Nesster

Visions of shows gone by melted into the walls like fading shadows. Disassembled scenery flats leaned here and there— drooped-in middles— stern judges bent over their benches waiting to proclaim their rulings.

Assorted costume pieces— Robin Hood’s hat, feather yellowed with age, a lion’s tail from the “Wizard of Oz,” an old rusty oil can, a decrepit bouquet of plastic and silk roses— were scattered around, looking like long-discarded refugees from an elaborate Halloween party.

Snips of rope lay disloyally on the ground— theater snakes—waiting to ensnare unwitting victims.

Mannequins were the only audience now. Seated on the edge of the stage, bent over at odd angles, craned backwards for a better look at the ceiling through the surrealistic, thickened light of the auditorium. Plastic people.

Mostly, there was silence. A respectful, reverent silence. Homage to the art itself—

“Hey, what is this?” Landon asked. The stage tech was a fish-eyed twenty-something who had spent  too much time indoors asked much too loudly. One of the mannequins on the edge of the stage teetered on the brink of falling as the loud voice cut through the house. He swung a small receptacle around over his head by a raggedly cut cable protruding out one end, adding a hollow whistling sound to grind against the sound of his voice in an asynchronous duet.

Mason, another of the stage techs, dropped his broom, glad for the break. He went over to his partner, cupped match to his Marlboro. “Hold it still for a minute, would ‘ya.” He examined the receptacle through the blue smoke of his cigarette. “Oh, Teddy ripped that out of the number three light bank.” He smiled at his own cleverness. “Says he wants you to stop at AB Lighting to pick up a replacement.”

He ripped the receptacle out of Landon’s hand and whipped it across the stage in one motion. It smacked the opposite wall with a loud, hollow whack, like a firecracker exploding inside an empty coffee can. This was enough, and the mannequin on the stage’s edge tipped off in slow motion, crashing onto the hardwood floor.

Landon startled at the sounds, which did nothing to enhance his mood at the idea of having to stop at AB Lighting to pick up a replacement receptacle. “Why me? What’s the matter with you doing it?”

“Dawn of the Dolls opens the day after tomorrow,” Mason said. “I have to go Warehouse Hopping.” Warehouse Hopping was a game they had made of locating set pieces, where they would jet around the city, stopping at the scattered warehouses and storage lockers to pick up required equipment and props, in the shortest amount of time. Last one back to the theater had to clean up after the week’s worth of shows, and buy the weed for opening night of the next show. “Unless of course, you want to switch?”

“No thank you,” Landon said, physically removing himself from the conversation by sidling over to the monster light board that controlled the theater’s aging light show. “I’ll pass on that one.” He began to play with the big board, randomly flipping switches up and down. “Man, I hate Warehouse Hopping.”

“Yeah, you and me both.” Mason picked up his broom and resumed sweeping. “Those places give me the creeps.”

“Amen to that.” Landon looked intently at the controller. “Number three, huh? I can’t find anything wr— ” He had slid the number three slider up and was interrupted by a sickening crackling noise coming from the theater’s large auditorium, and a small, angry outburst of bright yellow light from one of the‘banks half way up the center aisle.

“Yo— shut it down, y’idiot! You want to start a fire?” Mason had thrown his broom to the deck and stood on the edge of the stage. He looked out over the house as one of the light trees erupted in a shower of sparks. He indifferently flicked his cigarette into the seating area, where it struck the top of a chair and went out as its cherry exploded on impact, adding angry red and orange sparks to the show.

The air began to smell of ozone from the short, and the theater was filled with a noise that sounded like someone crumpling up a piece of loose leaf paper in front of a microphone.

“Sorry,” Landon said as he threw the main breaker and shut the panel down.

“Why don’t you clock out while there’s still a clock left to clock out on. We’re just about finished, anyway.” Mason leaned the broom against the wall and pulled out another smoke.

“Yeah.” Landon nodded. “All right, I’m outta here. See you tomorrow.” He scooped up the blown receptacle and headed to the door. “Don’t forget those props.”

“Not a chance.” Mason went over to the bulletin board and pulled off the prop list for Dawn of the Dolls. “Let’s see what’s on the scavenger hunt for Warehouse Hopping today: twelve shrubs, six large trees and three small ones, seven rocks, the costume rack, and six mannequins. Six more mannequins? Shit, I hope they’re union— they’ll fit in well with the rest of the dummies around here.” He lit his cigarette, then held the match to the corner of the prop list. He watched transfixed as the yellow paper caught, slowly curling upward into itself, like a fist full of fingers, before he pursed his lips and blew the small fire out.

He crumbled the singed sheet into his pocket and went over to the door. He switched the lights out and stood in the stilled blackness for a moment.

The lingering smell of ozone was— transformed?— in the darkness, taking on a rotten tang as it spread across the auditorium—ominously, if Mason knew the word— like the dark clouds of a coming storm. He shivered reflexively and stepped out into the night.

* * * * *

OregonDOT“Twelve shrubs nine trees seven rocks one costume rack and six mannequins, right?”

“That’s it, for what it’s worth.” Mason made a quick scan of the clipboard, then shoved the final mannequin into the back of the truck with the leverage of the bottom of his boot. The mannequin’s left arm, stuck on one of the wooden trees, bent in its socket almost to the breaking point. “Stupid bitch,”Mason said pushing the plastic statue harder. The arm snapped off at the shoulder, but the main body of the mannequin collapsed into position. He nodded with satisfaction, a gruff smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Thanks Charlie.”

“Okay babe. See you next show.” Charlie did not like Mason. He thought the tech was a little too nonchalant with the theater company’s property, as he had seen him tossing stuff around rather carelessly, and he didn’t care for the attitude that drove the actions. Into that bargain, he didn’t like Mason’s condescending attitude the kid tried to foist off onto him.

He smiled expansively, the better to hustle him out, and slipped back into the warmth of the warehouse. He shook his head. “Asshole.”

With a patronizing wave Mason pulled the truck out of the loading dock and maneuvered it onto Callow Hill Street. The rear end slid a little on the fresh snow as he made the right turn. For a moment, he lost control.

“Asshole.” He wrestled the truck out of its slide. Mason was in a particularly good mood— he was able to get all of his props for Dawn of the Dolls in one stop— always a bonus.

Reaching down to turn on the radio, he flipped on WXTU and started to tap the wheel in earnest to a Kenny Chesney song from a few years back. “There goes my life.” Mason sang to the radio with enthusiasm, way out of key. “There goes my future, my everything, might as well kiss it all good-bye, there goes my life.” He glanced at his watch and saw that it was just past six thirty. Another late night in the making.

He drove the seven blocks to Delaware Avenue, where he made a right. The old panel truck fish tailed again. “Shit!” He pumped the brakes ever so gently to bring the truck under control.

He cruised uneventfully the rest of the three miles to the onramp for I 95, and got in the lane marked southbound. Kenny Chesney turned into Alan Jackson, who turned into George Strait. Mason increased his speed. There was no traffic at all on his side of the super highway, and almost none on the other side.

“I’ll make good time tonight,” he said to Mr. Straight as they sung a duet, accompanied by the metronome of Mason’s windshield wipers. “Sometimes I feel like Jesse James!” One of them was flat.

About a mile and a half down the road, he and George were just finishing up Troubadour, when he was interrupted by a loud thump! from behind him, inside the back of the panel truck.

Mason reached over and spun the volume knob on the radio, listening carefully. He looked into his side mirror and saw nothing. “A kid with a snowball,” he said. He smiled, knowing that the side panels of his truck made excellent, large targets for snowballs. He pulled out a Marlboro and began to hum along with Carrie Underwood, who was telling him that there wasn’t enough rain in Oklahoma to wash the sins out of that house.

Thump! This time the sound came as a knock.

Right behind his head.

He lowered the radio again and listened. It repeated twice more, as if in answer.

“What the hell!” He swung the truck into the breakdown lane. “If this is a joke, I’m gonna get the last laugh.” He imagined Landon or Charlie crouched in the back of the truck, hands slapped over their asshole mouths as they tried not to laugh out loud when they felt Mason wrestle the truck to a begrudging stop.

Wait, Mason thought as he threw the truck in park. I saw Landon leave. He left the heater on as he swung his legs out the door to crunch down into the snow. And I saw Charlie standing on the loading dock as I pulled out. His breaths appeared before him in little puffs of vapor. He clapped his hands together, just to hear the sound. “Sh-shit it’s cold!”

As he stood at the back of the truck, Mason vacillated. Doubt crept across his face like a ground fog drifting across a lawn. He shifted from one foot to the other, trying to make up his mind. Finally, he barked out a laugh and dug into his pocket for the key to the padlock. Uneasily, he leaned forward and slid the key home.

Mason chided himself for his trepidation. The door went up smoothly, belying its age, with a thunderous roll, sounding like an old wooden roller coaster coming down its first hill. He couldn’t suppress a smile as he contemplated facing his practical joker.

He hopped onto the lip of the truck. His foot met the wrist of the disembodied mannequin arm he had broken earlier. “Stupid thing,” he said, and kicked it further inside the twilit truck. Leaving little puffs of his breath to cling in the air behind him as if refusing to follow him into the murky interior, Mason entered the belly of the truck.

* * * * *

themuldoons1The truck sat quietly by the side of the road in the early morning sunshine, its supply of gasoline long since expended. The rear door yawned open, padlock hanging askew on one of the hinges.

Several police officers were on the scene, drinking coffee and bustling around, struggling to keep warm, trying to look as officious as possible under the circumstances.

An exceptionally bureaucratic looking Chevy Caprice pulled up and crunched to a halt in the snow. The door opened, and an exceptionally bureaucratic looking plainclothes detective stepped out, obviously annoyed at being out in the sub freezing cold. He walked over to the truck, where a young, uniformed officer was completing a form.

“Harris,” the detective barked, recognizing one of his subordinates. “Fill me in, son. And make it quick.” He looked at his watch and shook his head.

“Inspector!” The young officer jumped. “Yes sir!” Harris completed his briefing quickly.

The inspector moved to the truck and squinted into the back. “The list.”

“The list, sir?”

“The prop list.” He started to roll his eyes, but caught himself. He was working on his temper, as according to his doctor, it was easier to calm a growing temper than to calm a growing ulcer. “Let me see the prop list,” he said more quietly. His hand slid into his coat pocket and he pushed two Tums from a half-eaten roll.

“Yes sir!” He handed the list over to the inspector, who had pulled himself up onto the lip of the back of the truck.

“Was there a physical inventory yet?” He chewed the Tums slowly. Cherry and orange.

“Yes sir,” Harris said.

“And?” The inspector’s eyebrows rode high on his narrow forehead.

“Everything accounted for sir.” Harris looked a bit nonplused. “Nothing— ah— missing.”

The inspector looked down at Harris, then turned and entered the truck, almost tripping over the end of the disjointed mannequin arm. He scowled, and looked around at the other props. “Let me see here.”The mannequins looked at him expectantly. He glanced at the list: “Twelve shrubs.” He paused and looked around the back of the truck. “There we go.”

He spotted four of the shrubs leaning up against the wall on the left side, the other eight on the right side. He flipped through them quickly and counted the twelve. “Okay.”

“Nine trees... nine trees... nine trees.” He looked for the trees. “Ah, there you are.” He counted them to his satisfaction as they stood a good foot taller than the mannequins. “Good. Now, seven rocks.” These he found readily, as they were stacked one on the other towards the front of the truck. He was making swift progress, and swift progress made him happy. He looked at his watch and smiled before he counted, “One... two... three... four... where—oh, okay— five... six... and seven. All right, and,” a look down at the list, a look up, “One costume rack—got it.”

He paused to check the list for the final items. “Six mannequins. Let’s see here,” he said, and spotted the plastic people leaning to and fro throughout the truck. “Okay— one... two... three... four... five... six... seven—” Seven? He counted again, quickly. Seven. Not six, as the list suggested, but seven. Maybe a mistake on the prop list itself? That wasn’t very tidy, and things that were untidy slowed things down, and things that were slowed down tended to slow down exceptionally bureaucratic looking plainclothes detectives who had schedules to keep. He thumbed two more Tums from the roll. Two lemons this time. “Harris!” His voice was legion in the back of the truck. One of the mannequins teetered on the edge of balance, shifting, nearly startling the inspector out of his shoes.

There was a loud noise as Harris sprang onto the back of the truck and tripped headlong over one of the props, rocking the medium-sized panel truck like a boat at the dock. The erstwhile unsteady plastic person tipped further, it’s hand knocking into the side panel. This time both men jumped reflexively.

Collecting himself as quickly as he could, Harris said, a bit too loudly, “Yes sir?”

The detective startled one last time, and willed himself calm. He held the prop list out to Harris. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t this say six mannequins?”

Harris scanned the document. “Yes sir, I believe it does.”

“And how many mannequins do you see in here?”

Harris moved around the inspector, and began counting. When he finished, he looked up puzzled.“Seven, sir.”

“Seven,” the inspector confirmed with a nod. “Was anything else found earlier, Harris? Anything at all?” He tried to keep the condescension out of his voice, but any modicum of patience he had held on to was evaporating as quickly as his body heat in the cold morning air and the roll of Tums in his pocket.

Harris’s face went pale; a vacant look filled his eyes. He slid down the wall soundlessly, stopping only when he had sunk into a full crouching position.

The inspector looked at his junior colleague, feeling his ire build in spite of the man’s obviously compromised condition. “Harris! What the hell’s the matter?” He leaned down and gruffly slid Harris back up to his feet.

Slowly the vacant expression faded from Harris’s face, though the face itself remained pearlescent. Harris mouthed something once, twice, and then, the third time, audibly: “One set, sir.”

“What? What’d you say, Harris? One set of what?”

Harris had recuperated enough to elaborate. “When we found the truck, there was only one set of footprints—”

The inspector looked at his junior colleague, understanding hanging just beyond his reach.

“From the cab of the truck back to here. That’s all we found in the snow, sir. One set.” At this, Harris looked at the mannequins again, and jumped out of the truck as quickly as he could. Falling out of the truck would have been a better observation, as his feet caught on the edge of the truck and he swan dove into the snow.

The inspector stood there a moment, his eyes had followed Harris before he turned to gaze at the mannequins. Seven.

When stared at long enough, even the most inanimate objects can take on animate properties.

The seventh, unlisted mannequin, unable to maintain balance in the wake of this latest indignity, crashed to the floor of the truck with an almost human-like groan.

The inspector hastily joined Harris outside in the frosty sunshine.

Plans were made, Caerleon was readied.  Once again, the people gathered themselves to the City of the Legions at the summons of their High King: there was to be a wedding.  Arthur, Ard Righ of Briton, was to marry Gwenhwyfar, Princess of Camelaird.  The people busied themselves with the details, reveling in the sheer delight of such a phenomenal event.  There hadn’t been a royal wedding in Briton for several generations, as the tenure of the Ard Righ was often short-lived and not very conducive to marriage.

The designated day dawned bright and clear.  As the sun crested the horizon, Myrddin and Arthur stood alone at the top of the parapet, their breaths puffing out before them in the chilled morning air.

“We greet the dawn, according to the old ways,” Myrddin said raising his arms high as if he would embrace the lightening sky.

Arthur yawned.  “Ironic, isn’t it?  Today I’m to be married in the Roman tradition, with a Christian service, and yet here we stand starting that very same day with a ritual of the old ways.”

“It’s important to cover all our potential bases, Arthur.”  Myrddin was pulling several ceremonial items out from his voluminous feather cloak.  “We honor the Good God in many ways, my boy.  Both the Christian face, through Jesu the Christ and your Romano-Christian wedding; and the face of the pantheon, through our everyday ceremonies and through the ancient ceremony you and your queen will undertake when Meurig and the rest of your family get back.”

“I know, Myrddin, and believe me, I do respect both the old and the new ways.”  Arthur rubbed his hands together and stomped his feet in an effort to warm himself.  “I just wish the old ways could be observed at a warmer time of the day.”

As the sun rose higher, it melted the frost of the night and created a thin white line of light on the edge of the world.  Myrddin struck a flame and set it to the tip of a willow wand, raising it high above his head.  “We welcome Lugh, the Lord of the Sun.  We beg you to shine your blessings down upon us on this day of Arthur's wedding.”  Myrddin waved the flaming willow branch above his head, saluting each of the four directions.

Arthur watched.  He respected the ancient ways, but he rarely participated in them.  When Myrddin finished, the sun had broken the plane to reach long, golden fingers across the land.  Arthur felt its warming energy immediately.  He breathed in the crisp air.  “Ah!  It’s good to be alive on mornings such as this!”

“Indeed it is, Arthur.”  Myrddin dropped into a squat next to Arthur.  “Today is a most auspicious day for you, my boy.  Today you solidify your base of influence by marrying the daughter of King Leodegrance of Camelaird.  You’ll have a solid base of power guarding your western borders.”

Arthur laughed, a rich baritone sound that belied his youthful age.  “Leave it to you, wise one, to find the political side of this day.”

Myrddin smiled.  “And of course, there’s the Princess Gwenhwyfar, a most beautiful bonus to the advance of your power base.”

“There is that.”

“Well, it’s true. Gwen is a beautiful woman, or haven’t  you noticed, my boy?”  Myrddin raised one eyebrow in a disconcerting way.

“You’re twisting my words, Uncle.”

Myrddin stood and stretched.  “Then don’t leave words dangling to be twisted.”

All around them the caer was coming to life.  Inside, great and small fires were lit in firepits that lined the walls of the kitchens.  Whole oxen would be roasted, turned slowly over gigantic spits.  Several sheep were to be slaughtered, as well as pigs, ducks, chickens, grouse, and many other would-be foods.

New molds were broken, and large wheels of cheese were wheeled into the great hall where they waited on the sideboard to be sliced for the wedding banquet.  Huge vats of ale and wine and beer and mead were set into place, surrounded by scores of ornate goblets that would be dunked into the preferred beverage.

Fresh rushes had been cut and were now being strewn across the floors, giving the place the heady smell of earth and grain.  Newly soaked torches were put into place, fixed into sconces that lined the walls of the great hall.

The entire population of the caer was up and about before the sun reached two fingers into the morning sky.  The courtyard was bustling as the freeholders from the surrounding fields, living in the protective shadows of Caerleon, entered the front gate to get a good spot for the wedding that was to take place later in the morning.

Shortly before noon, Arthur, Myrddin, Lancelot, Lamorak, and a token honor guard rode to the keep where the Princess Gwenhwyfar and her family were staying, awaiting the start of the wedding.

As the groom’s party approached the stout oak doors, Myrddin stepped forward and knocked soundly on the door with his wooden staff.

The knock was greeted with silence.  Myrddin repeated it.

Out of the silence burst a voice from behind the door, a decidedly female voice.  “Who is knocking on my door, with timing that is less than poor?”  Silence.

Myrddin smiled, knowing his role well.  He removed his harp from a satchel he’d slung over his shoulder.  Taking his time, he tuned the instrument carefully, feeling the tension building on both sides of the door.  When he had the harp properly calibrated, he closed his eyes and sang:

                        “The timing of our visit here

                       “To win the heart of one so dear

                        “Is written gently on our hearts

                        “A perfect day to make a start—”

Myrddin smiled at his companions as they waited for a reply, softly stroking the strings of his harp as he waited for the prescribed response.

Several moments passed.  Arthur felt his throat constrict with nervous energy.  Just as he was about to pound the door again, a lilting response drifted through from the other side:

                        “A noise I hear outside my door,

                        “I wonder who the noise is for?

                        “And wondering, I pause to think of

                        “Why you stand upon my brink?”

Myrddin picked up the cadence of the verse on the harp, and responded:

                        “We seek the one who’s tall and fair,

                        “With jade-green eyes and golden hair.

                        “From Camelaird our lady came,

                        “Open now and end this game—”

The men pounded Myrddin on the back at his response, congratulating him on his cleverness.  Before too many congratulations were spread, the response cooled them as quickly as a sudden downpour on a cooking fire:

                        “The one you seek is here for sure

                        “But cannot face the open door.

                        “Try again some other day;

                        “Leave us be and go away—”

Myrddin’s fingers plucked at the strings of the harp in a staccato rhythm to match the heartbeat of the company as it increased in its intensity with the negation of their plea.

                        “The game is up, the bride-price paid,

                        “A groom awaits his loving maid’.

                        “Unlock your heart and let us pass,

                        “Before the sun too high does pass—”

Again the men smiled and congratulated each other on the vigor and swiftness of the reply.  Myrddin spoke as a bard for everyman, and though the words he spoke were spoken out of a long-standing tradition, the bard made the words feel as if they were crafted for the specific bride and bridegroom.

Myrddin stopped the harp with a suddenness that left the room ringing with silence.  He nodded to Arthur, who sang the final part of the ritual in a haunting, a-capello voice:

                        “I am Arthur, come to call

                        “Stout of heart behind this wall.

                        “Gwenhwyfar my bride to be,

                        “Open shuttered door to me—”

With that the great door was flung open.  There stood Gwenhwyfar, dressed for the coming ceremony.  The men stared in awe as she stepped across the threshold, beautiful as the first day of Spring.

Courtesy of Jitze

Perhaps it was her father’s never-ending barrage of educating her with fascinating tales of far-off lands or encyclopedic pedantry of the highest regards, that made her this way. Maybe it was the fact that her mother had died of a hemorrhage while giving birth to her that made her grow up so fast. Nevertheless, she was who she was, and who she was at this particular moment was not impressed. Samantha had been given full run of the fair. Most people there knew her, and most definitely all knew her father. She had refused to be mollycoddled by Ms. Evere, the spinstress nanny, and as always her father gave in to her wishes not to be accompanied. Her money was not good here either, lest it got back to her father that she was forced to pay for something. Nope, here, in this place, at least for now, little Samantha St. Jean was queen of her castle, and she damn well knew it.

Past the sea of parasols and the smell of gallivanting horses, in the far corners of the fairgrounds Samantha explored on. She wondered why they had spent so much money recreating neoclassical structures that were only to be razed in a few months time, or why people of so many classes and varying races pretended to be polite here, when she knew very well they would talk behind each other's backs afterwards. Around each corner she found something new. Now, the music from the bandstands became barely audible and she began to feel alone, if not a bit frightened.

Her father, she thought, wouldn’t be scared. He had traveled the outreaching corners of the world to bring her back gifts and surprises. Kings and explorers had used the very ships he built to search out such things. Surely, she could wander into some of the less popular exhibits of the monstrous fair. She began to daydream amidst the palpitating pastoral gardens where she now stood. Perfectly sculptured sycamores and oaks nestled themselves in beds of daffodils, as swans and geese swam peacefully on the ponds. Butterflies were oblivious to the encroaching human animals who surrounded them, and the undulating grass seemed not to have a care in the world. Here, isolated, on the tiny end of this secret sanctuary of nature was a small, if not clandestine, exhibit. Unlike the pretentious gaudiness the rest of the fair exhibited, it was rudimentarily marked by a cheap ill-maintained sign that simply read, “Ethnology Exhibit”. The font on the sign looked as though it had been hand painted, perhaps by someone in a hurry, or more accurately with the mental capacity of a drunken chimpanzee.

 After she ambled past the cheap cardboard displays and countertop miniatures protected by Bakelite enclosures, she continued through the maze of perfectly overly erudite information. Then, there on the great lawn before her, just past a display entitled “primitive natives”, Samantha saw the most out of place thing she could ever imagine in this, her bustling hometown, called St. Louis. There on the large mound of grass before her, was a teepee. A genuine Indian teepee. It looked like at one time it was probably bright white, made out of some former animal’s hide, a buck probably, or an elk. But now it was a dirty yellow with various brown and crimson stains. Tiny rivulets in its’ surface spoke of where any liquids in the past had found the least path of resistance. Torn and tattered, its soft leather exposed its age and told of many a summer's cycle and of the beleaguered battles its inhabitants had fought to survive.  There was suddenly a delay in our curious explorer's approach. Out of nowhere, Samantha, for once in her over-confident little life, felt an overwhelming sense of apprehension. She slowly and delicately pussyfooted over to the tent. A small waft of smoke made tiny billow-ettes appear around the teepees opening. Samantha nervously peeked inside. As her line of sight crested the opening flap of the tent a stalwart vision revealed itself before her. There, sitting crossed-legged on the dirt floor and smoking a long chiseled wooden pipe was an ancient Indian chief.

The first thing that caught her attention was the fullness of his cheeks. Like fully ripened apples they seemed perfectly solid and symmetrically placed on his otherwise sunken face. His skin, much-like that of the teepee, showed his age. It seemed that every tiny wrinkle, every taught patch of skin pulled tightly over skeletal bone, had a deeply intriguing story to tell. Samantha was afraid to look into the old chief’s eyes. In fact, she wasn’t afraid to admit that this time she was, indeed, quite frightened.

The Chief said nothing. He merely motioned with his delicate and boney hand for the child to enter. As if speaking with the ultimate authority, she questioned not what the ghostly appendage directed her to do. She, without hesitation, sat obediently and quietly. For what seemed like quite some time, the Indian continued to smoke in silence. Without moving a muscle he read her, from head to toe. Samantha shifted nervously from side to side. She knew not what to think of the daunting old man before her, but one thing she did know; She was not at all bored. Then as if the lid of a century old sarcophagus slowly yawned open, the Indian’s lips parted and he began to speak. In a deep and soothing rustic voice he addressed the child.

            “You have much to learn, child.”, he slowly divulged. It then seemed like an eternity before he addressed her again. In fact it was two minutes and twenty-seven seconds.

             “Name, of you?”, he inquired.

            “Samantha…”

            “… St. Jean”, the old man dutifully interrupted.

Samantha was shocked to know that such a rare and unrefined old man could have some sort of telepathic powers over her. But then, as she giggled to herself, she remembered whose daughter she was, and that in fact quite everyone at the fair knew her name. This was a simple parlor trick the Indian was using to impress her. She suddenly felt a renewed sense of confidence. Still, the juxtaposition of ancient Indian and young child was odd. Samantha’s eyes began to dart about the teepee’s interior. Like every intelligent child before her, her curiosity got the better of her. It was dressed simply enough. A few clay pots, animal hides, rudimentary cooking tools were strewn about. Then above the old man she saw a few arrows and a longbow. The tips were stained brown. Before she asked, she had already known the answer to her question.

             “What is that?”, she politely asked, with an innocence that for once showed her age.

            “It’s blood”, came the curt reply. “Blood of many a man. Many a detestable man.” The Indian's eyes lit now like a fire. There was a purity in his words that Samantha had never experienced with other adults who were either telling her incredulous fairy tales or trying to ingratiate themselves with her father. She wasn’t sure where this was going.

            “Blood…”, he continued catching the girl suddenly off guard, “…of men who stole the lives of my people. Who severed long-standing traditions and betrayed an innocent people. Blood of men, who deserved to die, in fact who deserved not to live at all. They deceived us. They deceived me. They gave us empty promises and consolations. They took this land, which is not theirs to take, and made it their own possession. And to us who enjoyed it before them, who were so ready to share it as nature decrees, they gave nothing but disease and condescension. In return, we got prisons and soldiers. Many, many soldiers.”

Samantha didn’t understand all what the Indian had said. As he spoke, his words had created a dark vacuum in the pit of her stomach, and gave her an overwhelming sense of sadness. She didn’t know why but the words seemed like a personal attack and she wasn’t sure if she needed to vomit or cry. Cry it was. As the tears welled in her eyes, she wanted to leave, but one thing her mother bequeathed her before she died was a stubborn streak a mile wide. The child sat there in her fear, discomfort and sorrow and said nothing.

 The Indian, saw an opportunity and seized it. “Blood!...”, he began again purposefully and menacingly, “…like that was shed by many of my people. Blood of my wives, my children, my brothers. Blood that should have been from those men that tried to take our lands. Blood that should be from the Mexicans of Casa Grande or false-promising Calvary officers. Blood of self-made entrepreneurs and fair exhibitors. Blood of people like your father… like you!”

 This was too much for Samantha to take. The affront now had become personal. No one had ever spoke ill of her father and certainly not her. The tears came in heavy waves. She cried so hard it made her body shake. She wanted so bad to be back in the land of white dresses and cotton candy; The land of ponies and peanut butter, where people dare not to speak to her in such a tone. But at last her resolve got the best of her. She sniffled and sucked in air and composed herself. She was ashamed that the Indian had seen her in this condition and now looked deadlocked into his steely eyes.

 The Chief took a slow drag on the pipe. A mischievous smile began to curl upwards showing the yellow of his shattered smile. His eyes adjusted themselves and suddenly became kind. He blew a small puff of smoke into the air and again, this time softly, spoke to the child.

             “You are strong, little one. Very strong.” Another eternal pause held the air upright. Then again, he continued, “I’m sorry, I truly am. You should not be judged by the sins of your fathers, nor should you bear the guilt that they must. But remember your feelings here. Take that hurt and internalize it and then turn it inside out. Know the pain it makes you feel and how much pain it must have taken to evoke it from me, to you, an innocent child.”

He took another drag. As he spoke puffs of smoke left his nostrils like some medieval dragon. “I have seen scores of people slain in cold blood. Women and children, younger, even than you. I, too, have killed… sadly so. First out of sense of duty, then out of a sense of revenge. I have killed so many times that I no longer have feelings for fellow man. I can no longer enjoy the birth of a child or the passion of love. Instead I sit her before you, ‘on display’ in a fair of the world. I don’t expect people like your father or his friends to understand. They buy tickets to see people like me they don’t understand and categorize them into some sort of subspecies, like animals. But you, my dear, have a fighting chance. You can and will someday make a difference. Please don’t forget.” The old Indian warrior and chief suddenly fell silent.

Samantha suddenly felt relieved, as if an inherited burden had finally been lifted off her tiny frame. She sensed all that the mysterious, ancient man had told her and slowly soaked it in. She didn’t quite understand it all, but she did internalize it, and someday she would in fact understand it all, fully. As she slowly stood, she exchanged a respectful smile with the Great Indian Chief. He reciprocated, knowing in full force that his deluge of insults on the child was wrong, but nevertheless had brought a meaningful conclusion. With all due respect and ever-increasing intrigue, Samantha asked the question burning inside her…

            “Sir…”, she cautiously asked “…could you tell me your name?”

 The word came sudden, sharp and still. Just like the innumerable number of arrows the antediluvian warrior had fired in his past. But this time it pierced not the heart of an enemy, but a newfound friend.

            “Geronimo”, he replied.

 Samantha emerged from the tent, unbeknownst to her, no longer a child, but a budding young woman. But now thoughts of a proper nine-year old began to again creep into the unfilled space of her mind. The sun was going down and she was on the other end of the fair. She couldn’t help but think of the firing she would get from her father if she were to be out alone after dark. She began to frighten herself and as she ran through the daffodils, for the life of her, couldn’t help but periodically look over her shoulder, back in the Indian’s direction.

Finally she heard it. The sounds of the angelic French organ rang in her ears, as the sweet smells of pastries invaded her olfactory nerves and welcomed her into their bosom. The whinnying of a showhorse and the sulfuric smell of the fireworks gave her an overwhelming sense of belonging. She knew they were being prepared behind the Louisiana Purchase Exposition, just exactly where her father would be. As Samantha saw her father, entertaining guests, she ran right up to him and gave him an unexpected hug. Instinctually, he wrapped his arms around her, as parents often due, without properly recognizing her demeanor. He finished his witty quip, already anticipating the wave of laughter to come.

             “…This land is ready for purchase and the perfect place for shipbuilding, but you’ll have to negotiate with Rockefeller. What, I said, like you negotiated with the natives, Colonel!” Her father’s belly shook her up and down even before the cascade of his admirers chimed in, but something about the joke hadn’t sat right with her. She looked up at her father, who only after the proper accolades for his wit, noticed the concern in her eyes.

            “My child, where have you been? You must be famished. What do you want to eat, Sammie. Name it. Anything, anything at all.”

 Samantha St. Jean looked deep into her father eyes. All the tiny cylinders were firing in her developing brain. She again looked deep into her father’s eyes, past the smile and the twinkle, but this time didn’t naively see an untarnished saint or worldly explorer, nor a builder of ships or friend of the elite. No this time was different. Something had changed. Instead she saw a man; a mere mortal man, full of faults and sins and denial.  A man capable, like all other men, of lies and deception. But for now, perhaps by choice even, Samantha longed to remain that child; that adored, spoiled, innocent little child.

 She batted her eyes and wet her tiny lips and in the cutest voice she could muster, she exclaimed “Cotton Candy daddy. I want cotton candy for dinner!”

Again the crowd of friends laughed, but this time, for the first time ever, the smile on Samantha’s face was a completely fabricated one.

This essay was contributed by Jude  S. Walko.

About Jude: Jude’s experience is vast and encompasses over 50 films ranging anywhere in budget from well under a million dollars to studio pictures over a hundred million. He has worked with scores of A-list celebrities, Oscar winning directors and top industry producers and technical crew. He is very well connected in the film and music industries, and it’s his passion for film that keeps him very competitive in the Entertainment Industry. Jude has worked on feature films all over the world including all corners of the U.S., Brazil, India, Jordan, Thailand, Vietnam, and the United Kingdom. In Thailand, where his family is based, he ran one of the country’s most successful production companies and personally supervised 6 films over the course of 15 months. He has acted in over 30 films, and is well versed on both sides of the camera, making him the ideal person to direct talent and supervise production. He has vast experience as a Line Producer, 1st Assistant Director, and 2^nd Unit Director which will segue very soon into his writing and directing career. He is currently attached to over ten feature films and is the writer of 6 scripts. His next two slated projects are “The Unhallowed Horseman” and “Devil’s Corps” both of which he wrote and will direct. Jude spends his time between Los Angeles and Bangkok with his wife and two children. You can see more about Jude’s movie career at http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0908351/ .

Courtesy of Serge Melki

Scurrying down the dock, a lone figure balanced boxes of hot fried chicken, his flip-flop sandals slapping at the quiet of the morning. Running late, the trim, sun dark man built up momentum and leaped onto the transom of the waiting yacht.

“Where the hell have you been?” roared Ted.

“Good morning to you too.” Pete panted.

Ted smiled, ”My brother’s blown a gasket. He’s been threatening to leave you for the last half hour!”

Pete hopped down into the cockpit sole and set the boxes on the fighting chair.

”I would rather be left behind than listen to you bitch about not having chicken.”

Ted shifted his attention to the steaming boxes. Tall, mid-forties, animated face, he was crowned with a shock of black hair that showed no signs of graying.

”This the good stuff, the real deal?” he asked, already rummaging through the greasy chicken, finding a leg.

” Enjoy my friend.” Pete said, ”This is your last taste of America for a while.”

 
Travis stared down from the rear of the patio-sized fly bridge.

“Can we go now?”

“Let’s get out of here.” his answer boomed overhead.

“You have your orders captain.” Pete laughed. ”That was either Jed on the radio or the almighty himself.”

With a nod, Travis removed the radio mike from the overhead control box, “The Havana express is now under way” he broadcasted and eased the throttles forward. The sixty-five foot yacht rumbled into the growing light, her massive props churning spa-sized swirls in the calm water of the bight.

Travis piloted the twin-engine vessel through the narrow opening between the granite rock jetty protecting the inner harbor and the Coast Guard base. To the north small mangrove islands sat like moored yachts on the placid waters stretching west, anchored in lush green turtle grass flats separating the Gulf of Mexico from the Atlantic Ocean. Across the Northwest Channel, a maritime highway to the Gulf, one island, Destroyer Key reflected white in the morning sun, the silhouette of her stack and sharp bow a nature sculpted likeness of its namesake ship of war.

Travis idled along the harbor's eastern edge. Multistoried resorts, each with its own pool set in palm-shaded oasis stood silent in the morning, filled with sunburned tourist sleeping off mi tie and daiquiri hangovers. They nursed blistered feet left raw by the night’s bar to bar trek known as the “Duval Street Crawl”. One early rising couple jogged across Mallory Square against the backdrop of the old customs house. Its red brick and tile roof a century old landmark, the former center of maritime law and salvage justice.   

   
“Gather the passports.” Travis shouted down.

Pete gathered up the ravaged boxes of chicken.

“Mine and Jed’s are on the galley table.”

”Hey, check everything down below and give me a heads up when I can run.”  He added.

Pete waved an acknowledgment and went thru the door into the main salon.

“Morning Jed” he said.

“You’re late. I was going to leave you,” Jed growled, radio mike still in hand.

Pete set the boxes on the galley table.

“Talk to your brother. I was on a mission for him and as the good book says, a man cannot serve two masters.”

From deep in the folds of the soft leather couch, Ted muttered. “Leave me out of this.”  

“Give me your passport before you go to sleep.” Pete said.

Ted drew the hand knitted Afghan over his head and wallowed deeper into the couch. “Inside my black leather case, on the bed.”

Pete gathered the passports off the table and descended the carpeted steps to the cabins below. He woke Dave and Jimmy sleeping on single bunks in the crew’s quarters and added their documents to the others.

Pete knew arriving in Cuba without a passport is the fast track to jail. It’s a blunder that can’t be circumvented with conversation or bribed away. Under no circumstances will entry onto the island be allowed without the document. Cuban officials offer the Captain of the arriving vessel two choices.

Visitors with passports may remain and enjoy the islands warm hospitality while the offending party or parties languish in jail, their release coinciding with the boat’s departure. The second option is to cast off and return to where you came from. These rules are absolute and the absence of an American Embassy on the island eliminates any hope of assistance.

Pete opened the door to the master stateroom and switched on the incandescent light. Large and plush, the room utilized the full width of the yachts beam. He opened the rich black leather monogrammed case lying on the king sized bed set centerline in the room and retrieved the passport lying among banded stacks of 100-dollar bills.

Returning up stairs, he checked the expiration dates and placed the documents in the drawer alongside the Coast Guard security clearance, received by fax the night before. Shifting to sea mode, he searched for items that in rough water might become deadly missiles, once-overed the galley, poured two cups of coffee and turned for the door.

“Are you ready to run?”  

Jed was staring out the rear window not looking at all well. An ashen gray tint colored his face; he turned in response to the question, his eyes bloodshot and watery.

“Yea, tell him to go.”

Pete climbed the ladder, took the swivel chair beside Travis and handed him a cup of coffee

“Looks like Jed had a rough night.”

“Yea, I would say so, seeing as how he fell off the dock last night.”

Pete laughed, “He fell off the dock. You’re shitting me, right.”

“No, I am not kidding. He didn’t so much fall off, he just walked off the end, like ran out of road. Scared hell out of the old dock master, the poor guy couldn’t get him out of the water. People on the next boat overheard the commotion and lent a hand. Not a great way to start. Huh?”

“Damn, I hate to hear that. Maybe it was a first night in camp thing. Everyone partied a little hard last night.”

“I don’t think so. I heard Ted say his brother’s been drinking more these days, or at least showing the effects more than he used to.”

Pete took a sip of coffee. “He’ll be ok when we start fishing. He’ll be grouchy, but he won’t drink as much.”

“Let’s hope so brother. It’s hard to get into trouble in Cuba if you’re a rich American, but not impossible.” Travis warned, throttled the yacht up onto a plane past the remnants of Fort Zachary Taylor.

A whisper of a southeast breeze rippled the murky water flowing fast, past the red and green markers at the harbor’s mouth, the current powered by the flood tide of the waxing moon. Travis spun the wheel and the boat responded to his practiced touch, her flared bow sliding across the smooth water, spotted with small clumps of thin bay grass. Settling the compass on 207 degrees, he set the autopilot and turned his attention to the control consol.

Alarms and automatic shutoffs protected the powerful diesels.  Scanning the oil pressure, water temperature and fuel consumption digital readouts, he looked for small differences between the identical power plants, often an early indication of trouble. Satisfied, he glanced at the v shaped wake rising from the stern, a perfect curling wave spreading across the calm water. The engine exhaust spewed a healthy gray smoke, the carbon footprint of the rich.

Overhead the G.P.S. screen displayed course, speed over ground, the distance to Marina Hemingway and estimated arrival time. On a second screen, a full color chart of the Straits of Florida. Travis pinpointed the cursor on a spot just west of Havana, pushed the navigate button and ”aye aye captain” flashed on the screen, then a bold red line appeared connecting Key West and the sea buoy marking the entrance into the Marina.

” Ninety seven miles, a little over three and a half hours,” He announced.

Pete focused on the rapidly approaching Sand Key Lighthouse and the Florida Straits beyond. He spun his baseball cap backward and tugged it down tight over a longish full head of sun dried brown hair. One leg dangled free and the leather sandal slid off. He raised the leg and rested on the end of the white console spanning the width of the fly bridge, shook the flip-flop free of his other foot, crossed legs and leaned back in the chair.

“Here we go again amigo.” He said. “It looks like a good day to cross. Can’t for the life of me think of any place I’d rather be.”

Travis smiled, “Yea brother, me either.”

Learn more about Philip Thompson  and purchase the book through Captain Phil's website. It is also available on Amazon through this site.

Courtesy of Didby Graham

“How long have you lived here?”  Stephen started back up.

Fidel, desiring a break from the silence as well, responded happily enough, “15 years.  I’m not originally from here, though.  Mexico City is where I was born.  Not as nice as here.” 

“Mexico City?  My friend lived there for a year, teaching English.  He said the people were friendly, the food was good, but the air and streets were really dirty.”

“Si, si.  That’s Mexico City”, Fidel agreed.  “Another place in Mexico with so much opportunity.”

“How did you end up here, in Cancun?”

“A cousin got me a job.  He had worked here for a few years.  This service, Grey Line, is a well-known company.  We do trips all over Mexico.  There’s so much to see.”

“I’m sure.  I hope to see more of it sometime.”

“What did you visit for this time?”

“A friend’s wedding.”

“Oh.  Wonderful!  Friends from home?”

“Yeah.  My buddy from college.  We’ve known each other a long time.” 

“That’s great.  Good friends are important and rare.”

“Yeah, well, that’s one area in life that I’m very lucky.  Philadelphia has lots of tight knit people, small communities, you know?” 

“Si.”

“Have you ever been to the states?”

“Si.  I worked in Oregon for five years and then Hawaii for ten.” 

“Wow.  Those are two different places, no?”

“Yes.  I worked different jobs, made good money to send home, but it was difficult being away from my family and amigos so I came home.”

The van continued past more dilapidated buildings.  The sun pounded down on the roof of the van and shone through the windows, making it hot even with the air conditioning.  Stephen took a sip of water and continued to look out the window and consider all that he was passing- things he’d never see again and people he’d never know, and then his thoughts were interrupted.

“What do you think of this part of Cancun, huh?” Fidel inquired, almost reading Stephen’s thoughts.

“It’s a lot different.  I doubt they show this on the travel brochure.”

“Ha!  No, no.  No travel brochure for this part of town.  But it is getting better, believe it or not.  To be honest, it could be much worse.  The government is starting to realize that they must invest in the city and not just the resorts if they want things to really change.”

“Do you think things are going to keep getting better?  I mean, no offense, but I can’t see too many people wanting to travel outside the resort if things look like this.” 

“I agree, but there are small steps being taken.  Unfortunately there are not enough jobs here.  And what jobs there are, usually go to the young people.”

“You’ve got a job.  How’d you get so lucky?”

“I know a few people, like I said, so I was lucky, as you said.  But too many people my age aren’t as lucky.  If you’re over 40, you’re considered too old.”   

“Too expensive, I guess.”

“Si!  Too expensive.”

“Well, I’m sure it’s not as bad back in America, but we are struggling as well.  What’s funny though is the young people are having the hardest time finding work, especially if you didn’t go to college.”

“No.  I know.  It’s hard everywhere.  Do you have elections coming up?”

“Yeah, in November.  The big one, for president.” 

“Obama.  You like him?” 

“I don’t know.  It’s so complicated.  I think he really means well and genuinely wants to make things better, but it’s so complicated that I don’t think he really can.”

“Si.  That’s politics, though.  Same here.  Calderon, he’s a good man, but there is too much corruption.  He promised a lot of improvements which haven’t come, so what do we do?  Give him more time or vote him out?”

“Time.  That’s the big thing.  Everyone wants easy fixes, quick solutions, but it’s not realistic.  I mean here, Mexico has had violence for so long, and the causes are so complex, that it’s not going to get better over night.  But people don’t want to hear that.” 

“No disrespect, Stephen, but when things get worse, that’s when people become angry.  Calderon promised an end to the violence, but it’s only gotten worse.  The good people in Mexico are tired of it, so it may be time for someone new.” 

“That’s true.  If things have gotten worse, then there’s no excuse, but sometimes people think things are worse when they’re really not.  You know?  I mean it may be worse for them individually, but for the majority, it’s better.”

“Si.  Around here, things have improved, but throughout the country, much worse.” 

As Fidel finished his last thought the van came to a red light and stopped.  Stephen looked out the window and saw the entrance to the airport ahead. 

“We’re here?”

“Si.  Good timing.” 

“Yeah.  Good work.”

The light turned green and Fidel turned the van onto the exit for the airport. 

“Well, it was good talking to you, Esteban.” 

“You too Fidel.  It’s a shame we don’t have more time, or we could solve so many other problems.  Ha!”

Fidel laughed as well.  “It’s been a pleasure and maybe you’ll be back soon.” 

Stephen nodded, “I hope so.” 

The van pulled to a halt in front of the airport and Fidel put it into park and hopped out of the car to grab Stephen’s bags.  Stephen opened the door and stepped out, the hot sun hitting him hard.  He walked toward the back and greeted Fidel, giving him a generous tip and extended his hand.  The two men shook and smiled, sharing a brief recognition of something good. 

“Thanks for the ride, Fidel.  It’s one of the best I’ve ever had.” 

“No. Thank you, Stephen.  Have a safe flight.”

“Thanks and be well.” Stephen added as he walked away.

As walked into the airport, Stephen realized that his headache had cleared and didn’t feel nearly as bad as he had forty minutes before.  He had a long wait, alone, for his plane, but he felt surprisingly content.  Soon enough he would be home.  Soon enough.  <-->

Courtesy of Jhetzel

He stood outside the beautiful all-inclusive resort waiting for his cab to pick him up and take him to the airport.  He was hoping for a quiet, quick ride, able to wallow in his self-inflicted misery.  The ride in from the airport to the resort was long and torturous.  He shared a cab with three other American vacationers, all of whom had to be dropped off at resorts prior to his and who felt the need to prattle on endlessly.  He found the minutiae of their conversations- the weather, weddings, past trips to Mexico and other resorts- to be painfully irritating.  He wasn't even hungover then.   

So, the prospect of having to relive such a ride back to the airport in the condition he was currently in only made his head throb more and his stomach roll over and over like the waves of the Gulf lapping on the beach.  As he became lost in his own anticipated misery, he heard his name, “Jenning!”,  “Stephen Jenning!”.

“Si.”

“Yes, si?”  the taxi driver confirmed.  “Jenning?” He inquired again to confirm. 

“Si, si, Jennings”, emphasizing the “s” on the end of his name.

“Ah, Jennings”, the driver said apologetically.  “Your bags?” 

“Just the one”,  Stephen replied.

“Good, good”, the driver said.  “I’ll take.  You go relax in car.  Its air conditioned.”

Stephen smiled and walked over to the cab, opened the van door and sat down.  He noticed that no other names were being called and the hope of having the cab all to himself mitigated his headache ever so slightly.  The driver, after closing the door, got in the van, checked his mirrors and turned off the blinkers.

“Good to go?” he turned, smiling and asking Stephen. 

“Si. Si.  Let’s do it.” 

“Si?  You speak Spanish?” the driver asked, seemingly impressed by his American passenger. 

“No, no”, Stephen said quickly.  “Very little.  I’d like to learn more though.”

“Si.  That’s good.  You need it in America, no?  More people… ah, not speak good English, right?” 

The driver put the car into drive as he asked his last question. 

Stephen, never one to simply placate a question, responded, “Well, yes and no.  Depending on where you live it’s more essential than not.  You know?”

“Si.  Yes.  Texas? Arizona?  Right?  Lots of Mexicans and Spanish speaking people in these states.  Right?  You have to know some to get by”, the driver added.

The van pulled out of the resort, the driver waving to the guards at the gate.  Stephen, still pleased that there was currently no one else sharing the cab with him wanted to make sure this benefit wouldn’t be temporary.

“Am I the only passenger on this ride?”

“Si.  You one of a kind it seems.  Only one Stephen Jennings!” the driver said, looking up into the rearview mirror, smiling and laughing.  “We’ll be there real quick.  No stops!” , he added. 

“Great.  That’s great.  I don’t think I could handle too many stops.  By the way, what’s your name?” 

“Fidel” the driver replied, adding,  “Not Castro though.  I’m a good guy.”  He laughed again, smiling amicably. 

“Good to know”, Stephen said, laughing as well, thinking Fidel’s sense of humor to be agreeable enough.

Fidel looked back through the rear-view mirror again, laughing and smiling. 

“You not doing too good, huh?” Fidel asked.

“Si.  Mucho cervezas.”

“Ah.  They catch up with you, no?” Fidel said, nodding his head.  “Tequila too?” 

“Yeah.  Margaritas, whiskey, vodka.  You name it, I drank it.” 

“I guess you be happy to get home, then. Huh?” 

“Yeah, but I could spend a few more days by the pool though, or on the beach.”

“Well, vacation doesn’t end until you’re back at work.  You let me know.  I pull over, grab a few more cervezas. Huh?”

“No.  No more beers for me.  I wouldn’t mind relaxing though.  You’re country is gorgeous.  I wish I had more time to appreciate it.” 

“Si. Si.” Fidel agreed.  “But we have problems too.  You know… the violence… it’s hurting our country.”  As Fidel spoke, Stephen could hear in his voice a sincere pain and concern.  He wasn’t just speaking from the perspective of a beneficiary of the tourist industry, which had suffered, according to Fidel, more than most other businesses, but as a truly concerned citizen. 

“Yeah, I’ve followed some of the news about the violence.  It’s a real shame that it’s affecting people’s view of Mexico.  I can relate.  I'm from Philadelphia, and we have some problems there. Lots of violence too.  I hear people all the time talking about how horrible it is.  Really, the violence is isolated to certain areas.  I assume that’s the same here, right?”

Fidel thought a moment before answering.  Finally, he explained, “No disrespect Mr. Stephen, but the violence here… you know… is different.  No headless bodies in Philadelphia, right?  These cartels are so dangerous and they have lots of connections that let them get away with what they do.  Police, politicians… so many people, ah, are in their pocket.” 

“True.  It’s definitely worse.  I was just saying the perceptions, or misperceptions, of others unfortunately can make it so much worse.”  Stephen responded, carefully choosing his words carefully to not offend Fidel.  “Have you seen a decline in tourism?”

The question affected Fidel, and Stephen wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake about something so personal.  Fidel shook his head, eventually saying, “Very bad, Stephen, very bad.  I used to have certain customers who come down four or five times a year, but now… I don’t know… maybe once.  It hurts, everyone.”  Fidel’s words hung in the air as the drive continued.  He was a man that really loved his job, his country, and Stephen could tell that it hurt Fidel to consider his country’s struggle.

A few more minutes passed as the van continued to move along at a good pace.  They were well out of the resort now, back in the center of downtown Cancun, the luxuries of the all-inclusive so close in Stephen’s mind yet so far from his current surroundings.  People wandered the streets, sat on upside down crates, staring aimlessly into the afternoon sun and watched the cars drive past.  All that Stephen had ignored on his ride in became stunningly clear in its inescapable sadness.  It reminded him of his drives down Chestnut and Walnut Streets through West Philadelphia, passing rundown homes, dejected parents and children, and other abject poverty on his way to a nice dinner in one of the city’s more affluent areas.  The growing sense of guilt, compounded by his still unsettled stomach, limited his comfort, so he decided to distract his attention with the only thing that seemed to make him feel better, conversation.

Read Part Two, Here.

Courtesy of Air Combat Command

“Dinner!” his mother called.  He’d been lying in his bed staring at the ceiling and considering nothing in particular.  His father came to the bedroom door, looked down at the duffle bag and then up toward his son. 

“Okay?”  His father asked reluctantly.  He’d still been trying to determine exactly how to approach his son’s return. 

“Yeah, fine.”  His son didn’t move.  He just continued to stare at the ceiling.  “What’s up?”

“Did you hear your mother call?” His father sighed looking down at the bag. 

“Yeah.  I’ll be down.” 

After his father left the room, he pushed himself up slowly.  His back still hurt, even with the pain killers.  The IED had torn the hummer apart.  Amazingly, no one was killed, but two of the soldiers, including him, were injured severely.  But as bad as it was, it became his ticket home.  After a month in the infirmary, he was deemed unfit for combat.  His training didn’t permit anything else, so he was honorably discharged.      

After some more time and a few more calls from his mother, he finally rose and headed down the stairs.  The smell of his mother’s meatloaf pervaded the halls.  When he came down and entered the kitchen, he found the table completely set, as it had been every night he had been home, and his parents sitting silently. 

“Smells good” he said as he sat down, wasting no time to grab the mash potatoes and macaroni and cheese. 

He cut a large piece of the meatloaf and then waited as his parents served themselves and said grace.  He looked down at his plate as they prayed.  His food covered the entire plate.  After they had finished praying, he dug his fork deep into the mash potatoes and then scooped up some macaroni and added a piece of meatloaf.  His mother stared as he packed everything together onto his fork.  She strained her eyes and rested her fork on her plate as her son mashed her neatly prepared dinner into a single entity instead of three separate dishes.  He blended everything together into a mangled heap of distorted colors, unrecognizable from their former selves.  After scooping another bite of what used to be his favorite meal, he reached for the salt, adding generously and making quiet sighs of approval with each additional taste as his mother continued to stare with a sad incredulity. 

“Ahem” interrupted his father, staring at his wife and gently grabbing her hand.  Their son continued to eat his dinner, isolated in its simple sustenance, never raising his head once while his parents picked at their plates and watched as he ate.    

“Well, what are your plans tonight?  Any of the boys around?”  his father started. 

Not raising his head and between bites, he uttered a simple, “No.” 

“Well, that’s a shame,” his mother added.

Some more time passed in silence.  Eventually he finished, cleared his plate, and walked it to the sink.  “Thanks,” he uttered as he grabbed his keys and headed to the back door.  “I’m heading out.  I’ll be back later.”

Just as he opened the door, his mother asked, “Is there any chance you might get to your duffle bag before you head out…or maybe I can get it for you.” 

He hesitated for a moment, gripping the door tighter and looking slightly over his shoulder.  “Don’t touch my bag" and he walked out. 

Parvin

The small thin priest hunched in the middle of the mob looked over the crowd.  For weeks the rumors had stirred of the priest weakening the Roman forces. He had betrayed the town and caused the anger of the Emperor. All the goods and supplies were stripped from the people. Their houses had been ransacked and people pulled from their beds to be interrogated by the swarms of soldiers inhabiting their public spaces.

The people were forced to tell the actions and words of the priest. They soldiers told lies about the harm the rebel Christian had caused. He became responsible for the deaths of their sons and husbands. His execution was set the previous afternoon to be an example of what treachery and disobedience would result in. The men drank late together and talked of their hatred. Asterius was among the men but could not believe the words. He had remembered the kindness and love of the priest. He was never a believer in the Christian way, but always thought Valentine was a saintly man. He sat with the men of the town as they swore their vengeance. The time had come.

Asterius was behind the Valentine. He looked out on the faces of the mob and saw the scorn. He could do nothing to save the ailing priest. He walked up and untied his hands. Valentine’s face was filled with a peaceful disposition and his eyes looked far away from the hysteria. Asterius believed in this man’s holiness. He had seen many men come to this point and they all held fear. This man stood in peace. He looked at the priest and saw the God he had heard so many times from Valentine’s words. Valentine would not die in anger or hatred for the people who had betrayed him. Asterius was unsettled with this man’s faith and was about to stumble away when the priest’s hand grabbed his cloak. No one saw the exchange between the priest and jailer or the heard the words.

 “Tell them God forgives them for this action.”

The jailer was stunned for the words seem to come from a deep cavern and echo in great volume.

“Take this note to your daughter and her sight will be restored. Keep the blossoms as a reminder of God’s love for you and your daughter. He has taken pity on you and knows your faith.”

The man took the note and slipped it into his cloak. The words kept echoing in his ear as he walked away. He turned and walked through the crowd who had already started throwing rocks. He heard the roar as the priest was pelted. He knew when the priest fell. Asterius could see the horrible scene in his mind. The rocks would be all thrown when some of the men would walk up to the slumping body and begin to beat it with clubs. He hoped Valentine had slipped into the peace of death. Swing after swing would pound on his body and face leaving only the brutality of distorted flesh and blood as signs of this man’s existence.

He was home when they tied the noose around his head. The eyes of the crowd were filled with madness as they pulled him high above the rooftops and let him hang. He swung as the first heavy rays of the sun entered the city. The sun rose behind the body casting a shade on the crowd. He swung in the morning light as the people quickly dispersed. His body would hang for this sun’s life and be taken down with the night stars.

Asterius walked into his home and found his daughter looking out over the town’s square. She was blind but was crying at the sight of the priest. He went up and held her. She crumbled against his chest. Her sighs and heaves caused the stern face of the jailer to know true sorrow. He walked her to her bed and laid her down. He opened the note and the rose blossoms sprung to their full width. Their red covered his hand like blood. He covered her eyes with the petals and bowed his head. He waited.

Nothing was heard but the beating of his heart mingled with the sobs of his daughter. Then there was silence. He knelt down beside her and prayed to the God of Valentine. He did not know how long he stayed this way, but then he heard movement. She lifted her head and the petals fell from her face. She looked at her father with astonishment. She could see.

The light peered into the room and all was clear. She jumped up and hugged Asterius as he fell to the floor. He heard the words he had prayed for. The tears had changed from sadness to joy on his daughter’s youthful face. He lifted himself as his daughter ran to the window. He looked at the petals lying on the bed and saw the note in between.

 “From your Valentine, those who believe will see.” 

You can follow James Dugan’s latest writing on Facebook and on Twitter at jamesduganlb. Read more:

Valentine: The Christian - Part 1

Valentine: The Priest - Part 2

Valentine: The Prayer - Part 3

Valentine: The Comforter - Part 4

Valentine: The Prisoner - Part 5

Valentine: The Martyr - Part 6

bikracer

They refused him at every house. They offered him no food or drink. They spat at him when he spoke of Jesus. He viewed all his life’s work and saw it in shatters. He walked into his church and saw the sleeping soldiers. He saw the large wine jugs thrown across the floor. He could not find the cross he had set high in the far wall. He walked from the doors with a great sadness. He walked from the town out to his plateau and saw day breaking over the mountains. He felt the cold wind and emptiness of his soul. He did not understand why God had given and taken it all away. He spoke to the wind.

“Why have you abandon me to the enemies of your love? Have I suffered and sacrificed to be put to shame? Has all my work and energy been for nothing? I have grown weak in your work and my faith is shaken. Touch me God and give me strength.”

He heard a reply from the distant mountains and it roared in his ears.

“Your last action will save all you have done. Your last act of love will be your greatest. Your name will represent love for countless generations. Your spirit is weak only in the flesh, for God had seen all. These are just days of gray. You have served your master well and will be rewarded. Your people will look upon you and be saved in my name. The soldiers will see your faith and know that there is a path of strength and fortitude lined by love and sacrifice. All the visions of the present are just shadows of rain that will be brushed away to the glorious sunshine of God. Take pleasure in all you have done in the name of Jesus.”

There was silence as the name echoed in the morning light. He felt no more pain or suffering as he opened his eyes to the streaming light entering into his cell. He heard the heavy steps of Asterius coming to his door. He rushed in and looked helpless.

“Valentine, they are coming for you. They hope to sacrifice you to the morning gods. The people are waiting to kill you as a sign of their allegiance to Rome. It had been decreed by Claudius that you will die this morning.”

Valentine rose with strength and confidence. He took a piece of paper and with the last of his ink spread some words over the paper.

“You have the rose I asked for?”

Asterius gave the blood red rose petals to Valentine. He blessed them and gave thanks to God for nature and morning, for faith and strength. He took the petals and pressed them to the cross. He put them in the paper and folded it. He gave it to Asterius.

“This letter is to be opened after I am gone. These are the words of God who is all knowing, powerful, and loving. Follow him and you will be saved.”

The soldiers came to the room with these words and pulled the feeble man through the door. He was pushed and dragged because of his weakened condition through the dark corridors. He walked out of the stone door and saw the brilliant light of early morning. The sun had risen just like his dream. He could see the miracle of dawn. He heard the crowd below him as he was pulled down the steps. He could not see faces, only the sun. He was not alone to ponder the glory of God like so many mornings before.

You can follow James Dugan’s latest writing on Facebook and on Twitter at jamesduganlb. Read more:

Valentine: The Christian - Part 1

Valentine: The Priest - Part 2

Valentine: The Prayer - Part 3

Valentine: The Comforter - Part 4

Valentine: The Prisoner - Part 5

Valentine: The Saint - Part 7

bikracer

“You are Valentine the priest?”

“I am. Why do you disturb me in my home?”

“We have information that you have violated a direct decree of the Emperor of Rome. Did you at anytime marry a soldier of Rome?”

“I am a follower of Jesus and a priest of the Christian rite and I have married people in the name of God.”

“You will come with us and stand trial for interfering with the Empire of Rome. You will be put in jail until the time of an official hearing. At that time you may plead for mercy.”

The soldier who spoke left the house first. Valentine followed being held by each arm. He was paraded through the town as the people stared. No one said a word. He prayed and kept his eyes straight on the far mountain. He was placed in the jail. It was dungeon with a gated window on ground level. The room smelled of mildew and dirt. It was bare except for a small cot in the far corner. The room held high ceilings and Valentine had seen it many times before. He had often visited the prisoners when they were ill or seeking forgiveness. The heavy metal door was shut and locked as Valentine stared at the wet walls. The floor was muddy and the air damp.

 He was in shock over the recent series of events. He needed to lay down and rest. He always knew this day would come. The mourning of the day had left his people helpless as they saw their priest marched to the jail. He thought of the people and children, and his duties. He knew he would be sacrificed as an example. The loss of the armies must have made Rome nervous. The letters must have acknowledged the secret marriages he had been performing. The women were probably questioned by a few soldiers and in their grief and need for more information concerning their loved ones, they must have told the soldiers his name.

 He could not be angry but had to figure a way to help his people from his new home. How would he reach the sick, especially with so many in the midst of recovery? He would have to get the news to Rome where they could send another priest. He had one thing going for him, the jailer Asterius. Valentine had been treating his daughter for a fever that had taken away her sight. Asterius was a kind man of the same age as Valentine. He was not an active participant in the Church, but cared for his daughter’s sight and health. Asterius would help him and God would take care of the rest. Valentine fell to sleep on the cot in the middle of his third Our Father.

The days passed slowly and the Roman guards never left. Asterius could not visit him as frequently as he would have liked because of the imperial presence. Two weeks into his captivity, Asterius came into his dark cell. Valentine had spent much of his time writing letters and praying. He did not understand why they had refused him visitors. The guards would not speak to him when they brought his food. The meager bread and tainted wine had made the priest lose  weight. His hair had started to fall out and his body was beset with aches from the dampness. The rain had come and stayed for the past five days. The cell had no drainage system except for the soft mud. There was an inch of water lying on the floor. The old jailer walked through with heavy worry on his face. Valentine looked up and saw the man. He crossed himself and waited for the jailer to speak.

“I am sorry, Valentine, for the length of time it had taken me to visit. The soldiers have turned the town into hysteria. They have brought back three legions of soldiers to camp outside the walls. The soldiers have eaten and drank all the supplies and refuse to pay. They have suffered great losses in the north and fear the coming of the barbarians. The great Roman Empire seems to be shrinking. They have taken over your church and live and sleep on the floor. The women are in fear of their virtue. There seems to be no control and a sense of desperation in the ranks of the troops. They have suffered badly and have blamed the weakness of the army on you. I have tried to reach you many times but the guards are adamant in your treachery. We have a few minutes while all the soldiers are meeting outside the gates. Is there anything I can do to make your time more comfortable?”

 “I have my God and his strength will provide for me,” Valentine replied.

“You look as if death has already gripped you.”

“Could you take these letters to my people? I had a feeling something had gone wrong. Have I been scheduled for execution?"

“I have no information, but the growing tide and anger of the people and troops seem focused on your Church.”

“How is your daughter?”

“She still remains blind and the fever restricts her to bed and weakness.”

“You must pray, Asterius, if you hope to get her well.”

“These are dangerous times for your God, Valentine. But I do. We sit and prayer and rub the ointment over her eyes.”

“Have the roses come to bloom?”

“They have. The rain has halted them for awhile, but I think they will be as red and large as ever before.”

“Take these letters to my people and tell them that God has not abandoned them. There will be other priests to follow. Tell them to prayer in the silence of their own homes and with friends and family. Tell them to read the Bible each morning to their children. God will hear their prayers and send refuge. When you return bring no letters, but the rose petals of the largest, most beautiful flower.”

The return of the troops could be heard in the heavy steps along the stone walkways.

“I must leave but I will do as you say. You have always shown great kindness, Valentine. The people of this town will not forget, at least I will not. I will do what I can to make this place bearable.”

“Just take the letters and let God take care of me.”

 Asterius walked out of the cell and into the black of the narrow passage. Valentine held his iron cross tightly in his hand. He had no despair in his eyes. He knelt in the water and prayed to his God. He stayed this way until the sun fell over the western mountains leaving his stone prison in utter darkness.

You can follow James Dugan’s latest writing on Facebook and on Twitter at jamesduganlb. Read more:

Valentine: The Christian - Part 1

Valentine: The Priest - Part 2

Valentine: The Prayer - Part 3

Valentine: The Comforter - Part 4

Valentine: The Martyr - Part 6

Valentine: The Saint - Part 7