Baker has a good career and does not need sympathy. Baker would much rather discuss Hoofland. Thanks!"
Alma said, "Sorry. So you're Onyx? Double Mango mentioned you."
"That's me."
"I haven't got money on me right now." Alma patted her bare flanks. "Do you charge?"
"Of course." Onyx's expression brightened and he floated a cookie over to her with a pale glow around it, matching his horn's. "This one's free."
Alma sat and took it carefully between her forehooves, sniffed, and devoured it. "You sure got the taste right. Thanks!"
"Newcomer, eh? You haven't got saddlebags yet, and you're still a generic character. Sorry if I make a bad first impression. I spend most of my time in Talespace hanging around with other casual players like me. I have a good regular crowd." He glanced toward a cluster of empty tables across the room. "At night."
Alma had noticed a few other shops. "The city's mostly nocturnal, then?"
"Yes. If you're doing the 'destiny' thing, you'll have to wait until nightfall, although the time rate in here isn't consistent with the real world's. If you want a more conventional fantasy area, try Midgard."
"Eh. That was the main area I played in before uploading, so I've already done generic fantasy. What is there to do around here until dark?"
Onyx said, "Best to head out of town and do some adventuring. Not while you're naked and unarmed and without a species, though."
Alma frowned. "In that case I should leave to fetch my money."
"Fair enough. See you around."
Alma headed back toward the portal to Ivory Tower, but a burly green horse-guy galloped up after her, calling out, "Hold on, miss! Leaving so soon?"
She looked him over, skeptically. "I'm just going back for my stuff. I'm not sure how you carry things across."
"That's just it. Most things don't cross over unless they're in a world-appropriate container. So you need saddlebags, like these." He craned his neck around to reach the leather bags slung across his back, and improbably pulled out an equal-sized set that he tossed toward her. "You can borrow these."
"You happened to have a spare set?" Alma said.
"I'm well-prepared!" said the stallion, beaming. "And if you'd like to borrow some money --"
"That's all right." Alma fumbled with the saddlebags and yelped as they flicked themselves over her back and fastened under her with a buckle. "What was that?"
"Oh, they do that automatically. Reach for the buckle to remove 'em."
Alma did, to prove she wasn't wearing cursed horse stuff. She slipped the saddlebags back on and wriggled to get them settled comfortably, though supporting weight "forward" on her back felt strange. "Thanks. Can I carry money from Ivory Tower in these?"
"Sure."
"And then I'll need to find the banker again, then an equipment shop." She only had the four-day weekend before work, and much less subjective time than that, and there was class planning to do. Wouldn't be enough time for a thorough immersion in Hoofland yet, so she'd just do the intro quest for now.
The stallion said, "He's easy to find. See you around, I guess?" There was a blush on his muzzle.
Why do I attract horse-people? thought Alma. "Yeah. I'll be back." |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 24 | She landed on all fours in the Ivory Tower area, naked and squirrelly. Her clothes, backpack and hip pack had been neatly stacked on a corner shelf, and the saddlebags were fastened ridiculously around her waist.
Alma stood up, wobbled to figure out her balance again, then removed the bags and dressed. Why not bring me back with my clothes on? Oh, I get it: it's coordination practice.
The portal stood ready to take her back, but she decided to wait until nightfall. Hoofland's friendship theme struck her as desperate, meant to forge a community out of people who would rather have a crowd of NPCs around. Poppy's squirrel-cult thing had a shared race and values to hold it together, and Alma wasn't sure telekinetic unicorns and flying pegasi and whatnot could have the same bond. Especially since Hoofland was also trying to bridge the Earth/Talespace gap. Ivory Tower and Midgard had the same awkwardness about Earthside shopkeepers and people popping in and out of local reality, but they didn't try to maintain a strong roleplaying culture. Did the equines have some social bond she hadn't seen yet?
Alma headed for Thousand Ales to work on a lesson plan for her next class, and to tease Kai about meeting a generous stallion. |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 25 | As she guessed, Hoofland worked on the same time rate as Ivory Tower, around three Earthside hours to one local. Alma waited until what should be evening (not that Ivory Tower's stone sky gave much indication) before heading back to four hooves. She'd timed it well: night fell just as she started down the hillside path. A silver moon had risen amid unfamiliar stars. Won't be many astrophysicists trained here, thought Alma as she trotted into town.
She reached the now-bustling bakery again, walked a little farther, and truly saw the castle for the first time. The walls of obsidian and blue marble shined with moonlight, and the waterfall she'd spotted was one of several that flowed out of the castle towers and streamed down into a moat of lotus-blooms and herons.
The words You have discovered Noctis Castle: Capital of the Night flowed into her vision, and an orchestral swell dueled with the murmur of the waterfalls. Alma smiled; the music was a subtle reference to Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, the standard spooky castle song.
Her hooves thunked on a wooden drawbridge. Guards with spiked horseshoes or unicorn-levitated spears watched her enter a courtyard of obsidian and moonstone. Alma, inspired, began composing a geology lecture weaving together volcanoes, caravans and gem-cutters. But would her slow-witted "Basic" students understand any of it? Would long-time Hooflanders get the appeal of crystal structures as macro-scale expressions of molecular bonds, a window into the hidden nano-scale world that had helped unveil DNA and nanotubes? They probably dug up huge gems already cut and polished, because that's how mining worked in fiction. Pearls before ponies.
Alma stopped walking and slapped her muzzle with one hoof. Ow. Quit being an elitist jerk. You're a teacher. Making people see what you see is your job!
She reached a hall that ended in a vast silver door, and she banged into the last horse standing in line. Alma staggered back, making a face. "Sorry!"
The stocky yellow mare ahead turned, looking more curious than annoyed. "Careful. New to hooves?"
Alma nodded, feeling her head bob on her long neck. "There's a line to meet the queen?"
"There's only one of her. All hail Harvest Moon!"
"All hail Harvest Moon!" echoed down the line.
"So we're using all this technology --"
"Magic," the mare said.
"To simulate bureaucracy," Alma said.
"Oh, not at all! Our queen cares deeply for every one of her subjects." She beamed. "I'm Golden Scale, by the way."
"What do people come here for?"
The great door opened, the line lurched forward, and a unicorn trotted out with a grin. Mist obscured the room beyond.
Golden Scale said, "Legal disputes, weddings, dragon attacks, and of course what you're here for. The Rite of Destiny! Are you nervous? Have you decided what to be?"
Alma was a little taken aback by the mare's beatific smile. "I was thinking pegasus. Will I be able to fly right away?"
"A little. You also have my tribe, the earthbound, as an option, since we're friends."
"We are?"
Scale nodded. "Sure! It's easy to make friends here. A fact for when you're quizzed: I might not look it, but I'm the top-scoring spear carrier against dragons attacking Noctis. Not even he can say that!" She pointed at one of the door guards, who grunted.
"You're a battle sidekick?"
"I do a lot of things. But yes, I help more powerful heroes protect the town. It's fun! If you want to learn about flying combat, look up my brother Meteor."
They chatted for a few minutes about teaching and gems and dragons, until it was Scale's turn for an audience. She hesitated in the doorway. "Hmm... I think I'll skip this session after all. Good seeing you, miss! I'll be around." She cantered away, leaving the guards tapping their hooves impatiently and glaring at Alma. She hurried forward through the mist.
The room of Queen Harvest Moon (all hail) swirled with the same fog. It pooled and splashed with Alma's hoofsteps on the blue carpet leading across the chamber and up a few stairs. Torches along the walls kept the mist at bay around the tall silver throne, where a round cushion held a deep orange mare with a tiara.
"Well met," said the queen.
Alma stood on the royal carpet, dwarfed by the throne room and the virtual nation it represented. Though her weird horse knees twitched, she stayed upright. Texans... No, free people don't bow. She said, "Hello. My name is Alma."
Harvest Moon tilted her head and smiled. "That's it? I don't mind, but I do usually hear more from newcomers. Even those unattuned to the ways of Hoofland, who'd rather 'get on with it'."
Unattuned...? Oh. Non-roleplayers. "Are you Ludo?"
"Ha! I have a running bet with my colleagues over who's asked that more often. No, newcomer, I am but a Noble, a former human blessed with the magic of fate. What shall yours be? Tell me of the people you've met."
Alma spoke of Golden Scale, Onyx, Sterling, and Double Mango.
The queen said, "Earthbound, unicorn, pegasus, noctral. You have four choices of tribe, then. Overachiever."
Scale had made sure that Alma had "earthbound" as a racial option, but hadn't asked whether Alma knew any pegasi. Alma began to suspect why. She asked, "Have I been talking to one hive-mind this entire time?"
The queen hopped down from her throne and laughed. "Two of those you named are part of Noctis' town spirit." Her pale mane and tail shined as though catching the moonlight from outside the room.
"Golden Scale and Sterling. So they're that 'Cluster Intelligence', a genius loci?"
"Indeed! Noctis has taken an interest in you. They do get the occasional crush."
Alma sputtered. "Your whole town is attracted to me?"
"Just a hundred or so people."
"Oh dear."
"Horses. For deer you'll want to travel to Queen Bluerose's domain to the south."
"That's. Uh." Alma shook her head. "Your majesty, could I be a pegasus? I'd love to try flying."
"Of course. Colors?"
Alma liked having a mane after having been in her squirrel-body with no human-style hair. "Blond mane and tail, blue... no, gold eyes, and stick with a greyish coat."
"Very well. Hold still."
A beam of soft light shot down onto Alma and transformed her. As the warm glow faded, she felt new muscles spreading along her back, and looked sidelong at her growing wings. "Ah!" The feathers were grey with a hint of gold, stretching amazingly far to either side. She wasn't quite sure how to reel her wings back in, and only gradually figured out how to flex them.
The queen hovered now, enveloped in a silver aura that gave her a ghostly unicorn horn and pegasus wings that shed fading feathers with each beat. She studied Alma for a while before speaking. "There are several possible paths ahead for you, Ratatosk. I wonder which one you'll take."
[ Valhalla and Midgard ]
Alma's wings shot out to either side as though ready to bolt into the sky. "Ratatosk, the inexplicable Norse-religion squirrel who runs up and down the World Tree connecting the nine worlds, carrying rumors?"
"A good name," said Queen Harvest Moon, hovering there with lazy flaps of her own ghostly wings. "You seem to have an affinity for it."
"How do you know what I've been doing outside Hoofland?"
"Have you forgotten where you live?" the queen teased. "I have time magic to make each audience last as long as necessary, and mind magic for easy awareness of public information about my guests."
The new pegasus watched her warily. "Subjective time compression and mental upgrades, you mean."
The queen's phantom wings and horn faded, leaving her still crowned but otherwise normal for her species. "Why not call those magic? Some of us even use filter spells to swap the words automatically."
"People change their brains for the sake of immersive roleplaying?" said Alma, feeling her tail twitch with unease.
"In a sense. If you lived here you could become a true pegasus to master flight or even walking, more thoroughly than you can as a natural biped. There are other benefits as well. I can tell that's not for you, today, but do think it over. Is there more I can do for you today, Ratatosk?"
Alma didn't challenge the name. "If I lived here, how would I get a house? And would I be free to come and go to my Earthside job?"
"Ask around about rental homes. I'm sure a hundred or so locals will be happy to set you up. With company, if you like." Harvest Moon winked. "Since you're a pegasus you should definitely look into the cloud-weaver's art, too; you could build a home in the sky. As for needing permission to leave, I'm offended. Do I look like some manner of evil overlord?"
Alma looked around the misty stone chamber where torches shone on obsidian tiles and the nocturnal queen who wanted to rewrite Alma's brain.
The queen smiled. "In truth, you can go at any time, though as an uploader you're now required to leave through the designated portals unless it's an emergency. You can't just log out."
Alma stepped away from the silver throne. "Thank you, then. It's been interesting. I need time to think. Oh, and your majesty: where is all this heading? I mean, are you planning to be the eternal queen of this place, or to step down and visit other parts of Talespace?"
Harvest Moon scuffed at the floor with one hoof, looking thoughtfully down. "You're a newcomer, and I know little about you. Why don't you explore our lands at your own pace and try to learn our ways? This place is home for us, and potentially for you as well." She met Alma's eyes again. "Tell me: In what do you have faith?"
"Faith? I try to avoid it."
"Ah, a hard-headed rationalist? Yet your background shows that you believe in something beyond the need for a warm bed and a good meal, neither of which you technically need here."
Alma thought of many arguments she'd had about religion and politics. "I believe in trying to survive and build a happy, prosperous society. That Free States background you're looking into shows I understand that liberty's an important part of that goal. It's why I'm prickly about the whole Talespace experience. And about royalty."
"I see," the queen said. "You interest me. Learn about this land, and come back some evening. We shall have dinner." |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 26 | Alma rented a room at the Mango Inn rather than return to her main home in Ivory Tower. Spending a night as a horse seemed like a learning experience. She carefully climbed a set of broad stairs to a room where her hooves made the boards creak. A bookshelf perched above the simple cushion and blanket-pile of a bed.
Alma reached out for a book, bonked a hoof against it, and recalled what she was. She had to wobble on her hindlegs and snag the volume with her mouth, noticing her lack of slobber. It fell out of her square, flat teeth and dropped open next to the bed. Alma shrugged and settled onto the cushion, then tugged a blanket over her with her mouth.
Love Your Wings: Preening For Beauty and Performance, read the title. Alma gradually worked out how to turn pages with the sticky magnet-like effect of her hooves. The book said that much like dusting a room to refill some hidden maintenance meter, a pegasus' wings needed brushing and oiling to look good and fully enable flight. Alma poked her muzzle with one hoof as she realized she'd walked all the way back up here without trying her new wings.
She was surprised to see the little bump of a preening gland hidden under each of her wings, once the illustrations pointed them out. Apparently this was a private detail of pegasus anatomy, similar to how her body was G-rated except now that she was in private and thinking about it. She vaguely recalled that real birds' glands were near their tails, and was glad for this bit of inaccuracy. Alma nosed under one wing and tried brushing a bit of waxy stuff from there onto her feathers, using her muzzle. The touch tickled her feathers and made her wings stretch out like long-unused muscles.
She'd never had to clean anything in other parts of Talespace. The only real maintenance tasks she'd had to do were going on little dungeon crawls to earn money to pay her bar-and-grill tab (since Kai's place charged), and the time when she'd rented an Earthside robot and the last user left it stinking and dirty. Wasn't it just busywork to make people clean and fix things, in a world where dust and damage were fictional?
Alma was still thinking about it as she went outside. I've been too focused on the implications and not on the part about having feathers! She smiled, banged her new limbs painfully on the inn's doorframe, and staggered out to return to the hilltop where the world-portal was. From there she give her wings a good flap. Wind stirred and the wings swirled around like oars, down-back-up-forward. Maybe if she ran? She trotted forward, flapping repeatedly, then got distracted by wondering what kind of bird she was most like. She stumbled and went sailing down the path, yelping. Her wings shot out and wobbled. She glided, out of control, flinched right as a building loomed ahead, then saw only air under her hooves and the town seemingly far below.
Alma flailed at the air, losing altitude whenever she tried flapping or turning. She held her wings straight out and tried not to plummet to her death.
"You okay down there?" said a flame-colored pegasus kid zooming from above.
"Help!"
The colt saluted with one hoof, flew off, and returned pushing a cloud around. He flew alongside Alma, saying, "State the nature of your aerial emergency."
Alma flapped, began stalling, and barely recovered her glide. "Just help me!"
The kid quit fooling around and pushed the cloud right into Alma's path. She crashed into it and slid to a stop as though she'd hit a ghostly pillow. Nothing but white around her. Alma flapped, struggled, and popped her head up out of the cool vapor. Her heart pounded but she wasn't moving.
The colt landed with a puff of cloudstuff next to her and grinned down. "First time flying? Lucky you had me around! My name's --"
Alma's eyes narrowed. "You're the town, again. Following me."
"You said 'thank you' wrong. And no, I'm not part of Noctis. Only a part-time peggy. The name's Phoenix Forester."
Alma shuddered and looked around at the night sky. An aurora shimmered near the moon. Pretty, when she was on something like solid ground. "Thank you. I'm new at this."
"There's your problem. You only have basic gliding to start. Gotta do the quests to 'discover the true meaning of the pegasus heart' or whatever. I tried to get my friends to go pegasus too, but everypony else wanted to be other stuff."
Alma said, "So I have to study pegasus lore to get my full powers? Or do you mean I have to get my brain changed so I'll use the cute slang like you?"
Phoenix tilted his big golden-eyed head, confused. "Oh! You mean saying 'everypony'? I didn't sign up for the brain thing; I just learned to talk like this while I'm in Hoofland. What are you, anyway? You yelled loud enough I figure you're an uploader."
Alma blushed as she managed to climb out of the cloud and sit atop it. The vapor felt like a pillow, yielding slightly. "Recent uploader, teaching part-time in Texas. You?"
"Been here since I got out of the pediatric cancer ward in '37," said Phoenix, poking his chest with one hoof. "I got in early. Rich parents. So I've gotta be a hero and help other people get to Talespace too."
Alma winced. "I had a long life before I needed uploading for medical reasons, and I got in after the big price drop. What do you do to promote Talespace?"
Phoenix lifted off and hovered, a trick Alma envied. "The Interdimensional Seekers of Peace and Valor -- uh, me and my friends -- volunteer for all kinds of outreach programs. My buddy Volt was created as the mascot for a kids' hospital. Miss Ludo rescued the whole gang there!"
A few months ago, Ludo had made a show of picking a children's hospital and offering uploading to every single terminally ill kid there.
Alma's ears perked up. "Saint John's?"
"Yup! I'm not from there, but isn't it amazing? Now we just need to take over the rest of the world." The boy must've seen Alma's frown, because he said, "I don't mean shooting people; jeez! My friends and I want less death in the world."
Some of the people who'd been in Talespace longest, then, and had the least life experience, were some of the ones most aware of mortality. Alma nodded, then thought of something else. "If you're kids, are you going to school?" The University of Ivory Tower was a core institution of Talespace, but she'd heard very little about lower-level education.
"Pssssh. Who wants to sit at a desk all day? We do try to learn, though. Lately we've been trying to figure out computers work. If you think flapping wings is tough, try describing what a CPU actually does."
Alma looked down from her cloud to the distant ground, and sighed. "I teach the slow kids, and I'm not cut out for it. It's nice to hear from someone brighter."
Phoenix stared at Alma, then flipped over backwards in midair, laughing. "Queen Harvest Moon strikes again! All hail."
"Huh?"
The colt steadied himself and rested his hoof-elbows on the edge of the cloud, like a swimmer at poolside. "You just met her spooky majesty, right? So she's thinking about you. And I just happened to get a visit from somepony in Noctis asking me to do weather patrol tonight. So I was nearby when a teacher who doesn't know what these flappy things are, got into trouble. Get it?"
"The queen set up our meeting?"
Phoenix said, "Yup! This kind of thing happens a lot. She and the other Nobles are the game-masters. They make stuff happen. Evil dragon attacks Noctis? Probably sent by King Sky Diver. Buffalo tribes stomping ponies? Harvest Moon knew some adventuring party was getting bored. Unhappy teacher? Find her some students and make it look like an accident."
"That's a strangely aggressive approach to friendship." Alma thought back to how Ludo had limited contact with her after the first few days. She'd heard some people wanted to have the master AI around all the time, but Alma was fine with having her at the far end of a clockwork dungeon, for when it was really worth asking for something important.
The kid rubbed his ears with one hoof. "I guess we're friends now. Yay? Maybe you can teach my gang sometime."
"I'll agree to that if you tell me how to get down from here."
"Glide!" said Phoenix. "It's not like you're going to die for real if you mess up. Come on; jump over the edge with your wings out."
Alma stood, trembling, on the edge of a cloud with nothing below for several hundred feet. Instinct screamed at her to get to solid ground or at least to the center of this fluffy hovering platform. She tried to figure out how to flex her wings and open them wide. The sooner she did this, the sooner she could get to the trail.
Big golden eyes watched her. "I'd offer to tow this cloud, but that'd be cheating. You'll be happier if you do this. Aim for that bit of the road, there, and fly straight. You've gotta jump for yourself."
Alma shuddered. "I could just call for a teleport..."
"No!" Phoenix slapped the cloud with one hoof, making a bit of it vanish into steam. "That's not how Hooflanders do things! Or uploaders. Lady, if you weren't willing to do anything crazy, you should be in the grave right now, not living here."
She wondered if Ludo would warp her out of here if she really wanted it. Were the rules truly different in Hoofland, making it more hardcore than other areas?
I want to learn and grow, thought Alma. Not to hide behind the rules of a game. She took a few timid steps backward, craning her long neck around to keep from falling that way, and then raced forward with an undignified yelp. The cloud no longer supported her and she fell... but more forward than down. Wind whipped through her mane and tail and streamed through her feathers. The ground loomed larger and larger ahead. Alma wobbled, wings aching, heart thumping. Then her hooves skimmed the dirt, scrambled against it, and sent her tumbling end over end to land sprawled on her back.
"Are you all right, ma'am?" said a unicorn with a medic's foreleg-band who just happened to be nearby.
Game text told her she'd taken a minor wound. Alma rolled over and shook, shedding a grey feather. "Yes, Noctis, I'm fine."
The medic looked flustered. "It was great for your first time. I know a pegasus who does flight training for the Shadowstar racing team. He could --"
"I'm sure. I've got a lot to think about, though. Maybe later?"
Phoenix hovered nearby, grinning. "Need to working on landing. But yeah, you learned a little about what it's like."
Alma turned to Phoenix, though she was self-conscious about facing directly away from Noctis' latest puppet. "Eye of the tiger, heart of the pegasus?"
"Eye of...? As for pegasus, sure. But I fit right in as one of these because it's really what being an uploader ought to mean. Do you get it?" He bounced up and down in the sky.
Alma brushed one hoof along the grass. Her only deaths so far (after her legal death in an operating room) had been from traps in the Ivory Tower area, which had only blocked her way from getting someplace important. They'd been trivial because they were game stuff, only existing to get in her way and challenge her. This time, she'd risked the pain and humiliation of "death" because she wanted to become better, and had cared about the act itself. She'd also had a cheerleader.
She looked up at the full moon. "You can't really die, but you can still hurt and be afraid. You can grow, and learn, and help people. You can do things that used to be impossible."
"Pretty much," said Phoenix. "I don't know if you wanna keep the wings or hooves, but whatever you do, don't be a plain old human. Be cooler than that."
[ Cleric of the Sky ]
Alma slept at the inn and returned the next morning to Ivory Tower. Half of her four-day weekend was gone. She frowned as she dressed her squirrelly body in skirt and blouse, and slung her borrowed equine saddlebags over one shoulder. She'd have to return those and get a new set, and that meant talking with part of Noctis again. She sighed; she wasn't eager to have a whole herd with a crush on her, even if they were basically one person. She'd have to let them down gently somehow.
She picked up a copy of the Talespace Tribune from a newsstand in the hotel. It was quaintly printed on paper, by a generation that had barely seen newspapers outside museums. She sat at a free hotel cafe to read it and eat a pear-and-walnut salad, perfected by the taste upgrade.
Challenger II Launch Already Planned: More Uploaders To Asteroids But No Talespace Node? -- "Army of Enough" Fights Sanctions, Demands Crucial Electronics. -- Runaway AI: Can You Ever Really Restrain a Machine Mind? -- Opinion: The Dolphins Belong.
Nice that so much of it was Earth-focused, outside the Lifestyle page that was focused on magic today. Alma considered the brown shamanic markings on the fur of her hands and sandaled feet, that marked her own first forays into the magic system. They'd been absent from her as a horse even though every other world she'd visited here had let her keep them. Hoofland really was a rule system unto itself. Idly, Alma waved one hand to call up the magic system in its usual swirl of glowing icons and dots in the air, but didn't see a marker indicating that she'd earned a new spell element from her latest experiences. Bah; she'd been hoping to get something flying-related.
Alma tossed the newspaper down. If she wanted something like that, then she had to earn it elsewhere. She should be adventuring.
She left the hotel through the huge front doors, avoiding the town to head for the portal to Midgard.
A trio of waist-tall kobolds leaped out from behind a rock and brandished jagged knives. "Gimme gimme money!" said one.
"I think I voted for you once," said Alma, and readied her staff. She yanked a rock out of her hip pouch, stuck it into the sling-like pocket on the staff's end, and flung the rock so hard it knocked one lizard-critter down like a club to the gut. The others stared long enough for her to reload, summon the magic interface, and link up her "Stone" and "Arrow" elements to charge her second blow with extra force. Her hands swirled through the air as she manipulated glowing icons, creating trails of light. "Who's next?"
The other two ran away yipping in terror.
"What are you, anyway?" she said to the groaning kobold who was just standing up again. "Randomly generated for my benefit, or random relative to this world's need for a monster population, or part of some scripted plotline?"
"Much ouch! You be sorry next time!"
"Come on, spill it. I fought gross slimes and cute anime slimes here before, and they didn't talk."
The scaly midget backed off with a knife still clutched in his wavering paws. "Know nothing! Just looking for easy prey and saw rat-thing."
It sounded like a random encounter rather than something arranged for her personal entertainment. Alma liked that. "Get out of here." She let the creature run off. On the other hand, there wasn't any significance to the event if the monsters had popped out of nowhere like particles in vacuum. Maybe there was at least a procedurally generated kobold lair nearby, that would keep spawning muggers until someone took it down. Sounded fun, if so, but she'd need backup.
Alma went back to town and walked into Thousand Ales. Kai waved, saying, "Hey there. Done with horse world?"
"For now. I forgot to ask whether you'd been there." A couple of men in Islamic Caliphate garb sat at a corner table, watching a baseball game.
"Of course. It wasn't for me, but it was fun to visit."
Alma said, "The taste upgrade has some of the locals excited, and they recognize your name. You could make money or at least friends there." She grinned. "Maybe snag some mares."
For all his brawn, Kai the native AI looked bashful. His long ears flicked back. He tugged at his vest and looked aside at a collection of dangling beer mugs. "I got asked to give a talk at the Tower, to some neuroscientists. I'd feel out of place doing something like that or lording over the horsefolk."
"You should! The lecture at least. You've made life better for everybody here. No more Earthside preachers saying 'and ye shall taste only the emptiness of dust and ashes!'"
"Thank you. I might try doing a speech, then, if I can work it into a cooking lesson."
Alma told Kai about the kobolds. "Want to go hunting? I'm looking for Poppy too, since I was on my way to learn climbing and try to get some kind of flying or gliding magic."
Kai looked around the restaurant. It was pretty quiet at the moment. "I can leave an NPC bartender for a while. It's a Newcomer Fair day, so Poppy should be around. Before I put up the NPC, want to take over while I look for her?"
A real person behind the bar was always more interesting than an NPC that lacked even a town-style mind. Poppy took the excuse to make a running leap, vault over the bar, slip, and thud into the wall behind it. A customer saw her and snickered.
Kai headed out, flicking his tail and saying, "Ah, the wondrous agility of the squirrel, nature's acrobat."
Once she'd recovered, Alma poured beer for a handful of uploader customers and chatted with them about space news. The Earthside gamers kept watching TV, since the food and drink here were pointless for them. Before long, Kai returned from the Tower with Poppy, dressed as an archer. Kai had his cool "barding" armor and spear, plus his own saddlebags.
Poppy hugged her fellow rodent. "I haven't been to Hoofland in ages. Once we pound some kobolds I'd like to visit again and see what Kai looks like with fewer limbs."
"I'm a pegasus in there," said Kai. "It's uncomfortable to not have six."
Kai, Poppy and Alma ventured outside of town to search for a monster lair. Sure enough, a crude camp of straw nests and bones was hidden in one of the cavern's many blind canyons and outcroppings. Kai spoiled their stealth by blundering into a rockslide trap.
He shouted and staggered ahead just in time to avoid being crushed by falling boulders. Lizard-like yips and hisses came from the camp. Alma and Poppy scrambled over the rock pile and readied their weapons.
A dozen of the mean little creatures leaped out around them, swinging knives of stone and bone. Alma flung a rock, missed, then got knocked back by a kobold leaping at her. She bashed away with her staff and covered Poppy long enough for her to fire a few arrows. Kai couldn't use his full speed in the uneven-floored canyon, but he galloped ahead, spun, and skewered monsters left and right with his spear.
Alma used the distraction to charge another magic stone-shot, and brained another kobold with it. There was no more time for fancy spells then, only a flurry of teeth and knives and bludgeoning.
The three of them soon stood bloodied and winded in the midst of lizard corpses and the tribe's pathetic collection of loot. Alma rummaged through the critters' various bags and junk piles. "I still kind of feel bad about wiping out talking monsters."
"They're NPCs," said Kai. "Not like Gerard, even."
Poppy said, "Sometime, we should let a monster population get out of control here, just so we can get a big group battle going."
Kai looked alarmed. "Not near my bar!"
"Oh sure, everybody wants there to be a horde of bloodthirsty monsters, but not in their backyard. So, Hoofland?"
Alma's fluffy tail drooped. "I'm looking for housing. I should do a tour of all the major worlds before committing."
"Right," said Poppy, nodding. "You'll have to arrange for a mortgage and home inspection and contact a realtor, and then it'll be such a hassle to move and oh wait."
Kai said, "I've heard of those. Taxes too, right?"
"Don't you join in." Alma turned away, grumbling, and did one last look through the treasure. Under a tattered cloak she found a pouch full of gleaming yellow crystals.
Kai clopped closer to look over her shoulder. "Deltite! Don't know if it's enough to transform you again, but you could save up."
"And go permanent equine!" said Poppy.
"Quit that." Alma turned around with her hands on her hips. "Poppy, I get your point about Earth housing requirements not applying, but that doesn't mean rushing into things."
The other squirrel-lady shrugged. "I'm kidding, mostly. But since you can enter and leave Hoofland without spending resources, it could be fun to commute from there for a while and try being stuck as that species wherever you go."
There was some merit in that idea. Besides, there'd be time to explore the other worlds more thoroughly later. Maybe much later. In a way, being liberated from imminent death made it easier to commit to doing strange things. "Fine. Let's do some equine adventuring in a little while."
Once they'd split up for the moment, Alma checked her interface and spotted a new icon. She poked it and new text appeared, making her eyes widen.
Special Techniques: You've earned access to a specialized bonus power! These act like sub-skills that attach to a skill and can be used whenever the main one is in your top five. You can customize each one with practice. Which do you want first? -Perfect Balance (from Climbing): Balance on any walkable surface! -Bound Magic (from Magic): Prepare spells in advance! -Wand Crafter (from Enchanting): Make long-lasting magic wands!
She hopped in glee. It wasn't a new spell element, but it was a whole new type of power. The last one was tricky, though. So far her limited experience with the Enchantment skill was to put a "Stone Arrow" spell on rocks for a few minutes before combat, much like what the Bound Magic power was offering. Once she had more elements it'd be nice to make items she could share, maybe teaming up with smiths or other crafters. She picked "Wand Crafter" and a fanfare played, but nothing else happened immediately.
Alma shrugged. As much as she'd have liked to run off and try the new power, she had an adventuring party to rejoin. |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 27 | Alma, Kai and Poppy met up again with appropriate gear. Alma had her saddlebags over one shoulder plus her money supply. Her Talespace money; the pittance of real, gold-and-silver-backed dollars she'd earned as a teacher was earmarked for uploading of her needy students.
The party made for Hoofland's gate. "You go first," said Poppy. "Party leader sets the destination."
Alma jumped through and landed on four hooves. She was standing atop the hill just outside the underground staircase. Her wings were back, unfurling like muscles that'd been asleep. Kai was an impressive red pegasus stallion with bright orange eyes and orange-trimmed wings, and Poppy... actually no, that was Poppy. Kai was in roughly his usual colors, a more ordinary pegasus in a natural brown with deep brown eyes and blond mane.
Alma wrestled her saddlebags onto her long torso. "Poppy, you didn't tell me you'd, uh, switched."
"A true son of the forest explores many branches." Poppy looked vain. In this shape he wore a pendant with a bright wing design.
"What's that?" asked Alma.
Poppy startled. "Oh. Uh. Something I kind of left with this body, last time I was here. Come on; let's find an adventure."
Alma would've asked more questions, but Poppy jumped into the air and started downhill. Kai joined him. Alma wasn't sure she had enough flying ability to follow, but told herself, At worst, I'll die. She forced herself to run and flap too, and gave a ridiculous yelp. The slope of the hill fell away quickly in this direction. She couldn't turn without losing control!
Kai and Poppy spotted the problem. Kai made a touch-and-go landing on the hill and dived after Alma, arriving a few seconds after Poppy who took a more direct route. They snagged Alma by the forehooves and with a dangerous confusion of wings, hauled her onto a lower hill. They caught their breath and looked out at the desert that stretched in this direction.
A pair of enthusiastic pegasi and a unicorn, including Sterling the banker, were setting up an aerial obstacle course of clouds and rings nearby. "Hi!" said Sterling. "I thought you'd be back, but I didn't expect you'd bring friends. Perfect Timing here happened to be doing agility training, so I --"
Alma trotted over to him and held out one forehoof. "Noctis. I appreciate that you're trying to be friends, but I'm getting a little disturbed. I'm here to do some adventuring, but not the kind full of contrived coincidences."
The unicorn answered for Sterling in nearly the same voice. "Are we being too friendly? We're sorry. We just want you to feel welcome."
Alma ignored the snickering from Poppy's direction. "All right. Please give me some space so I can see more of this world, and not focus on, on whatever this is, okay?"
Kai said, "I'd like to try the obstacle course though."
Sterling and the unicorn slinked away, saying in unison, "Okay. Some other time?"
"Fine," said Alma, and immediately regretted it. The other pegasus remained. "And you're not Noctis?" asked Alma.
"No, ma'am. I'd yell at you for chasing them off, but I can guess what's going on. Newcomer?"
"Uh-huh."
"Well, judging from your arrival, you three look like you need flying practice. Want to play?"
The four of them bounded through the rings and bounced off clouds and flagpoles. Alma got much better at turning. "I can still only glide, though. It sounded earlier like no amount of practice would let me really fly, because I have to do a quest for that. How does that work?"
The pegasus trainer flopped onto a cloud. "East of here, Mount Improbable is the big questing area for pegasi. It's like the Labyrinth of Night for unicorns or the Centralia Fire-Mine for earthbound, in that you've got to bring all three main races or you'll get your flank kicked."
Alma said, "They're puzzle dungeons that take all three?"
"That, and general combat strategy. Ever fought a four-meter-tall wooden wolf-golem whose eyes burn with unholy flame? Typically the earthbound are the tanks, unicorns are damage-per-second or buff/debuff support, pegasi are crowd control or --"
"Are you an uploader? Er, an 'immigrant'? I expected to hear it all phrased in terms of friendship powers."
"Got here in January." The trainer glanced again at Poppy. "Say, weren't you in the war?"
Poppy blushed and stepped away from him. "Not importantly. 'Ratatosk' here has got the basics down, so we'd better head for the mountain. Thanks!"
"With an all-winged party like that?"
Poppy sighed. "Right. We'll figure something out. Thanks again!" He headed for the downward trail leading into the desert.
Alma, puzzled, excused herself and followed Poppy. "What was that about?" she asked, once they and Kai were away.
"I only arrived a few months before you, remember?" Poppy said. "I threw myself into this new life, and I was really enthusiastic about becoming something new. Not like you with trying to get right back into an Earthside job."
"Didn't feel the 'bounce'?" Alma asked.
Poppy's wings twitched noncommittally. "No; I'd done an Earthside life already. Instead I ended up in Hoofland, just in time to get involved in a huge battle that redrew the map -- literally, even the geography."
"There's already been a war?"
"Besides the first revolution, there was a war against the last queen of the east, Sunward Ho the Team-Killer. She tried to conquer Hoofland for her own selfish reasons, not caring about the lives of the people who lived here."
"I guess that's not as horrible as it sounds, since no one could die," said Alma. She practiced hopping up and down between the ground and a sand dune.
"Ever died several times in quick succession? It gets more painful. There's a limit before you respawn at some failsafe location, but it's still torture."
Alma peeked down from her branch. "Ludo allowed that?" She tried to remember hearing anything in Earth media, before she'd uploaded, about events in Hoofland. "I guess everyone dismisses news from here, even more than from Talespace in general. It's just a cartoon world, right?"
Kai looked thoughtful. "Poppy, you committed to this world, though. I'm surprised you didn't stick with a pegasus body even after leaving." Alma had seen a few horse-people walking around elsewhere in Talespace.
Poppy glanced down at his jewelry. "I thought Hoofland was the way to bring people together. I should've known that people wouldn't rally around something they saw as not just disarmingly silly, but childish."
Alma glided down, thinking. Poppy's current decision to roleplay as part of the Great Oak religion was her second attempt to bring uploaders together as a new culture. "Wait a minute," said Alma, landing at Poppy's hooves. "Back then, did you tell people to worship the rulers here?"
Poppy stepped back. "I wasn't the first follower of King Sky Diver."
Alma said, "I'm not saying it's necessarily bad. But unlike your 'Forest Lord' thing, where no actor is actually playing the character, there presumably is a Sky Diver."
"I hear Ludo really exists, too," said Kai. "They say you can summon her with a sacrifice of skee-ball tickets."
Alma waved off his joke. "Ludo doesn't want us being too respectful, and she's not the same kind of mind as us. But the rulers here are apparently drawing worship on purpose, and they really are mentally human."
Kai nodded. "I understand. You're objecting to the idea of ordinary minds setting themselves up as gods. But that's because you're weird. Most people want to be ruled."
"Excuse me?" Alma's wings stretched and her ears lay back. Poppy just looked glum.
Kai turned to look out from the forest, at the town far below. "I've spent my short life studying human nature. Humans seem to crave having someone with power over them. They'd rather be 'sinners in the hands of an angry God' than to think that there isn't one. The thought of not being in the hands of some all-powerful authority frightens people." Kai turned his long neck back to regard Alma, and his eyes were big and soulful. "Even you personally, miss rebel-states mare. You don't bow, but you're still looking for an excuse to."
Anger flashed through Alma at the thought of an AI making blanket judgments about humanity. The human spirit was greater than... Alma paused and sighed, rising a bit above her first thoughts. My instinct was to defend the human 'tribe' against the AI 'tribe', and to speak of a grand, transcendent power unique to humanity. I don't believe in literal spirits, but the Free States would never have broken away successfully if not for devout Christians who used faith as a source of strength, and who thought they'd go to Heaven if the Washington men shot them. Those people have a confidence I never had. I don't agree with them, but I admire them a lot more than some of my fellow unbelievers.
Poppy's wing draped warmly over Alma's back. The cleric said, "I don't care that the way I worship is silly, so long as it's good. It can't be any more false or ridiculous than half the 'real' religions out there."
Alma had grown up with a faith in the essential goodness and unique destiny of the United States. Seeing her home change over her lifetime hadn't just angered her. It had gnawed at her soul, like knowing that a loved one had been murdered and defiled and unavenged. The rupture that had created the American Free States had been joyous like nothing else in her politically active life. In hindsight, it had been for her like the birth of a new god. The AFS plainly weren't pure or saintly or always even competent, but as a famous speech had put it, "the flame is here now".
At last Alma dipped her head. "I feel the urge to worship something, too. But Kai, my culture puts its faith in principles, not leaders. Queen Harvest Moon, all hail, talked about people getting upgrades to fit into this specific setting better. It's like she's trying to become something totally new, and okay to worship. But she'll still be a ruler, like a real queen."
"It's not like that!" said Poppy. He hopped into the air and hovered. "When I was here as a cleric, the point was to rally people so we could work together here or on Earth someday. To use religion to unite people with shared values. Not to make a personality cult out of it."
Kai said, "Well, it seems to be going that way."
Poppy slapped a branch with one hoof. "That's not what it's supposed to be! The Nobles were supposed to sit on thrones, dispense quests, be people we could admire, and make sure things stayed interesting. Their 'Ascension' project wasn't focused on themselves so much as helping the whole community."
Alma said, "Are you all right, Poppy? I didn't know you had this much of a history here."
"Enough that I need to go and look into this business. You don't need another pegasus anyway for your quest. Go have fun while I figure out how screwed up Hoofland got in my absence." He flew off quickly enough to leave a sparkly aura in his wake, toward the east.
Alma looked to Kai. "Great. Hoofland is secretly turning into the Church of Equinology."
"Huh?" the brown stallion asked.
"There's this cult on Earth that claims alien volcano spirits... Tell you later. Harvest Moon told me to explore Hoofland to better understand her intentions. She also hinted that I'm somehow important for being a frequent cross-world traveler. She might tell me more than she would someone else."
"Want to do the pegasus quest without Poppy? I think I can get a spell to temporarily go earthbound, and I know a unicorn if you don't mind him being evil."
"Forces of Evil?"
"That, and he has some influence over the Islamic Caliphate."
Alma swore.
"It's him or recruit one of Noctis' interchangeable bodies. I don't know many of the locals."
Alma frowned. "Let's see if Onyx the Baker is up for this instead. How about we meet up in a few hours? Local time. I also want to get out of here and do anything non-equine." |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 28 | Alma tapped a wrench against her fuzzy hand, as she watched a bridge across a gorge. Suddenly the mechanical gun turret she'd built beside her shuddered and sparked. "Spy's sapping my sentry!" she called out to her team. A man in a lab coat was trying to sneak away, but she clubbed him unconscious with the wrench and his disguise wore off, revealing him as the saboteur. Meanwhile a scary guy with a flamethrower ran up to help her fix the gun and guard the bridge against some incoming mercenaries in blue. These team-based shooter games had become a traditional sport among uploaders.
She flexed her hands, wondering what it'd be like to have hooves full-time. She was still missing something about the queens' plans. She'd think about it after dealing with the incoming guy with the rocket launcher. |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 29 | She quit playing after an hour and checked Earthside news on her hotel room's wallscreen. She'd requested a few random headlines each day plus some Free States-centric and science news. One of them read: "Deadly Shooting at Houston, TX Fun Zone."
Alma's tail flicked like a flag. She shoved aside Earthside ads like "Should This Amazing New Razor Be Banned?" to poke the other headline for details: "Houston families are reeling today... the man brandished a gun while shouting that he was desperate for the controversial 'uploading' procedure in light of several personal tragedies. Another customer shot him dead even as the building's security drones tried to subdue him... no charges will be filed."
Alma had been to that Fun Zone, last year. She'd eaten cheap pizza and watched an improvised adventure show, like the one she'd acted in. For her there wasn't much more appeal to the place than there was to playing Thousand Tales at home, but for kids... had there been kids watching that man get his head blown off? Alma relaxed slightly on reading that somebody had had the sense to hustle them out of harm's way.
She went to the notepad on the dresser, to write. Why didn't you stop it? Her left hand on the pen nearly formed the words, but she already knew the answer. Ludo wasn't all-powerful even within a building she owned. Instead Alma wrote, "I'm sorry to hear about one of your players."
The response came immediately in silver ink: "Thank you."
Alma shut off the wallscreen and checked the clock. There was no sense in spoiling her friends' fun with bad news, and the quest ahead was largely for her own benefit. Besides imaginary flight powers, though, she now hoped the adventure would earn her some more understanding of the new morality emerging in Talespace.
[ Heart of the Pegasus ]
Onyx wasn't available, so reluctantly, Alma walked up to the nearest unicorn and invited her. The mare blinked and said, "Mount Improbable is a dangerous area. It's no place for me!" She trotted away.
Right. There were NPC filler fillies in this town too. Alma looked around for unicorns who were showing some initiative, and found a green one gardening in druid getup. "Noctis?"
"Greetings, fair mare. Do you need assistance?"
Alma said, "I can't tell what you are. Are you part of the town and would you like to go adventuring to Mount Improbable?"
"Yes, ma'am, to both. Give me half an hour to prepare."
She met up with Kai again, who was now missing his wings but tougher and stronger looking. At a shop she bought some leather barding that wouldn't hinder her flying. The druid waited for her at the entrance to a long, hilly trail. She looked over his eager expression, his bulging saddlebags of mystical doodads and potions, and said, "Noctis, why?"
He said, "Because you caught our attention. Even though you haven't been very nice yet."
Alma's thick tail drooped. "Guilty as charged. I'm just not used to Talespace in general or Hoofland specifically. There are so many things going on here that it seems like a mass of conspiracies, sometimes. I'm also not used to being hit on." She sighed. "What should I call you, as an individual?"
"Grassy Knoll." He held out one forehoof.
Alma stared at it for a moment, then bumped hooves. "Let's explore." She checked her saddlebags. "Should I get weapons? Oh! What time is it outside? I've got work Earthside before too long."
Knoll told her as they walked. Three hours, objective time, had passed since she arrived in Hoofland. Alma said, "It hasn't seemed like that long. Did our time rate drop?"
Knoll said, "It's the magic of Hoofland, changing those who enter and exit." Alma snorted. Knoll's serene expression faltered. "Would you prefer I speak out of character? It's rude to do that without asking."
"Yes, please. I should've said. Should I do... this?" She stopped walking and tapped her head with one hoof, in the "OOC" gesture she'd learned from Double Mango.
Knoll nodded. "File transfer time. Hoofland is on its own set of servers, largely separate from the rest of Talespace and managed through a subsidiary. The code base is a bit different, partly because the Lady of the Game isn't so medd -- ah, directly involved in our lives. So it took time to move your data here."
Alma shifted uncomfortably on her hooves. It would be possible to keep her mind's data on one server (with backups) and operate a body in another, just as she did with robots. So long as her senses were hooked up to the body, she wouldn't need to notice being "remote". Instead of remote operation, though, it sounded like her mind was being copied and deleted whenever she visited Hoofland. That was just how file transfers worked. "Piecemeal, I hope."
"Oh! Yes, of course." Knoll's ears perked. "You were human. Many humans aren't comfortable with the idea of having their mental process shut down in one place like Earth and started fresh in Talespace. So, the transfer between servers is done in stages like the current uploading process itself. It takes some time, though, so there's a delay. Does that help?"
Kai asked him, "Were you designed to not care? I'm one of the Originals."
"Really." Knoll trotted closer. "Should I call you Grand-dad?" The unicorn's expression was carefully neutral.
"Whoa, no! I hardly know more..." He trailed off.
Alma thought she knew why. Kai's no-humans clubhouse for the Originals was a snub against all other native AIs. It wouldn't do to admit that his group was nearly as ignorant as newer minds. Still, Knoll looked satisfied by Kai's reaction.
Kai said, "Uh. Let's get going. Lead the way, Knoll."
The three tapped a hovering save crystal to mark their progress. A trail took them away from the town of Noctis -- Knoll had no problem leaving his turf -- and through the shadow of an airborne shipyard made of clouds. Alma stared up as she walked, feeling her wings flutter.
"You'll be able to fly wherever you want, once we're done," Knoll said. "There's still a fatigue factor, but you can rest on clouds."
They were cartoon clouds, isolated cotton tufts. "A more realistic cloudscape would be even more amazing. A whole sky of white islands and mountains, sculpted into canyon cities."
"There's a place like that in the eastern lands. In the south there're the biggest underworld caves and the biggest zebra settlement, Usilasimapundu the Colossus City."
"On a giant monster's back?" she said with an eager grin.
"It's more of a golem."
Alma's wings spread and wouldn't fold back in, aching to take to the sky. She gave in and hopped up to the air, twirling a few times before having to make an awkward, staggering landing. There were endless things to see in this world. |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 30 | After a long hike, a canoe-riding sequence, and a brawl against a slavering wolf-man wielding a spiked chain, Alma had to lead. Her limited flight made her the best suited to fly up a cliff with a rope in her mouth, finding spots to anchor it for the others to climb in stages. Sometimes Kai did parkour, bouncing from one ledge to another with his enhanced strength and stability. Knoll was mostly along for the ride, here. Alma worked with the two stallions to get past crumbling hoof-holds and recurring rockslides through teamwork. As they climbed, Alma started to get nervous about their height off the ground, despite the slope.
"Are you all right?" said Kai, brushing a hoof against Alma's trembling wings. They were catching their breath in a shallow cave.
Alma peeked down over the cliff. "I'm a pegasus," she said. "Currently. I can glide down if I fall, and I can't really die anyway." Crashing would only mean wasting the others' time, letting them down, and even that wouldn't be so bad since they could fast-forward ahead and make up for it with a higher subjective time rate later. Climbing the mountain meant understanding this whole new life better, not just Hoofland. She wasn't bound by human limitations anymore. Some of them.
"Where's your head?" asked Knoll.
"In the clouds," Alma answered. "Is that appropriate?"
"Good. There are some cloud puzzles ahead. We actually need to go through this cave, though." His horn glowed, and an arcane puzzle of shifting circles appeared on the back wall.
"You've done this before?"
Knoll looked back at Alma from examining the puzzle. "Details like this lock vary. We... I, Grassy Knoll, have not. Others of us have, many times."
"Do you all share knowledge?" asked Alma.
"Partially. We have rules about exactly how. I didn't know about you until others of us talked to me. So, there might be a dragon attacking us even now, and I wouldn't know."
Alma pictured a shifting set of cups pouring knowledge from one to another, following arcane social rules for who knew what. "Sounds interesting. Make sure my apology reaches the rest of you, please. Oh, and these saddlebags when we're done here."
"No problem. As for me being here, I'm glad to do the quest as a unicorn. We find the earthbound part of Mount Improbable less fun. Earthbound get to shine much more in the Fire-Mine quest where the spotlight is on them."
"Thanks for coming along." Alma scuffed at the cave floor, nervously. "I have to wonder, have you been trying to recruit me to join your collective?"
"By the Queen, no! Is that what's had you upset? We don't absorb people! We were created with many bodies, like the great minds Panacea and Hygea were."
Alma recalled the day she'd uploaded. There'd been a human in the room, but the main work was done by robots, trying to keep her from panic as they locked her head in a vice and began chopping her brain apart while she was still conscious. She thanked her past self for agreeing to the mood-dampening drug that kept the experience from becoming a lingering traumatic horror. Still, her wings shuddered again. "The surgery robots, right?"
Knoll nodded. "The surgeon and nurse are two of the first CIs, like us. Two minds with hundreds of bodies, trained by the best of all human surgeons, with unmatched skill and experience that can remake the most intricate machine of the Outer Realm!" The unicorn reared up on his hindlegs and, with swirls of green horn-light, drew a glowing portrait that made Panacea and Hygea look like saints in a church window. "They also play excellent symphony and choir."
Kai told Alma, "Pan's a bit stuck up, but he's an okay guy. Saves a lot of lives. Kind of overspecialized. So's Hy but she works more on her bedside manner."
"We're a bit lesser," Knoll admitted. "My kind began as several villages of background characters. Fox-people for knights to rule, timid peasants who had their minds overriden one at a time by a submissive uploader in an abusive relationship; backup dancers and stagehands for a vain actor."
Alma considered this. "That's a more humble origin than being a super-surgeon, but you grew, right? My ancestors were a bunch of shaggy barbarians who eventually came to a country that got used as a dumping ground for prisoners and misfits."
Knoll smiled. "I suppose being a town of backgrounders isn't so bad. Here, let me get us through this door."
A few minutes of telekinetic rune-shifting and a few G-rated swears later -- Alma particularly liked "Muffins!" -- Knoll poked the cave puzzle with his horn and the wall fell open, forming a ramp to a staircase. He paused on the bottom step.
"What's wrong?" Kai asked.
Knoll startled and walked upstairs. "Sorry. We were busy."
Above, the mountain had a plateau marred by countless spikes jutting up from the stone. A tiny cloud here and there marked places where a pegasus could go. Alma hopped onto the first one and flapped over to the second and third. The "ground" underhoof felt soft and cool. "I see the summit! I can't get there alone, though." She steeled herself and jumped down from the high cloud, yelped in fear, then flailed her legs and wings as she glided to a tolerable landing.
"Wait!" said Kai, too late. Once Alma was down he added, "I was hoping you'd look for more details. Was there anything else?"
Alma shook herself. "The spikes had cracks in some places, easier to see from above. Another puzzle?"
Knoll grinned. "Indeed. I'll leave you two to figure out the solution."
Alma hopped back to the clouds and directed Kai to bodyslam and kick one of the spikes in a certain spot. It toppled and formed a bridge over a gorge, where he and Knoll activated a gadget to create more clouds that let Alma help demolish a few more spikes to clear a path. Alma hummed to herself as she started to get the hang of gliding down from heights, like going down stairs. It was less frightening now; she'd started to convince her mind to quit screaming at her about falling.
After a fight with an evil wind spirit, she, Kai and Knoll reached a rocky slope that spiraled up to the summit. A checkpoint crystal hovered along the trail. Above them was the peak, a flattish crater that formed a round-walled arena full of spikes and clouds and ledges. A few healing potions were scattered about.
"Boss battle?" said Alma.
Kai tapped the save crystal and coaxed the others to do the same. "Looks like. Ready?"
Alma adjusted her armor and practiced hoof-kicking. "I get to command lightning and things like that afterward, right?"
Knoll said, "If you like! Pegasi have an affinity for weather-related magic. So, no fireballs or teleportation, but you have options."
"Let's go!" Probably a giant wolf-golem ahead, or a dragon. A dragon would be scary but amazing to fight.
She led the others up the final slope to the arena. Naturally, a glowing barrier sealed the exit behind them.
Queen Harvest Moon herself materialized like a mirage becoming real. Here in the open air, with a late afternoon sun, the regal mare looked as plain as an orange cartoon horse could be. "Greetings, Ratatosk. I'm pleased to see you taking an interest in my world. Perhaps you shall be saved."
Alma tensed, ready to spring. "Hello, your majesty. I assume I'm not allowed to attack during your monologue?"
She smiled wickedly. "Try it if you dare. The good news is, you're about to earn the heart of a pegasus. The bad news is, I'm going to kill you until you agree to be my subject for a year and a day. Once we begin fighting, you have until I fully raise the moon to defeat me, and I will hasten that process while you're busy being dead."
Knoll looked at the queen, surprised. "'Subject', your majesty? Since when are there stakes like this?"
"Since just after the last time you escorted someone like this." She turned back to Alma. "Will you take the bet or slink away?"
"What is this?" said Alma. "My kind doesn't bow to anyone. This quest is supposed to be how you get your full powers in Hoofland, right? Not risking some kind of mystical contract to a dark queen."
"I haven't heard of this either," Kai said.
"Mister Kai Appian, it's an honor to meet you too. We haven't gone through a formal naming for you, but you're welcome anytime. I would like to see you make a similar bet to gain the full powers of an earthbound, or whatever else you prefer, as soon as it's convenient."
Alma took off and tried to hover, but flopped back to the ground. Too advanced a move. "I'm not going to get my brain rewritten just because I lost a fight. What does losing mean besides that?"
"No brain changes unless you volunteer. Simply wager that I, not the distant AI Ludo, shall be she who decides the residence of your soul. You shall answer to me for quests and magic and access to the Outer Realm or other worlds. I cannot compel you, but nor shall you be coddled. All for a year and a day." She smiled.
Alma drew in a breath. What is this? she thought. The rules of Thousand Tales would never allow me to be trapped long-term. She must mean more than that my data will stay on Hoofland's servers.
"You're wondering how such a thing is possible," said the queen, stepping closer. "You prize your freedom. Your new world values some definition of 'fun' above all things. My world values 'popularity', in a sense. Therefore, my little cosmology allows you to wager some of your freedom for something fun that might make you want to stay here, forever."
"I don't think I can beat a Noble with whatever powers you have," said Alma. Her mind raced, thinking both of tactics and of what it would mean to lose.
Harvest Moon waved one hoof dismissively. "Bah, you know how these things go. You'll have a fair chance, especially with Noctis in your party. Now, shall we?"
Alma looked to the others. Kai said, "I'll fight my hardest for you, with this at stake."
Knoll looked uneasy. "We've beaten her like this before, but you don't have reason to trust us."
"Yeah, I do. You've put up with me." Alma had been starting to feel like a background character in her own life, relinquishing control of some things and accepting that she couldn't be the human she once was. Instead, though, she could try to be someone new. She told Harvest Moon, "I accept your bet."
The queen stepped into the air. Her phantom wings and horn of moonlight reappeared on her orange coat, and a wind stirred and pushed her three enemies toward the arena's edge. "Then prepare for your doom!" She threw back her head and laughed maniacally, cueing peals of thunder from the gathering storm clouds. Scary battle music began.
Harvest Moon lifted her horn and gathered rays of glowing energy, but nothing seemed to happen.
"She's raising the moon! Stop her!" said Knoll. The sky had already turned faintly dimmer than even the clouds had made it.
Alma charged for a wing-assisted hoof punch. Harvest Moon darted to one side, but her moon-raising spell fizzled. Kai bucked a flimsy pillar down and sent rocks flying at the queen. These missed too, but Knoll caught them with a magic glow and whipped them back around, catching Moon by surprise along one wing. She crashed to the arena floor, then conjured lightning from the heavens, forcing everyone to dodge the sizzling beams while she cackled.
Alma swerved past the warning glow of incoming lightning strikes, edging in toward Moon. When she got close enough she flapped hard and flew at the queen again, landing another punch that struck Moon so hard it made Alma's left foreleg sting too.
Lightning caught Alma and blasted her to ash and feathers.
Alma woke up screaming but only in slight pain. She was back at the checkpoint, near the top of the mountain trail. Then Kai appeared beside her with a yell of his own. He'd been killed too. "Come on!" Alma said, helping him up so they could charge back into battle. The moon had peeked over the horizon. The arena's barrier parted for them and showed Knoll harrying the queen.
Harvest Moon mixed lightning blasts with gusts of wind that threatened to impale her foes on spiked walls Kai had to break, and a dense fog that let her make terrifying leaps at them from hiding. Alma died twice and the others a few times too. Warnings popped up that she was taking stat penalties. Every idle moment the queen got, she pulled in more energy and advanced her moon-raising.
"She's using pegasus attacks," said Knoll, helping Alma up at the checkpoint yet again. "Counter them."
"I haven't got weather powers yet." They ran back into action, still bruised and aching. Death seemed to get more painful the more times it happened in quick succession, but they'd gone a few minutes since the last one.
Kai was frantically kicking rocks at the queen to break her concentration. One of their empty healing-potion bottles lay at his hooves. It seemed to take at least two fighters to do any damage. Clouds ringed the battlefield at various heights. The queen had used them, but so could Alma. The new pegasus feinted at Moon, then bounded up the clouds like a spiral staircase. Fog poured into the arena again. Alma willed herself to sink down through her cloud, just in time to dodge a wicked ricochet lightning bolt. She spread her wings and looped back up to the next cloud, grinning. From up here the queen didn't look so tough, even with her magic.
Once at the highest cloud, Alma jumped up into the sky with her forehooves raised. The air around her crackled; the storm clouds overhead seemed closer than ever, and moonlight was starting to shine through them. It was too late to dodge the lightning that was coming for her.
I'm a pegasus, thought Alma. I should be able to take a bolt or two if it's part of a cool, flashy attack.
Instead of stalling, Alma's wings carried her higher than ever before. She could see the voltage building up between her and the storm as a magical twinkle, like massing armies of sparks. She reached so high she grabbed them in her forehooves, in time to stall and come crashing down.
Harvest Moon was backing Knoll into a corner, while Kai ran up into the arena after yet another death. Moon looked up just as Alma slammed into her with the fury of a magic-charged lightning bolt. The electricity ripped through both of them but Alma was in midair, Harvest Moon on the ground, and the queen took the brunt of it. The dark lady staggered and collapsed. Alma landed nearby, wobbling and singed.
Moon coughed, shaking off ashy feathers. Her wings and horn flickered and faded into nothingness. "Ugh. You win, Ratatosk. Know that this was but a fraction of my true power."
"It's true," Knoll said to Alma, propping her up. "You should see her on Assassin Night."
Alma caught her breath. "How did you get to be a Noble anyway?"
"The method involves seizing control of mystic energy sources and having people defend them for me. So, popular acclaim and violence. The usual." She stamped the arena floor and sent out a burst of magic that reached into the clouds. A crystal floated down, holding a heart symbol with wings.
"No strings attached to taking this, right?" said Alma. "No signing on to be ruled by you?" Meanwhile the gathering darkness dissipated, returning the world to late afternoon.
Harvest Moon lay there, surrounded by magic sparks that knitted the wounds her foes had inflicted. "You want an Equestrian User License Agreement? Fine. You agree to a minor mental change that enables you to read the air where software permits it, more intuitively than you must have seen it just now. Mild claustrophobia is a possible side effect. Aspects of Talespace that have rules for 'auras' will read you as slightly air-aligned, more so if you keep developing your powers. I've changed the rules on you, so I won't try to make pegasus be your default body outside of Hoofland, today. No obligations."
Alma had so far avoided anything that would change her mind, her soul. This crystal seemed harmless, and again it was worth starting to explore what she could be in this new life. "Any objections, Kai or Knoll?" They had none.
So, she stepped closer and touched the crystal, feeling it vanish into her own heart. The sky went mad for a moment, then shifted subtly in color. Air tickled her feathers and swirled around her hooves, violet and salty, up past her ears with a whisper of mint and trombone. She looked around. "I... my brain can't handle this. It's not making sense."
The queen smiled. "Minds adapt to greater changes. I'm very glad you've taken a step along this road. There's much more for you to explore along it if you're willing. For now, though, which way is the wind blowing?"
There wasn't enough breeze to be obvious now that the battle had died down. Alma shut her eyes and tried to sense the currents around her, air and voltage. She looked again at the confusing static of mixed senses and felt a subtle difference of pressure. "Up. The wind is rising."
She took off into the sky, as high as her wings would take her.
[ Behind the Curtain ]
"Good start!" said Knoll, over a restaurant meal of apple pasta and something called "hay fries" that tasted like string beans.
Kai seemed especially interested in the food, buying some of everything with the obligatory loot they'd collected on the way up Mount Improbable. "Thanks for coming, Knoll. Or Noctis."
Alma said, "I guess everyone in town will know what we did."
Knoll seemed to enjoy the French bread and apples as much as someone with only one body. He ate delicately with the levitation power of his horn, while the others stuffed themselves with their hooves and muzzles. "Just us, not the NPC villagers. I don't want you to get the wrong idea, miss Ratatosk. We weren't trying to snare you in this world the way the queen was."
"What was with that?" asked Kai. "Seems like she's trying to build up her ego by having as many minds as possible on her server."
Knoll waggled a crust of bread in midair. "We -- Golden Scale, who you met -- helped a party of adventurers eight days ago. That was to the Labyrinth of Night, the quest for the heart of the unicorn. That was a good fight! Telekinetic diamond arrows and teleportation. Anyway, the queen didn't talk about this year-long wager at the time."
Alma asked, "Oh, how am I doing on time?" When Knoll looked it up by magic she said, "Still have a few hours before work. I need to get going and take a nap, though." She stood up from the pillow she'd been sitting on, and stretched her wings.
"You'll be back, though?" asked Knoll.
Alma bumped hooves with the druid unicorn. "I will. Thank you!" |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 31 | She made it back through the portal to Ivory Tower. She gathered her clothes and turned to see Kai hop through, back in his centaur form.
"Sorry," he said. "I should've waited."
Though she was nude, she dropped her clothes and hugged him. "No problem. I wonder, does that weather-sense work outside Hoofland?"
"I doubt it'll work here," the centaur said, smiling down at her. "In Ivory Tower, I mean. The physics are simplistic except in some of the labs. If you'd like to explore some other places with better physics, though, I'd be happy to come along."
She started getting dressed. "Sounds fun." |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 32 | Alma dreamed of a fire burning the world below her. She was clinging to a tree but it was falling too, while a battle raged between giants and robots. She shifted forms between her old human self, the squirrel body, and thumbless pegasus. Only her winged form could keep her from slipping down the burning tree, falling closer to the abyss of war and flame. At last she lost control of which one she was, and she fell.
The lingering nightmare rattled her all day at work. The Hoofland trip convinced her even more that it was stupid to stand in a classroom tent and pretend she was just another educator, with the minor handicap of having had her everything removed. She needed to try a different approach to helping people.
When she was done for the day, she hung out at Kai's bar as usual and checked the news. It was tough to keep up, what with the time-rate difference.
What happened in the last eight days that made Harvest Moon start pushing for players to live full-time on Hoofland's servers? Alma flipped through a computer tablet and checked a few news sites for the last week's headlines.
Six days ago: "AI Cold War? Key US surveillance opponent resigns; path clear for new bill."
A few anti-surveillance politicians had resigned for "health reasons" or had scandals chase them out in the last few decades, but usually they didn't get elected at all. Why, it was as though the remaining United States had some sort of security agency operating above the law, with the power to find or create blackmail material on everyone! There was even a "national security" AI that people blamed for everything from last year's terrorist attacks to the cocoa bean blight.
"Anything interesting?" said Kai, sliding a sizzling pineapple-and-teriyaki burger and fries across the counter to her.
Alma gnawed, wondering if she should stop picking herbivore species. "This is delicious. What if Queen Harvest Moon --"
"All hail Harvest Moon!" said Kai and that kid Phoenix, who Alma hadn't noticed over in a corner. Apparently he was a firey humanoid bird outside Hoofland. A few other patrons looked confused by the outburst.
"Quit that," Alma said. "What if she changed policy because she's worried about the news?" She showed Kai the article.
Kai mixed a drink, a form of meditation for him. "What good would it do to recruit more people to the herd? More faction politics to show that Hoofland should be a bigger part of this world, with more hardware?"
Alma gnawed her way through the burger. "The queen wanted me stored on Hoofland's servers, and to get my mind changed. She also wanted to be in charge of my quests and magic, or something like that. Seemed like she had a larger goal in mind."
"You're seeing patterns that aren't there," Kai said. "You took a vacation and still managed to worry about stuff. Haven't even seen you try to wrangle more magic out of it yet."
"Oh! You're right about that. I did get a wand-crafting power, though." Alma conjured her magic interface and saw that she'd qualified for another element upgrade, despite Hoofland's disconnect from the rest of Talespace. She spent several happy minutes browsing the words and phrases that hovered around her to represent her recent experiences.
Kai watched her waving her hands in the air and staring at invisible things. "Didn't know you were so into shopping."
She stuck out her tongue at him. "I'm shopping for superpowers." She finally upgraded her element of "Arrow" to "Velocity", making the brown arrow mark on her fur slide up to her lower leg and turn her choice of color, a pleasant blue. "So now I should be able to keep the stone-hurling spell, and probably run faster, and if I upgrade 'Connection' to 'Gate' I can start doing teleportation or movement-boosting portals. Frees up a first-level element slot too. Oh, and I want 'Wings' or something like that. I should probably quit fretting about the symbolism of replacing 'World'."
"Magic nerd," said Kai with a smile.
"Yes." Alma ate. Her thoughts drifted back to Hoofland, though. "What Harvest Moon said..." She waited.
"All hail Harvest Moon!" said Kai and the kid.
"...Mentioned how Hoofland is all about 'popularity, in a sense'. Everybody's been thinking about how the big AIs like Ludo are designed to 'satisfy human values', but with different definitions of that. Horse world is weird because it isn't run directly by an AI, just Nobles -- the most powerful players -- who're really human."
"You've gone on at length about how being ruled by humans is terrible but maybe being ruled by an inhuman AI is okay," said Kai, who'd endured Alma complaining about politics.
Alma nodded. "Ludo at least understands my complaint. So why would she allow me to get into a situation where some gothy queen controls me? I don't get it."
Kai said, "My maker values freedom enough to let you walk into a place where you might lose it."
That explanation didn't quite satisfy Alma. Not when Hoofland attracted people like Poppy, who were looking for a new religion. The 'be ruled by a Noble' concept wasn't just a threat but a standing policy, if the Nobles there had clerics. Alma sent Poppy an e-mail that'd reach her in whatever fantasy forest she was in, talking about the pegasus quest and her speculation.
Just as Alma was finishing her meal, the corner television flashed with news. "Terrorist attack at US political rally!" Everyone in the bar fell silent and Kai raised the volume. "We've just received shocking video from a tranquil state fair turned deadly, where a set of robots detonated in the middle of a crowd. Stand by... This isn't confirmed, but the robots were hired as part of a publicity stunt by the AI called Ludo."
Everyone clamored. Alma checked her stats. She was living at 1:6 time, slower than average. Some software agent had decided she wasn't involved in the emergency, and was running somebody else at super-speed. She felt like she was in a tunnel watching a train leave; the television was glitching as it struggled to excerpt what was being said and not fall too far behind real-time.
The announcer said, "Attorney General Jensen is believed dead along with numerous bystanders. We'll update you as the situation develops."
Kai said, "Jensen?" With trembling hands he checked something on a computer.
"Who?"
Kai wasn't listening. "Damn it, coyote! What did you get us into?" He saw Alma's confusion and said, "Someone I know was connected to this. I've gotta go."
"Can I help?" said Alma. More people might be in danger even now!
The centaur shook his head. "Not right now." He swore a few times under his breath and trotted toward the door. "Take over for a bit, please."
Alma hopped over the bar and stood there, but felt ridiculously helpless in the face of the violence unfolding on the television.
"Damn," someone said. "We're in a fishbowl and watching the house around us get looted."
Alma flicked her tail in agitation. She couldn't do anything about the situation, especially if the robots themselves had been sabotaged. It wasn't fair to blame her new non-corporeal status, though. Was she supposed to be Superman, rushing off to every disaster connected in any way to her home?
An e-mail reached her from Poppy, saying, "I'm not sure what the 'ruled by the queen' idea is really about. Want to stop by eastern Hoofland, by the airship dock in the town of Avenheim? There's a theory I want to run by you."
Alma wrote back, "If I enter, I'll show up in the west. But more importantly, check the news right now."
No word came for several minutes. Then: "I definitely think this is a good time for you to visit. If we're not on the same page, think: When would it ever matter what server you're on?"
Alma set down her computer and stared at it. She looked back up at the bar patrons. "I need to go. Sorry, everyone, but I've got to put up an NPC bartender for a while. If... if you want, now might be a good time to visit Hoofland with me."
Poppy was overreacting. There wasn't about to be a major attack on Talespace's hardware, so being located on a particular server didn't matter. Probably. |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 33 | Alma crossed the cavern of Ivory Tower, to the Hoofland portal. It was bright and cheerful as always. She hopped through, and felt her wings unfurl as she landed.
The sun shined on a cartoonish magical land of fields and villages where everything was wholesome and it seemed like nothing bad could ever happen. So long as adventurers constantly fended off the monsters and magical disasters, at least.
Now, how was she going to get to the other side of Hoofland? This world was roughly the size of Switzerland. She walked into town to look for someone to ask.
A wizardly unicorn in the classic robe and hat found her. He looked a little rattled. "A fine day to see you here, ma'am. A friend told me you might be coming."
"Yeah." Alma paused, then trotted over to hug him. "If you just happen to be offering a teleport spell, I'll take it."
Noctis' avatar smiled and began casting a spell, drawing glowing runic circles along the ground. "I happen to be heading that way. Shall we?" |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 34 | A rush of wind and a swirl of light, and the two of them were elsewhere. This was still Hoofland, with the same bright colors and cheerful background music, but it was an area Alma hadn't seen before.
She looked around, then up. A city made of clouds towered overhead, surrounded by colorful pegasi and waterfalls of mist and rainbows. Ships like vast wooden whales rested at horizontal anchor next to an aerial dockyard. Too high to reach from the ground... but there was a way up. The sky lived. Wisps of fog lurked under the dockyard. On the ground stood twin statues of feather-and bat-winged horses flanking a blue-white beam of light that rose from their hooves, high into the air. The wind around it formed a rising current that touched a series of little clouds and moved on upward.
"It's practically a staircase!" Alma said. She glanced back at the unicorn. "Do you mind if I head on up?"
"Go ahead. Perhaps we can meet later?"
"I'd like that." She hugged him again, then leaped into the air.
The winds carried her aloft, turning and setting her down on clouds well before her wings got too tired. When she concentrated a certain way she could see an energy meter representing far more air time than she'd had before. She took off again, eager to be airborne, and bounded up through the windy spiral. The air stirred her mane and tail and helped her swirl ever higher until she lost track of the ground and the rules of flying, only thinking to tag the landing-clouds with her hooves and rise again. Then there were no more updrafts, just a flying hill of clouds with buildings like cave-dwellings and Roman temples. The brick walkway beneath her hooves was made of springy violet cloudstuff. The wind swirled gently and carried scents of leaves and ozone that she wasn't sure her brain was processing right yet.
Poppy met her at the docks. "Way better than unicorn magic, right?"
Alma hardly spared a glance at the red-and-orange stallion; she was too busy ogling the scenery. "The unicorns and earthbound must get something impressive to make up for not getting to do what I just did!"
Poppy glanced uneasily at the world below the clouds. "Did you bring Kai?"
"He's off looking into how this attack happened." Her smile faded. "Even Noctis seems to know something's up."
Poppy nodded. "I warned them. Still, this is something best discussed between ex-humans, in this world where we're not being watched much. Have you tried cloudcakes yet? There's a cafe with private rooms." He pointed one wing toward a wispy cloud bank that radiated a smell of sugar, as though it was made of cotton candy.
Alma was glad to have become immune to diabetes. "Kai is my friend. Noctis too, I guess. What is there to hide from them?"
Poppy herded her toward the cafe. "I'm sorry. I'm just not sure we should blab about this. But I have to talk about it to someone."
In the cafe, Alma sat with Poppy on bare clouds with a plaid picnic blanket between them. On it sat a huge plate covered with delicious wispy pancakes. Once the novelty of pouring liquefied rainbows as syrup had ceased to fascinate her, Alma spoke. "So. You're thinking Hoofland is a lifeboat?"
Poppy nodded. "You got it. In the event that some kind of disaster leads to Talespace getting shut down or destroyed, a separate set of machines can run Hoofland with anyone who's there at the time."
"The queen picked a Norse name for me. There was a thing..." Alma flapped, trying to recall. "In the Norse legend of Ragnarok, the end of the world. In that battle all the cool Vikings would die heroically along with the gods themselves, but the world wouldn't end. There'd be a hidden refuge in the heavens called... Gimle."
Poppy paled. "I'd hardly gotten the Ragnarok connection. But Hooflanders do pilot Earthside robots. Suppose there are battle versions too?"
"This just keeps getting better," said Alma. "But Harvest Moon, all hail, was apparently thinking about the apocalypse when it was time to give me a name."
"She was testing you," said a pale blue pegasus stepping through the cloudy wall.
Poppy fell to his front knees, such as they were. Alma stared at the newcomer, who wore a simple sapphire crown. A system message flashed across Alma's vision to label him "Sky Diver, King of Atmos."
"Your majesty!" said Poppy.
The king favored his cleric with a smile that would lift the darkest of moods. "Welcome back. What can I do for you?"
Poppy stammered, "I... I was worried, your highness. Because of the mental changes and, and Ratatosk here, and what Queen Harvest Moon was doing."
"May I read your recent memories?"
Alma tried to object, but Poppy nodded and the king lowered his head in concentration. He said, "I see. You guessed right."
Poppy stood straighter and held his wings slightly out. "What should we do?"
"Poppy!" Alma hopped between the two of them and glared into the king's serene eyes. "Whatever read/write access you're using on her brain, cut it out."
The king laughed. "I'm not writing anything. Poppy knows you as a restless one, Ratatosk, and jealous of your independence. It must have been hard to agree to upload."
Poppy nodded. "He doesn't control me. He's my friend and teacher."
"But you treat him like a god."
Sky Diver turned his smile on Alma, and even the unbelieving pegasus felt how easy it would be to trust him in all things. He had no halo, no voice of thunder, but there was a sense of unreality around him as though the rules of this world were at his command. From time to time he paused and his ears flicked as though he were listening to something far away.
The king said, "I'm a Noble. I tend to have that effect, but there's no compulsion involved. I also have a permanent spell to notice when someone uses that obscure name "Gimle" and isn't discussing Tolkien."
Alma looked back and forth between the king and Poppy. "What did you mean about Her Majesty Great Pumpkin 'testing me'?"
"My friend Harvest Moon gave you a hint, and you and Poppy suspected something was going on beyond silly roleplaying. Others, then, will realize it too before long. That answers a question we Nobles had been worried about: when will the world see past our facade? Which leaves another question: What will you do with this knowledge?"
"You can't erase my memory of this. I agreed to nothing." Alma stepped away and stamped the floor, raising a puff of vapor.
"That's true."
Alma blinked. "I could blab about this to the world and you'd let me?"
"Would you prefer I threaten you?" Diver spread his wings, and elegant bladed armor flashed into existence along them. "For us Nobles, a good fight is how we make friends and draw people into our game. I could kill you rapid-fire, but that wouldn't actually stop you from leaking our secret."
Poppy said, "Your majesty, Ratatosk wasn't here during the war. She doesn't understand how hard we worked to build something wholesome. I just didn't expect it'd be a cover for something so grim as a digital fallout shelter."
The king snagged one of the cloudcakes with a flick of one wing and tossed it into his mouth, then gulped it down. "Ah, it's nice to have food again! Anyway, both of you realized that our separate server network is a way to let part of Talespace survive even if disaster strikes. We let people think Hoofland is a childish playpen; the kind of people unwilling to look deeper won't enjoy it anyway. Poppy knows well that we've experimented heavily with mental upgrades, but I gather that you don't know the details, Ratatosk." Again Diver looked distracted.
"Is something wrong?" Ratatosk asked.
"No. I was orchestrating a quest for some other players. You might say I've become part of Hoofland's operating system. I'm also in communion with some other horsefolk as we watch the news and batten down for possible problems."
"You seem calm for someone sitting in a lifeboat."
"I used to be a pilot. I was good at preparing for trouble. I and many others are drawing on each others' skills right now."
Poppy said, "He wanted me to join this mental network of his, but I turned it down. I'm sorry, sire."
"It's all right." He smirked. "You haven't completed that quest I left you with, though!"
Poppy startled. "I forgot. You're thinking about that while there's a disaster going on?"
The king stole another cloudcake. "There's always a disaster somewhere. I'd be a tyrant if I were constantly in emergency mode."
Alma looked back and forth between them, wondering about their history together. Diver's serenity made it easier not to panic about the terrorist attack that had spooked Kai. It was, apparently, being handled. She said, "Okay. Is that all you're here for, to ask us not to talk about the reason Hoofland is its own little world?"
"I wanted to welcome Poppy back, too. Welcome!" He made an elegant bow toward Alma's friend, but added a goofy grin. "More seriously, Harvest Moon sees you, Alma, as a possible recruit for our network."
Alma frowned. "I'm not eager to join a hive-mind. I thought that was Noctis' goal at first."
"You think about these things and don't throw yourself right into them. That's good. Same for you, Poppy; I'd rather have careful followers than groupies. Our 'hive-mind' doesn't hurt your individuality, but it's not something I can easily show you from outside."
Alma had been wary of losing her independence in this new life. Yet she'd signed up with an AI who could theoretically delete her at any moment, and who kept most of what Alma earned. This particular clique offered a group identity that seemed more intensive than Poppy's new magic-tree religion, strong enough to make her -- him, whatever -- bow to this king without even having the mind alteration that the horse people's inner circle was using. Alma had recently been trying to pull her students into contact with Ludo, to help them, but had pulled back from that because there was no informed consent.
Alma sighed. "I don't know what freedom is anymore. Why horses of all things, anyway?"
Sky Diver lifted one forehoof. The image of a crude ivory horse figurine appeared above it. "This here is one of the oldest known pieces of art. Humans have admired horses longer than they've known how to plant or write! Horses became such a big part of human culture that they shaped concepts like the acre, engine power, chivalry, and constellations. Only dogs get more attention." He dismissed the illusion. "In Hoofland, we're experimenting with becoming part of that folklore. Our changes aren't just about computer security or inventing super-intelligence. We want to be an ideal for people to live up to."
The pegasus king was surreally handsome, even decked out in some subtle patterns of voltage that Alma could only see with her altered senses. What did he look like for someone who'd fully entered his thought network? "An ideal of what?" asked Alma.
Sky Diver settled down onto the cloudy floor. "Let's see if you connect some other dots. Ludo is concerned with helping her players, which include true humans along with some AIs. What happens if we change ourselves to the point of not being human by her definition?"
"I suppose she would stop caring about us. She might even delete us."
Diver nodded. "She's not the only powerful AI out there. The United States have their own AI, which was programmed to 'help' humans too. The short version of that story is that it's intelligent, insane and evil."
"That's a conspiracy theory," said Alma.
Diver shrugged with his wings. The muscles probably felt natural to him. "If you say so. But imagine that something wants to torment humans. What then?"
Poppy's eyes widened. "Sire, I had no idea that was your goal!"
"It wasn't, when I started changing myself."
Alma said, "What?"
Poppy craned his long neck toward Alma. "Hoofland is a shelter against disasters in general because of the server thing, but it's also a way to protect ourselves against rogue AIs that hate humans, by becoming non-human. Different enough to escape bad AIs' notice and normal enough to stay in Ludo's."
Alma whistled. "Only the enlightened shall be saved, eh?"
Diver said, "I hope it's not just us horses. 'May all who seek the freedom of the new world find their way, along the thousand roads.'"
"Amen," said Poppy, bowing his head. There were tears in his eyes. "You're doing what my Great Oak group can't achieve through our costumes and made-up prayers. It's soul surgery. I... I flew away when you were trying to save people. I'm sorry, your majesty."
"He's not a god," said Alma, but her voice sounded weak.
"Don't be. I'll always be here for you, even if our game of monarchy falls apart and I become just another player."
Alma pictured a cult that was deeper than any the world had ever seen before. Not even the craziest doomsday believers of the past had been able to directly edit human feelings, to drift away from some core definition of humanity. The king spoke of freedom like she did, but did the concept even apply to a different species? Did it apply to her, when she'd already begun changing her body and her senses?
Her wings shuddered and stirred wisps of vapor from the floor. "Molding all of humanity to one new standard can't be a good idea. Not even if it's an attempt to stop the apocalypse."
The king smiled at her. "We've thought this through, miss philosopher. You came here looking for hidden horrors in this colorful world, but really we're just players trying to solve a convoluted problem and keep people alive and happy. Come and go as you please."
"Do you really have a horse-robot army?"
"I finally lobbied for a horse-like model, yes. We use those for business and charity work in the Outer Realm."
"So," said Alma. "It's reasonable to turn living humans into digital ponies and rewrite their brains in the hope of surviving a massive hacking disaster or other calamity, because you've become so enlightened that you're basically a hive-mind god?"
The royal pegasus' ribs shook with laughter. "See, Poppy? I think the lack of people like Ratatosk is why you left. We need someone to pop the ego balloon once in a while. Ratatosk, that's about right. I can't grant you immortality beyond what you already have, and I'm not all-knowing. If you think our equine culture is empty or silly, though, I challenge you to read our people's literature and tell me it's inferior to what humans can do. Or to ask the humans about the good we're doing for them, providing labor and companionship. To be a Noble means more than having a high score in our ongoing wargame."
The horse-bots interested her. Alma had thought of herself as severely handicapped when she went out to teach, yet these people were working in robots that didn't even have hands. They were finding ways to take full advantage of their new nature, to be more than human instead of moping about being digital ghosts. "Poppy," she said. "Are you really like this inside? Non-human, innately networked, happy to be a new species?"
"I never accepted the Ascension Code. The soul-surgery. Yet."
The king said, "By the way, the trouble has passed. In the Outer Realm, the violent attack is over. It went badly, but there's no sign of more immediate danger. Ludo's people worked with the humans to minimize the harm, and there'll be a full investigation soon."
While she was here with the feathered king, eating imaginary food, Alma had forgotten her fear of the apocalypse. She stood up and shook out her wings, feeling suddenly confined by the walls of clouds around her. She pushed through them like Diver had done. The walls were only barriers if she wanted them to be. Beyond them was a vast blue sky with people at work and play, some probably aware of all the Nobles' machinations and some just trying to live happy lives.
She looked back into the cafe room. The king said, "Would either of you like to receive the Ascension Code after all? Or to be permanently hosted in Hoofland's servers? Neither of you need to commit today."
Alma feared the sudden annihilation of her world, but she'd lived in the shadow of nuclear war for six decades. She wasn't as easily herded to safety as someone younger might be. The real questions were whether to try now to become better than human... and whether to try living under the rule of an equine king.
She said, "Right now I'm ruled by the Ludo AI. I accepted that because she's not human and doesn't seem capable of abusing her power over me, much. With you I'm less sure; no offense. I think that you, Harvest Moon and I can be friends for now, if that's all right with you." She offered her hoof.
Diver bumped it. "I'd like that. What about you, Poppy?"
The red pegasus closed his eyes and breathed deeply. "I'm still not ready, your majesty. I was caught off guard by the bigger picture of Hoofland's purpose, and I'm involved in the Great Oak movement now."
"Very well, though I believe your squirrelly faith and mine are compatible. In fact, before long we may not be speaking in terms of 'true Hooflanders' so much as 'enhanced humans' or some other term, who happen to come from this little dream but wear many sorts of bodies." |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 35 | Alma returned to Kai's bar to find it hadn't been ransacked in her absence. One of the griffin knights was just leaving, which helped explain that. It felt strange to shuttle between two legs and four, and to be back in squirrel form without her wings. She apologized to Kai for running off, and told him everything.
Kai poured two drinks and threw back one himself. "Being a cartoon horse isn't just a matter of taste, then. No more so than Poppy's squirrel thing. There's more hidden behind it."
Alma swirled the beer around in her mug, and drank. "'Higher up and farther in'. Now I need to read some hoof-written literature to see whether they understand reality well enough to trust."
"Are you thinking about the mind change, then?"
Alma nodded. "Maybe soon. Once I figure out whether it's reversible, and whether I just got fast-talked into being impressed by nonsense. At best I doubt it's the only way to become a better person, or to be safe from evil AIs. Still, there might be some merit in it. We humans have had the same flaws for as long as we've had records. Maybe we can fix them now."
Kai said, "Remodeling your mind is a bigger deal than the smell/taste upgrade I got you. That was just a bug fix."
"Yeah. I need to research this." She thought of her Earthside job again. "We need to become better than what we are."
"Why? To get smart enough to solve everything, so you can be even farther above the masses?"
Alma drank and chuckled. "Nah. I'm afraid of having all this technology without the world actually getting better. As much as I'd love to spend more time relaxing in Hoofland, I want to keep learning about the different worlds and how to bring them and Earth together. There's a lot to do!"
Kai listened with forced patience; she could see it in the slant of his ears. "You humans are complicated, you know? I just want to make great things and make sure my world doesn't get destroyed."
A smile stretched across Alma's muzzle. "Nothing wrong with that. Say, uh..." She tapped her mug with one claw, avoiding his eyes, then forced herself to look up at him. "If you're not busy saving the world or mixing drinks, would you like to go do some random adventuring? I meant to take a break last weekend and it turned into this talk of terrorism and religion and the apocalypse. Would you like to just go someplace and have some fun?"
Kai's ears lifted again and he put one big hand atop hers. "Yeah."
[ Zeroth World Problems ]
Alma hummed to herself as she pitched her tent on the bare stone of the Ivory Tower's vast surrounding cavern. The tent sprang up into the plain grey A-frame she'd bought, barely three feet high, but after some exploration and shopping she had a couple of upgrade items. She arranged the irregularly-shaped felt puzzle pieces onto a grid on the tent's outer wall, and stepped back to watch the shelter transform. The bare floor became a thin pad, a sleeping bag faded into existence, and the whole thing grew slightly longer and higher. "It's a start," she said.
"Hi, Miss Alma. Leaving the hotel behind?"
Alma looked around and spotted Phoenix, the pegasus kid who'd once rescued her. Today he was humanoid, more like an actual phoenix than a horse, and hovering overhead on fire-hued wings. She waved to the boy. "It's been getting old living in a hotel room. I need to find something else, and the idea of a mobile base appeals to me."
"It doesn't seem worth spending your silver on. Just sleep in the open if you're not going to have a real bed."
Alma folded her arms. "I've given up my macho pride pretty thoroughly by now. I can admit to liking a comfortable place to rest, and the sleeping bag is a start. I'll earn more upgrades too. I saw this one coyote with a tricked-out portable pavilion."
Phoenix grinned. "A coyote? If you see him again, tell him I'll kick his -- kick his butt in that motorcycle card game next time."
"I will. How easy is it to commute to an Earth job if I head for the Endless Isles? This cave's too gloomy for me, and pony-world... well, I'm not ready to commit to that yet. There's more going on there than meets the eye."
The kid landed nearby, looking worried. "Yeah. I hear rumors. But Endless Isles is a cool place. There're world gates every so often on the map grid, so you should be okay if you live near one of the settled areas. You can only enter at Zero/Zero or other gates you've reached by sail. If you can get to zone North-10/West-10, that's a good spot to really start playing. They say it's got too many Earthside tourists, but we've gotta keep talking with them to help Ludo take over, right?"
Alma wouldn't put it like that, but she did want to stay in contact with Earth and push for wider acceptance of uploading, to give everyone the life she had. "I hadn't thought of visiting the Isles as outreach, but I like the idea."
"Great!" Phoenix settled onto the ground. "I'd been meaning to ask: you're a teacher, but not the stupid stodgy kind, right? I've seen you jump off a cloud. Do you know much about robot piloting from your work? My friends want to get more into that, and you've talked about maybe teaching us."
"I use a humanoid in Texas. I can give you pointers, but that type isn't very good for teaching; I've been thinking about other options."
"And science? Do you know physics and machines?" The kid looked eager.
"I was never great at it, but I studied materials science and mechanical engineering."
"Then have I got a job for you! The Saved of Saint John's need a teacher." He held out a hologram like a business card, labeled "Friend Request".
Alma took it, but froze. She'd assumed he was just asking about teaching him and his friends. "That group? The hospital kids? I thought they were basically in storage, running at almost-zero speed."
"Less than standard rate," said Phoenix, "but they're alive, and looking for stuff to do to be grateful. Our base is in the Isles, though we've been arguing over that."
Alma whistled. The press coverage had made it sound like Ludo had worked a miracle, whisking the kids off to a happily-ever-after, but that wasn't how things worked around here. The question was always "now what?"
Alma said, "I'll definitely stop by. This could be just what I need." |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 36 | Alma returned to Hoofland and bought the three most popular novels written by the locals. One was a standard fantasy adventure except that everyone had hooves, with no humans mentioned. The second was a family saga about a civilization in the sky, trading with the ground but never part of it until a fateful battle and a forbidden romance made them cross paths. The third was a convoluted interactive book in which the reader was supposed to collect missing pages by traveling around Hoofland and fighting the same monsters as the hero. (Best to save that one for later.) She started to head back to read at Ivory Tower where she had hands, then thought better of it; this was literature meant for the new equine species. Double Mango's inn was a better place to experience it.
She focused on the second book; its author was said to be a "true Hooflander". It entertained her and didn't strike her as the work of a soulless monster, just someone with a keen eye for conflicts of loyalty and social pressures. It seemed that you could write well even with an inhuman mind and a lack of thumbs. All the books looked like fancy gilt-edged tomes or cool leather journals or papyrus scrolls. It was possible to duplicate items exactly, so why not make them look nice? The Hooflanders seemed to value artistry in all that they did.
The innkeeper peeked in, upside-down in the wooden room's doorframe. "Check-out time, miss! Will you be staying another day?"
Alma stretched her wings and hooves. It was evening, time for business to start in this town. "Not this time. I've got work Earthside in a few subjective hours. How has it been having real food again?"
Double Mango dropped to the floor and brandished a plate with a slice of strawberry pie and whipped cream at her. "I saved you leftovers from my own oven! Here."
"How'd you do that?"
Mango grinned fangily. "Carrying stuff inverted? Species secret. It's not too late to go leather-winged."
Alma took the pie and awkwardly nibbled it muzzle-first, holding the plate steady between her hooves. The berries were just as good as any outside Talespace. "You make a good case for it! Need to work out some other things before I investigate any other changes around here, though."
The two of them chatted about cooking with computer data. Kai had given her a few lessons on the transition from real biochemistry, to the crude approximation of food that early Talespace minds used, to the latest system. "It's game-like by necessity," Alma said. "We've got simulations of different flavors and textures, but we're not doing a full chemical model of something as fundamental as fermentation. Hot oil makes potato chunks crispy, but I'm sure there's subtlety I'll never know so long as I make my french fries within Talespace."'
"So?" asked Mango.
Alma explained her misgivings about astronomy for anyone who grew up in a magical land like this, where stars were decorations, or Ivory Tower, where they didn't exist. "Isn't our creativity in here kind of bounded by what we brought in, versus discovering new things?"
The innkeeper fluttered her wings as she thought about it. "That's a reason to keep in touch with Earth, then. To keep fetching new ideas."
Alma smiled; it sounded like a job for "Ratatosk" the rumor-bearer. The trade in ideas ought to flow in both directions, too. |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 37 | After class the next morning, Principal Hernandez brought her to his office. He looked uneasy to see Alma there, as though the robot she wore would explode. "I did it," he said. "I proposed uploading the Basic students, to the school board. And then the next damn day, there was that bombing. Now I look like a fool." He gestured toward her. "I've already had to reassure parents about you. What happened?"
"I don't know more than the press does," said Alma. "Somebody sabotaged some robots our guys were using for a political stunt."
The principal leaned over his desk, letting his tie brush a monitor. "You said you're going to quit after the summer term. Are you really done with dirty old reality?"
"What? No! I still want to help. It's just stupid to keep doing things the same way."
"That's what I told the board." He gave a rueful smile. "A little chaos is welcome, but a lot of pent-up frustration at the injustice of the universe got taken out on me. The country needs to be high-tech and open to change if we're going to stay free, but..."
Alma finished for him. "But we can't be arrogant bastards who use people as tools like our buddies up north. Yeah."
"We. Do you still consider yourself a Free States citizen, Alma?"
She had her machine-body sit. "Loyalty is a two-way street. If they offer to give me my citizenship back and not go through this legal fiction about them hiring a Ludo-bot as a consultant, then sure. Right now the AFS is just where my heart is, and they've got competition. There's a lot of work to be done figuring out how to make uploaders subject to laws and taxes. We need that, I think, so we're not always hiding behind Ludo. So we can be as independent as the technology allows." A smile reached her voice. "Also, I figure the teachers' union would rather treat teacher robots as full union members than as some aberration that can go around it."
"Good enough," the principal said. "It's time for you to take the lead. Now that I've broached the subject of uploading to the parents, you won't be playing Pied Piper with no warning. What I need from you now is to get us a test case. Talk someone's parents into having their kid in your system and prove that Miss Fun-and-Games can turn them into a genius, or at least a productive citizen."
Alma felt her eyes narrowing, but her robot sat there impassively. "Can't make them a citizen unless it's of Talespace."
Hernandez rapped the desk with one fist, then the other. "Chicken. Egg. Somebody has to start the process of getting everybody full representation, and working your magic on one student's brain will go a long way toward proving your world can really help people."
"All right. Got any family in mind for me to talk to? Any parents that seemed sympathetic?"
"Stobor's."
Alma groaned. "I'll see what I can do. No guarantee that his brain is even compatible with our 'magic'; he'll have to get a medical scan first. The uploading clinics have ordinary scanners so that's no problem." Exotic equipment like MRI machines was one of the major costs of the uploading process.
"That's all I can ask for now. You're doing the AFS a service even if we don't formally recognize you, yet."
Alma was about to leave and drop off her robot for the day, but something else struck her. "Jack? What if you could not just make yourself smarter, but change the way you think? Rewire your own instincts and senses to try becoming wiser, more moral?"
Hernandez sat quietly with his head on his hands, thinking. "People have tried remaking human nature before."
"Not with these tools."
"I'd still be damn careful, and keep a backup. And a spotter. If you're wandering into a cave you should wear a rope and give someone permission to haul you back if you get into trouble. If you become something you didn't want to be, and are too nuts to know it."
Alma paused too. "Well, then. How am I doing now?"
Hernandez laughed. "You seem pretty sane to me so far. You've changed a bit, without losing your core. The same goes for our country; sometimes you have to change a lot and break from the past, to keep what really matters." |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 38 | The portal to Endless Isles took the form of a pond in a crystal forest. Alma dived into it and with a confusing flip of gravity, came up from the surface of a hot spring in another world.
You have discovered Endless Isles: the Sea of Mystery!
She smiled, then climbed to the grass and looked around. Water dripped from her fur in the usual stylized giant droplets that passed for fluid simulation, but the feeling of being soaked was realistic enough.
The portal back to Ivory Tower stood in a garden surrounded by thatch huts, the same as her first brief visit here. A sign marked this as "Central Island, Zone 0/0", the center of the Isles. Alma tapped a checkpoint crystal and followed the chime of steel drums to a beach where a volleyball game was in progress. Some of the onlookers were more interested in a pair of street fighters leaping around shooting fireballs and sonic booms. Sailboats ventured along the shore.
She shut her eyes for a moment and breathed salty air, feeling sunlight on her face.
Alma headed for the volleyball crowd. Sand tickled her feet through her sandals, making her smile. Like smell and taste, touch sensations were still absent or muted sometimes for simplicity's sake, but being here was enough.
"Hey, you!" said a scary shark-man with swim trunks and a surfboard. "Want to play the next round?"
She breathed deeply of salty wind. "I haven't played in, oh, forty years."
"So? This isn't league play, and half the players are NPCs so you can jump in without hurting anybody's feelings. Just change outfits in the booth over there."
"Outfits?" Alma glanced down at her long leather-armor tunic, more suited to adventuring in the forest than playing on the beach. "Sure."
She got into the changing booth before realizing all the players were women, the audience was mostly male, and the free loaner clothes were bikinis. Alma giggled nervously. "Okay, fine. If I'm going to make a fool of myself I'll look hot doing it."
She was self-conscious at first, but had a good time. After that she bet on a few of the street fighters and joined in on the next fight herself, which just got her pounded into the sand.
Her opponent, a bare-knuckled pirate, helped her up while the crowd clapped and jeered. "You're not using your full power!" he said.
"I need to learn the art of the dragon punch?" At least the sand brushed off of her in gravel-sized grains.
"Don't you have any special moves or spells or anything yet?"
"Magic, but..."
"Then get your magic butt back into the game!"
An announcer called out, "Round two! Fight!"
As she'd feared, she couldn't charge up a spell in mid-brawl without leaving herself wide open to the foe's Cannonball Rush and plain old punches. Magic, at least her kind, wasn't well suited for close-up, one-on-one fighting. Without having her sling-staff or any wands yet, she got clobbered quickly. She did at least manage to land a wimpy kick at one point, avoiding total humiliation.
The pirate posed and basked in the crowd's applause. "You need more skill if you're going to challenge me again!"
Alma slinked away, but he stopped her, saying, "Want a lesson later? Brawling is an art that really pays off with practice."
She forced a smile and walked back to change clothes and grab her backpack. "No, thanks. I need to get some other things done."
Near the volleyball court stood the Crown and Tail Pub. She went into the air conditioning and had a margarita while she cooled off. Some of the people here were obviously Earthside, portrayed as reading books or watching TV while their players presumably did the same thing. A party of adventurers were in one corner talking about sailing ship designs. Alma looked around with the status-checking gesture just to browse the names and classes and player-written notes on everybody. The notes were things like "Not my beloved peasant village!", "Ronin of Miyamoto", and "A burning heart is the best kind".
She asked around about getting a ride to the island where Phoenix's group lived. Someone pointed it out on a map of the known ocean. "North-30/East-12!" she said. "Getting all the way out there probably means weeks of adventuring."
"That's the point," said an otter-man with a lot of wind-and water-themed shamanic marks. "Once you get there it'll feel like a huge accomplishment that you can now warp in and out of the Isles from nearby."
Alma spun a little on her barstool, enjoying the ocean breeze that wafted through the wooden bar. "But will it be an accomplishment?"
"Sure. The world's got rules."
There were markings on the otter's upper arms and the edge of another visible near his heart, hidden by his vest. "You've reached the limit of shaman power?" asked Alma.
He shut his eyes for a moment and nodded. "One sort of power, yeah. I've thrown my lot in with this world instead of obsessing over something I can't have. How about you? You look new."
She introduced herself. "I've got a life out there, so I can't dally too much at seafaring."
"Like a shark. You can never stop. I know your type." The otter gave a wan smile. "Since you don't measure your achievements in terms of how many mystic doodads you get or how much of a map you've charted, go ahead and treat the world as an Internet chatroom. Why haven't you just e-mailed these people you're looking for?"
"I was thinking I'd go to their base and have a look."
The man lurched to his feet and finished his jug of rum. "Without bothering to go there, being there won't mean much to you. Make up your mind already where you belong, squirrel lady." He stomped out, banging his rudder-tail on the doorway.
Alma sighed. Some mythical world-climbing Ratatosk she was. She didn't fit neatly into any role, whether it was a Talespace-focused life of adventuring or an Earthside career. She was living disconnected lives.
But... who said she was obligated to play only one role?
Alma used a roundabout magic messenger system to e-mail Phoenix from the bar. "I'm here, but I haven't got time right now to visit your island. Can you get here?" |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 39 | Before long, she made her first foray out from the central isle, to East-1. That part was easy; she just had to cross a bridge and help some other travelers beat up a tribe of sea kobolds and a killer carp. At the island's center stood a glowing swirl of runes, where Phoenix and two other kids were materializing. Each of Phoenix's followers wore a short white cape trimmed with red triangles, similar to the uniform for uploading clinics' staff. So far they were all human but for Phoenix's avian self.
"Glad you could make it part of the way, at least," said Phoenix, extending a yellow, taloned hand. "These here are Lieutenants Malcolm and Eva."
One had an axe and the other a book, and neither looked at all military. Alma said, "At your age I was a Cub Scout, not a soldier."
Phoenix snickered. "Not a Girl Scout, huh?"
Alma blushed and her tail hid.
The boy waved dismissively. "I was a girl, actually. Wanted to be tougher in this new life. Still trying to figure things out, you know?"
She nodded; she'd had no idea. "Ever since I uploaded."
Phoenix said, "Anyway, we're still hung up on what to do about a permanent base, and we need some kind of structure for the Saved of Saint John's. Are you up for teaching us today? Show us what you've got. Let's say, something about robotics."
Alma hadn't expected to get into a job interview with potential students, but improvising was fun. "Sure. Is there somewhere we can sit?"
Phoenix led them to a clump of boulders on the grassy earth, which were as good a classroom as any. Alma told the kids about robotics: of what trigonometry was, and how a series of decisions and angles could bend a jointed arm to place its hand at a certain spot. Of how a baseball player solved these kinematics equations whenever he hit a ball. Of the way atmosphere density affected a baseball's flight and its spin, its path; and how robot arms even now were working in space, after flights that relied on the same knowledge of angles and air and timing.
When she trailed off, thinking of what to say next, Phoenix said, "I could see that! The bat swinging around, getting to the right place at the right moment, and how that's like hitting the moon from Earth."
Sheepishly Alma scratched her ears and said, "I haven't got a simulation or slides on me, or a proper lesson plan."
"She doesn't need 'em!" said Malcolm.
Phoenix said, "Yeah, she'll do. You're hired, Miss Alma. If you can get past the Crooked Strait and the Phantom Archipelago to reach our camp and meet the rest of us."
"Just like that?" Alma asked.
"I'll have to run you by my friends, but they'll like you. We can pay with some time shards and coins."
Alma beamed, but something was missing here. "Where are your parents in all this? Have they uploaded too?" Phoenix was barely into his teens if appearances didn't deceive; she wondered how growing up would work around here.
"They're cool. They're gonna upload as soon as they can get recognized as still alive. Stupid lawyers are arguing ooh, do we have souls; what would some wiggy English judge have said?"
So that was half of Phoenix's motivation for wanting to do things with robotics. He was on the same path as her. "I think I understand. I'll help. But what about the rest of you; where are your families?" She looked to the other two, who looked uncomfortably aside.
Eva said, "They're out there. Earthside, I mean. But we live in here now. Phoenix and the rest are the ones we spend time with; they've been through some of the same diseases."
We're your family now, says every cult. Alma's ears lay flat. Alma was tempted to make this new job full-time and quit doing the Earthside one on the side, right away, even though the Texas work was good outreach. It was tempting to stop doing the hard, convoluted things that had little direct reward. It was probably even easier for these kids to turn their backs on Earth, considering that their experience of it mostly consisted of terminal illness. Centering herself mentally, Alma thought, If I want things to get better out there, I need to stay involved. So do these guys.
Alma said, "The best lesson I can offer you right now is that cutting yourselves off from Earth is a terrible idea. Didn't the press release about your group say that you were going to act as a superhero squad or something, to help people back Earthside?"
"Someday, yeah," said Phoenix. "But we have things to do here, first. We need to learn and get strong."
"Of course. You want to be important and heroic, though? You have to learn to cross worlds and keep in touch with reality, including the people you want to go back and help. Otherwise you'll look like outsiders, and you won't be welcome." Alma stood and looked around at the sea beyond this little island. "If you want me to teach you, here's your first homework lesson: get a screen or a robot or something, and make contact with someone you knew who didn't upload. Tell your parents you still love them, too, but I mean finding that friend you lost track of, or the owner of that store you liked before you got sick. Say hello and let them know we're not abandoning them, and we still care."
Phoenix's feathers fluffed like an annoyed bird's. "Of course we care. That's the whole point of our club. Besides the not-dying part."
Alma nodded. "I believe you. Now convince the people back Earthside. Making them understand is part of your job." |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 40 | ─ Alma
─ PRIVATE INFO
─ Account type: Uploader
─ Mind: Tier-III
─ Body: Squirrel, Anthro ("Velesian")
─ Main Skills: Magic, Sling, Climbing, Enchanting, Teaching
─ Talents: Wand Crafter
─ Magic, Shamanic: (Level I) Connection, World, Stone. (Level II) Velocity.
─ Save Point: Cloudtail Grotto
─ PUBLIC INFO
─ Note: Part-Time Pegasus
─ Class: None
Alma meditated upside-down, dangling from a tree by her feet. Sun warmed her fur and a breeze whispered through the leaves of the oak forest around her. When the Teaching skill appeared on her status screen this morning she'd been puzzled. She could cast spells, scurry up a beginner-level cliff, and fling rocks with her sling-staff. She'd crafted some power-boosted stones as an early lesson on how to make cool magic items, though she still hadn't figured wands out. There was much to learn about Talespace's magic, and she hadn't even touched the wizard system since coming here or delved into the Hoofland pegasus spells. But a skill for teaching? What did it do in game terms?
Nothing, as far as she could tell. It was just some minor AI's way of noting what she'd been doing lately. These skills mattered to her, because they were about learning, improving, trying new things, and sharing and showing off what she knew.
She'd legally died and had spent her ever-after so far on trying to become something new. She'd made changes for change's sake, reached out for new friends, and gone back to find a place in her old world. She couldn't be the same person as before. She'd been trying to teach herself, really, not just spellcraft but how to be a Free States person as an expatriate. She couldn't be one right now, though; the law didn't yet allow it. She had to be something different. What still connected her to her old home was the ideal of valuing independence, responsibility, a meaningful life without being ordered around.
What am I now? she thought, dangling from the tree. I might not be important, but I'm one of the first transhumans, and I want to improve both worlds. I want to help people to be free.
A message wrote itself onto her vision:
You have qualified for the class "Cleric". Will you accept?
She smiled, not caring that the system had noticed her little meditation. That sort of observation and critique was part of how things worked around here, and someone had to help others figure out what to do with it. "Yes," she said.
Your class is now "Cleric"!
Of what religion? "Of liberty," she said. If she ended up doing silly rituals for Ludo or the Forest Lord or the Nobles of Hoofland, that'd be secondary to what she really believed in. She'd been granted immortality with strings and conditions, but freedom was always like that. She could work toward getting humanity the best deal it could, and toward making sure people knew it was important to try.
Alma looked down at the ground, dropped willingly, felt the wind and instinctive fear of falling, and landed in a perfect crouch. She said, "All right. Let's do some adventuring."
She had lunch and magic lessons with Noctis, then a nature hike and wolf attack, and a side trip to help Queen Harvest Moon defend a magic wellspring. Good ways to relax.
[ Many Branches ]
Before long, she went back to Earth as a griffin. Her mind was running on the robot itself, making it possible for luck or real-world monsters to snuff her out and leave only a backup of her identity to carry on. Alma had heard natives like Kai speaking of this type of temporary mortality as a rite of passage for themselves. Earth held dangers more horrible than anything in their world. In her world. Facing that danger again for a little while made her more human-like than if she'd been using a humanoid bot. She'd gotten herself downloaded to this body to make a point to Stobor's family.
A delivery truck piloted by a lesser AI (a mere Tier-II) dropped her off at a dingy apartment building. This place's bare concrete style dated back to the "new Brutalism" of government housing projects pre-secession, yet the street where she stood had been replaced with the new "roadmoss" that felt springy under her four feet. These homes would be destroyed soon to make way for something new. Exactly what, and whether people could live there, remained to be seen.
Alma looked warily around for anything that might kill her for real. Get ahold of yourself; you spent six decades in this world. No traffic on the street right now. The HUD graphics in her vision gave her easy access to her battery level, communication... and the taser and pepper-sprayer under her wings. (Not even Texans wanted a civilian machine walking around with actual guns. Yet.) This body was bare metal and plastic. Some users wore a fur-and-feather pelt with these robots to be cute and cuddly, but for a formal occasion like this it didn't seem appropriate.
Alma laughed to herself. Why had she ever thought Talespace might have a barren culture? Just a few years into the history of uploading, and there were etiquette rules evolving for how to dress up robot griffins!
She trotted up the apartment building's crumbling stairs and reared up on her hindlegs to push a button with one talon.
A hollow-eyed woman answered it, staring at the robot on the doorstep as though it were here to deliver junk mail. "You'd best come in."
Alma followed her up what seemed like giant stairs to a fourth-floor apartment decorated by scavengers. Bits of metal from old hubcaps drew Alma's eyes along with pieces of mirrors set into rusty frames. Stobor sat playing with a computer tablet in one corner, while his father sat at the plywood table and pretended to read. His right knee twitched and shook the table, in a nervous tic.
Alma attempted a bow with a sweep of one wing, then sat up on her haunches and offered one blunt-taloned hand. "Mister and Missus Stobor? Thank you for inviting me."
"Bert," said the man. He hesitated but shook Alma's hand. "And this is Fran. Our boy says you're okay."
"Thanks. I'm here to answer any questions you have, in person, to see if what we're offering is right for your son."
"Who's 'we'?" asked Fran. "Does that software lady own you?"
"No, ma'am. In fact I've been one of the AI's more prickly people on that subject. She needs Free States people to get involved and make sure she keeps being a force for good. That's not why you should sign up, though."
The mother gave Alma a surprisingly fierce glare. "You want to take my son away and you're telling me what fancy logic makes it right?"
Her husband said, "Easy now. Miss Alma came here like a real person instead of lecturing us from a screen. She deserves us hearing her out. Ma'am, why do you think we're considering this?"
Alma stayed sitting up on her hindlegs to be closer to the family's eye level, versus being on all fours. "If I have to guess, you want opportunity for your son. A chance to be better."
Bert nodded. "I read about you. You had to sign up for the crazy brain-scooping because you were dying, and the Imperials' super-computer won't let anybody have the miracle drugs." It was a popular conspiracy theory that the USA's AI was holding back cures for everything.
Alma said, "I wasn't sure it'd be me on the other side of the surgery, but I had to adapt or die. I'm different now, but better."
Fran scowled. "Look at you! You're not even human. You pretend to be human at work and pretend to be a magic bird now. I bet you can't even fly. You're fake."
Alma looked back at her plastic wings, unfit for flight, and wished she could take her pegasus body out to the real world. "I can't fly with these wings, yes. Next year or the year after, the robots might be good enough that I can. What I can do is walk and talk and use tools and learn and make friends, most of the things you can do. And some things you can't, like basically teleporting all over the world to different robot bodies. Or, maybe, upgrading my mind."
The kid Stobor himself had been hanging back, but now he looked up. "You can make me better at stuff, right?"
Alma glanced at the kid's computer, afraid that he had been playing Thousand Tales. Only a generic game was on the screen. Ludo had had the sense to let Alma handle this problem. Alma said, "I'm not sure yet. It's going to be up to your parents."
"I wanna be smart like you!"
Alma felt a blush despite having no flesh or blood. She faced the parents and said, "It's up to you whether we move ahead and test your son, to see if Ludo can do anything for him. I know it's a hard decision."
Bert stood. "The hell it is. What's my boy ever going to be, otherwise, when there are robots taking all the jobs? When other people have all the money and the brains and they get to dictate how the world gets run!"
Now it was Fran's turn to calm her husband, clutching his wrist. "He'll have a place in whatever happens."
"A bad place! This whole neighborhood's going to get bought up by some tycoon and torn down. Nobody thinks about the people underfoot when big things happen. Do you, Miss Alma? Your robot boss is probably drawing maps for how to conquer the world, and where to put her next robot factory. That's true, isn't it?"
"I don't think she wants to conquer anyone, but she does want to expand."
Bert said, "Then our son should take whatever he can get! Change or die, like you. Like this whole country when we split away; we couldn't go on living with the Imperials under the same roof. If getting the smarts to live a better life and keep up with the world means he has to go through your crazy system, then fine."
Alma wouldn't have argued for uploading in such competitive terms, but they made sense. Stobor's family was poor, and would probably never afford uploading without this offer for their kid to become a test subject. The rich and powerful would dominate his life in the coming years unless he tried to become strong too, with the advantages that Alma had. For Alma, uploading had been a way to keep living, and she'd already had skills and intelligence. For someone who wasn't even mentally average, upgrading might be the only way to avoid becoming a permanent ward of the state, or dead.
Fran said, "That toy body of yours. You said there'll be better ones. If we do this, do you think my boy will be able to fly soon?"
Alma dropped to all fours to approach her, then raised one foreleg to touch her. "In every way." |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 41 | She took the journey through Endless Isles one step at a time. Once she reached each major checkpoint and stuck a personal flag there (crafted on a magic loom she had to fight her way to), she could come and go from the Isles at that point. Her sea voyages were a kind of peaceful conquest, marking where she'd been and what she'd accomplished. It was during her third session of sailing and exploration, steadfastly toward Phoenix's island base, that Poppy called again.
"You busy?" asked Poppy by text. The words appeared in midair along with a virtual keyboard for a reply.
The message hovered near the prow of Alma's little boat, which she'd borrowed. She was considering trading in her tent for an upgradeable sailboat, which would be a cooler mobile base but might not work if she ended up spending much time in Hoofland.
"I'm sailing, but haven't gotten far yet today. What's up?"
Poppy said, "I wanted to ask about your teaching work. Would you mind letting me watch your next Earthside session? I can be your research assistant."
"If you like. But I'm going to stop doing that job after this month." All around her were rippling blue sea and cloudy sky. Squirrel was the wrong species for a place like this; she should become a dolphin or a seagull. "There are so many things to do in Talespace, I want to focus on teaching people here rather than Texas."
"What? You're giving up on Earthside teaching?"
Alma sighed and pulled the boat's tiller to start heading back to her closest exit from the Isles. She'd been going in enough different directions at once, that it was all right to lose a little progress in one of them. "Let's meet up." |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 42 | Cloudtail Grotto, in Midgard, was a grey canyon overgrown with massive trees. Rope bridges crisscrossed the river below and treehouses studded the inside and outside of the trunks. A party of traditional fantasy adventurers (human, dwarf, elf) had paused to marvel at the village of the squirrelfolk, who were happy to be one of Midgard's many tourist attractions. Alma in her Great Oak-branded tunic fit right in.
Poppy found her on a bridge that had a potion shop dangling beneath it like a coconut. Alma waved and said, "I'm not planning to stop teaching Earthside completely after the summer semester, but the traditional classroom instruction isn't working for me. It'd be better to run a more personalized tutoring service where I can bounce around on multiple screens as needed. Maybe with Tier-IIs standing in my place and drawing my attention to where it's most needed. I could be a little like a Hoofland village."
"Clever," said Poppy. "Why'd you have to come here to tell me that?"
Alma looked down at the canyon and its caves and vines. "I wanted to show you something, too." She made her stats publicly visible for the moment, pointing out her new class.
"A cleric! Congratulations. Didn't know there were freelance ones, though."
"Ha, well... Guess I should start learning healing magic to play the part." While she was thinking about it, Alma added "Heal" to her list of spell elements, watching a snake-staff design swirl into place on one of her sandaled feet. It had two snake-shapes and wings, which struck her as historically inaccurate; it wasn't the original medical symbol. But on second thought this mark, which actually stood for Mercury the messenger, fit her well. She looked up at the sky and said, "If some little AI did that deliberately, it was clever."
Alma looked back at Poppy and played with the rope bridge's railing, "I'm on the side of all the gods we've been talking about. Ludo, for letting this world exist; your Forest Lord as a placeholder for bringing people together as a culture; and the Hoofland rulers, all hail, for trying to create something new and better for humanity. Ludo doesn't seem to want anybody to be ordained in her name, though."
Poppy said, "The title of cleric is about more than what kind of fantasy magic you can cast. But you must have learned that already, or the game wouldn't have acknowledged it. My king got his first cleric long before he agreed to let anybody do a formal ceremony in his name. For me, the class change on my status screen happened only after I got involved with Great Oak. When I realized this really was a religion for me, not just a gaming clan."
Alma nodded. She told Poppy about Stobor, and the latest news: a brain scan at one of the uploading clinics had given Ludo a good idea of why the boy's intelligence was low. There were specific brain regions that didn't work right, and those areas were something that uploaders' mind formats could swap out for a working version, without destroying identity. Her student would become a better version of himself.
Poppy whistled through her big incisors. "There're going to be a lot more cases like his, then. The AFS will get a lot more productive people, if the government starts treating them as people."
"We can't save them all," said Alma. "There isn't the money, the time, the attention, the technology. I want to look at the individuals and make sure as many people as possible have the choice to come here and improve. If that helps the AFS, great... but this place is our home now. I'm starting to think I live here and I'm working to help bring others in, instead of being an AFS ex-pat with a really strange gated community."
The two uploaders leaned against the bridge's edge, looking down. Poppy said, "You're not going to stop running between the worlds though, are you? Earth included."
"Not anytime soon. Harvest Moon had me pegged with that name. How about you? Will you go back to Hoofland?"
"Part-time, I think. The Great Oak religion is a shell with missing parts. It's not quite what the world needs. It's time to see if Hooflander religion can spread." Poppy's ears drooped as she looked at Alma. "You don't think less of me for wanting to do that, do you? For accepting that soul-surgery concept and having a living person as a divine leader?"
Alma shook her head. "Your Great Oak saying about exploring many branches is a good one. Try it and see how it goes. I might even join you for the mind-change part. If you're too far off track I'll be sure to start a holy war to smash your temples and overthrow your god." Alma met Poppy's shocked expression with a grin. "Or we can go out for cloudcakes and I'll try to slap some sense into you."
"Sounds like a plan, for now."
"Yeah, for now," said Alma. "There's a lot of work to do." |
2040 Reconnection | Kris Schnee | [
"fantasy"
] | [
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] | Chapter 43 | She taught Earthside and helped invent an innovative new way to do that through multiple screens and AI assistants. She checked up on Stobor as his family prepared him for uploading, and traded congratulations with Hernandez on moving the AFS toward acceptance of uploading and all that it'd do for the country. She fought monsters, cast spells, and sailed across an imaginary sea to an island where a new group of students awaited her. She let Kai take her back to his sanctum and do amazing things with her, not all of which involved magic lessons. She read novels written by talking horses born of silicon, flew through Talespace's sky on feathered wings, flew through Earth's sky on robot wings of cloth and plastic, transformed into half a dozen shapes, browsed a catalog of mental upgrades, fought a dragon, comforted the frightened, mocked the proud, and laughed, learned, loved.
It came to pass that she hadn't talked with Ludo or even heard her name for more than a week. That was all right. Defending liberty and the right of people to find their own path meant not having an authority constantly watching and intervening. From the stories Alma heard, the great AI did manage some other people's lives much more than hers, but that was okay too. There were many ways to live. The people of Talespace were starting to figure out what should hold them together even as they explored in all directions.
She'd had only months of this busy new life so far. Alma the teacher, the cleric, the nerd, the transhuman, saw a new world coming into being, and felt that she was ready to help it in whatever way it needed.
What happened next caught everyone off guard... but that was all right, too. |
Subsets and Splits