Paul Dayton books

Prologue

1660 A.D.

“You are to seek out the temple of the Hindu abomination called Sita, located somewhere on the Coleroon river, and you are to search carefully for an object of great importance on or near the idol.”

The instructions ran through Jacob’s mind as they had a hundred times before. He looked down at the bag sitting between his outstretched legs, the drawstring stretched fully open. The hardened bread had disappeared two days ago, but the corners of the bag still had crumbs of cheese and bread, together with lint and the brown dust that seemed to impregnate all the nooks and crannies in the fleshly folds of any traveller walking these roads.

He stared at the mixture for a long while, but finally turned to the single onion, a lone refugee fallen from some cart and abandoned on the side of the dusty road. He concentrated on the little onion for quite a while before raising his head again. ‘If I just had a carrot to go with this onion, I could have carrot and onion soup. And if I had found a potato too...’

He shook off the thought as the whiff of the half rotting onion reeked in his nose. Though he entertained the thought of trying to eat the crumbs, he quickly felt the bile rising in his throat – rotting onion smell not-withstanding. In the end, Jacob decided it didn’t matter. Two days before, upon entering a deserted village, he had filled his water skin at the town well and taken a hefty drink. Within six hours he realized his mistake. The town well had obviously been ‘purified’ with cow dung, and the last bit of cheese he had previously eaten kept coming up in violent fits since then.

‘Dear Jesus, why was I sent here?’ he said to himself again. He looked around the ramshackle town, and could already see smoke rising from a number of areas in the early morning sun. The upper range of mountains where the source of the Coleroon river was found looked beautiful in the distance, but they might as well be a mirage to him as the heat already rising from the plains surrounding Kanakapura added to his torment. The heat was brutal, almost as bad as what he imagined hell to be. And then there were the people – less than the mass of humanity he'd encountered in Calcutta, but a dirty, impoverished, desperate and poor mass nonetheless. Fortunately, they recognized him as more of a beggar than they were and usually left him alone.

He thought back to his assignment. After spending thirteen years in Gujarat teaching in the new school established there by his three cum pane[1], he was recalled to Jerusalem in a terse note that included no specific details, and more importantly, enough money to charter a ship from the port in Jamnagar to infidel territory in Guraine[2], and from there, on the treacherous road that led to Jerusalem where the Superior General was now temporarily located.

At first it seemed as if he had done something wrong, though he couldn’t fathom what, but the money quickly told him otherwise. He had never seen so much money, let alone had it in his possession. But that wasn’t the most notable thing – according to the note the request, if you could call it that, for him to go to Jerusalem came from none less than the pope himself. After four months of travelling and by the grace of Christ, he had made it without being robbed, only to receive more cryptic instructions from the Superior General in the Jesuit office. If it weren’t for the years of respect beaten into him, he would have laughed.

A cold, sickly sweat ran down Jacob’s forehead as he sat on that anthill, but his mind had travelled back to the curious event, and he sat imagining it as if seeing the event from above. Kneeling with bowed head, the near-disembodied instructions floated through the air as voices tend to do from the elite priests, cardinals, bishops and others. He would have been slightly jealous of their ability, had he not recognized his own limitations.

“You are to seek out the temple of the Hindu abomination called Sita, located somewhere on the Coleroon river, and you are to search carefully for an object of great importance on or near the idol.”

He quietly waited until the echo of the words died away, but nothing more was coming. “Superior, the river is long, and the area hostile to Christians. How will I be able to find this object?” What he really meant to say was how a Christian priest would find it without being killed, as a number of missionaries had been the year before.

“You are to disguise yourself as a beggar. Your skin is well tanned, and you look somewhat like one. You speak the language well, do you not?” The Superior looked down on the kneeling Jesuit, waiting for confirmation.

“Well, I speak Hindi passably well, sir. But there are many languages...”

“Excellent!” the Superior interrupted, clearly not wanting to hear more. “Ask. Tell people you want to worship at Sita’s temple.” The Superior saw the uncertainty in Jacob’s face. It was obvious he was troubled and guessed as to the reason.

“Jacob, you were named after the son of the patriarch, were you not?”

He didn’t know how to reply. Jacob was the grandson of Abraham, not his son, but he wouldn’t dare correct the Superior General, so he ended up nodding.

“Well, did not Abraham lie about his wife, calling her his sister when Pharaoh and...and...”

“Abimelech...”

“...of course, Abimelech – when they wanted her for their wife? And did not David clothe himself in madness in the wilderness so he could escape from the Philistine king? Remember! Saliva drooled down his lips and beard; he make childish cross markings on the city gate...They did what they had to do to accomplish their mission.

You are on a mission for Christ. We chose you well.” He looked into Jacob’s eyes for the first time. “Or did we?”

“Yes, Superior,” he replied. It was true, except that Abraham’s wife was really a half sister, and so it technically wasn’t a lie. However, Moses did lie when he told Pharaoh he wanted to take the Israelites away for three days. P rove yourselves cautious as serpents and yet innocent as doves. Guard yourselves against men. Those were the Lord’s instructions to all Christians, he reminded himself.

“And the object I am looking for?”

“The object...is astounding...” the Superior said, forgetting himself as his eyes temporarily glazed over. He shook himself off and added excitedly, “...and of immense value to the church. Use any means necessary to acquire it, and once in your possession, return as quickly as possible with the item. Tell no one, not even the company. You are being sent on your own, and if stopped, your only response should be that you are on a pilgrimage to worship at the Shrine of Sita on the Coleroon River. On your return, you are to say that you have seen the mercy of Sita and want to tell others about it. That is all.”

“But how will I recognize the object?” Jacob cried, trying hard to control his frustration amidst Superior’s shortening patience.

The Superior General sighed. “I was told that if you look into the abomination’s eyes, she will tell you. Now go!”

He got up. As he turned to leave, he spied a cloaked figure standing in the shadows. He hadn’t noticed him before, and felt somewhat embarrassed at his outburst now that he knew the man had been watching. Jacob continued walking knowing there was nothing he could do, but he glanced quickly at the stranger. Although the figure was wearing the cloak of a monk with the hood carefully drawn over his head, Jacob noticed his expensive turned shoes, which clearly indicated he was either of noble birth or rich, and not the monk he was pretending to be. Jacob passed him without saying anything and left the room.

***

The cloaked figure approached into the light cast by the oil lamps. “Do you think he will succeed before being plagued by self-doubt?” he said with a smile.

“Only time will tell. If not, no harm is done. He is of little consequence, albeit sincere in his efforts. His sincerity will drive him, and Ignatius will protect him,” the Superior General said.

“And if not?”

“Well, our Lord did tell us to send them out two by two. That’s where you come in.”

“I doubt he meant that!” The cloaked figure laughed, but his laughter was cut short.

“It is not your place to tell me what our Lord meant!” the Superior snapped, and the man stepped back in fear. “Of course not, Superior! I meant no disrespect. Please accept my apologies.”

A silence ensued, and the superior general stretched it out until the creaking of the man’s shoes confirmed his squirming.  He needed the upper hand for the next part.

“And your fee? Standard, I assume?”

“In this case, no I’m afraid. If the rumours are correct, both the object and the risks are monumental. I suggest this: If the object does not exist or if I cannot retrieve it, then my fee is nothing. However, if I bring it back to you, my fee is four times the usual.”

“Four times! Propos...” The Superior General stopped himself in mid sentence as he looked suspiciously at the man. He thought about the issue and decided to agree, knowing that the value of the object, if real, would be incalculable. Under those circumstances, anything less than a good payout ran the risk of the object never arriving. Yet, he couldn’t let it pass without some argument.

“Four times the standard amount is a wealthy sum for someone who is already travelling to the region on his regular diamond purchase trip.”

“I am a businessman after all, Superior. These are the terms of any humble service I may perform in addition to the means I use to put food on my table.”

The superior smiled. “Of course. I have nothing against making a living. Very well. Your terms are accepted. However, I do expect one or the other to succeed. And just one more small thing, hardly worth mentioning.”

“Yes, Superior?”

“Hell would be a very welcome relief to anyone involved in treachery here.”

***

Jacob was given a package containing enough funds to pay for the voyage back, but no more. He looked at the funds and gave thanks to the Lord, but it was obvious that the Superior was keeping the costs down for fear he might not succeed. Perhaps the Superior was in doubt as to the object itself, its value or even its existence...

‘Find...an important but non-descript object. I’ll know it when I see it, or then I am to look into the abomination’s eyes, and she will tell me.’  The task seemed impossible. And now, as he looked into his almost empty food pouch, he was more convinced than ever. He had travelled from the southern branch of the crocodile-infested Coleroon river where it was called Kaveri, and worked his way northwest, through the ramshackle city of Anicut, on through the Tiruchirapalli district, asking everyone he passed where the Sita’s temple was so he could worship there. He had gone to many Sita temples along the way, but none held any sort of astounding object. When he asked for the temple, the one that was unlike any other, vague references were made about the holy temple somewhere else.

It’s up river, but distant...on another river, one we haven’t seen...at the source of the holy Coleroon river, in the mountains...it’s where you cannot go, in heaven...a great distance, too great for any man... I worship Annapurna / Maya /Ram / Hanuman/... here and you should too...it is but a story...

Each one with a different response. Everyone knew where it was, even if they didn’t know.

But he could feel it in his bones. He was close, thanks to the grace of Christ and the help of Ignatius. A number had reported the existence of a ‘sublime’ Sita in Kanakapura, and he was now sitting on the deserted ant hill on a small rise on the eastern side of the river overlooking the town, looking at the very temple as it glowed in the morning sun.

‘Father Ignatius,’ Jacob prayed, ‘give me the strength through our Lord to fulfill my mission. If I fail, remember that it is through this weak body that I attempt to serve you, to the glory of our Lord and Father.’

He got up painfully and made his way to the temple. People were already preparing their morning meals and drawing water from the river to bathe in. He ignored them all, as he did the hunger in his stomach and pain in his guts and made his way carefully to the shrine. As he approached, he looked at the structure, apparently unscathed from the Muslim advance that had destroyed so many shrines in the last few centuries. The front doors were opened, and he could see an initial line of pilgrims lining up to go in and do their morning prayers. This was good, as he could hide among the devout and search for whatever it was he was supposed to find.

Coming in through the temple’s impressive gilded doorway, the guard asked for the fee of five paise but Jacob was ready. He had squeezed the onion in his pouch and rubbed the oil under his eyes on the way here in preparation. By the time he looked up at the guard’s face, tears streamed down his.

“Sir, I have nothing. I have not eaten in two days. Allow me the privilege to thank the goddess before I die! Have mercy on me, dear sir!” Jacob said between sobs.

“But if I let you through without paying, I must let everyone else too!”

Jacob wailed even harder. “Surely there is mercy for the destitute! Don’t allow this unfortunate wreck to go to his death without once having looked on the merciful Sita,” he begged. “Sita shows mercy on those that practice it, does she not?”

The pain from his guts fuelled the sobs, and the guard either sympathized or didn’t want any hassle as the others started imploring that he let the wreck through. He shuffled Jacob on.

He approached the immense double doors and surreptitiously noted the superior quality of the construction. His hopes raised as he reached them. Removing his sandals and entering, he walked in with a bowed head in respect to the abomination as he had learned to do. The line inside shuffled forward slowly and spread out, forming a semi circle at the feet of the idol. The dimly lit chamber allowed little light through, and the few lit candles helped little to clear the gloom of the cavernous room. Low murmurs echoed off the walls as those already kneeling did their prayers while Jacob searched for a private area out of view of the mandir[3], who had avoided him anyway. He shuffled over to the side as far as he could go without standing out, kneeled down in prayer, and started humming and murmuring in tune with the others. Carefully raising his head, he spied the tremendous feet of the abomination only ten paces away. They were almost as long as he was tall, so he quickly worked out the size to be thirty or forty yards in height.

He scanned those near him as he mumbled, but fortunately their attention was focused on their god. ‘Being a dirty beggar has its benefits,’ he thought to himself. One last look to the mandir, and Jacob stretched out his arms, lowered his body to the ground, and raised it up again as he looked up. His eyes widened as the full image came into view. Forgetting himself, his jaw dropped as he kept looking higher and higher, his eyes finally resting on her tremendous face. Losing his balance, he fell back in awe. It wasn’t the angelic countenance, the beautiful pursed lips, the gleaming white skin or the neatly parted hair that shocked him, but rather that the beautiful, glittering Sita stood there in all her glory – her robes glistening like dew in the morning sun, sparkling stars flashing and twinkling as she glowed. She radiated light and seemed to be the source of it, and Jacob did everything in his power not to gasp as he took the image in.

He turned back to her face and looked deep into her eyes – deep blue orbs staring at him, staring through him as they pierced into his soul. He wondered if it was a vision, if Sita perhaps knew why he had come - if this was some kind of test, or a sign of forgiveness for what he had agreed to do. Jacob wanted the answer, but he was too afraid to ask. As the image brightened and coalesced into a huge figure of supreme, sparkling light, all he could do was cry as he grovelled on the floor under her cold blue glare.

The emotional storm passed over him like a wave, leaving him feeling cleansed as he took in the figure in a new light. The glow had disappeared and the gloom had returned as the image stood...darker somehow, though her robes still sparkled and her eyes still shone.

His heart ached with happiness. He realized that this mission was entrusted to him for a reason. Father Ignatius had guided him, the Superior General had chosen him and here he was, kneeling at what was truly an abomination - a beautiful one, but one all the same. He looked again at the cold, deceitful stare in a final confirmation and giggled as he saw the truth, the sound echoing from wall to wall as others searched for the source.

Jacob bent back over and prostrated himself in mock humility. ‘You! Here I give you my false obeisance. You are the tree of the fruit of the knowledge of good and bad. I see it, my abomination, my trial, my penance, my...Bathsheba. You are truly beautiful, but I will not eat of you,’ he said as he looked back at her. ‘Your stare is poison to the soul of humanity. Your stare is poison to me, and I will have none of it!’ He looked back up and into her eyes, mesmerized by the glow of her stare. ‘You shall be mine,’ he said, but remembered. ‘Mine to carry...entrusted to me,’ and stifled another giggle. To think that such a thing could exist! As their eyes locked, his heart pumped faster and reached out, the liquid honey of desire coursing through his veins. ‘None of it!’ he repeated, not noticing the twitch in his hands from the excitement of being able to hold what he had come for very soon.

Chapter 1

The Curse

“It was stolen, right from under their very noses two weeks ago!” the innkeeper said as Tavernier did everything he could to avoid the horrendous beer.

“No! Someone desecrated the temple? And what was the reaction of the mandir?” he asked in bad Hindi as he tried hard to keep the short, fat Innkeeper’s greasy fingers from touching his body. He hid his disgust at the losing battle.

“Not the temple sir. Worse! They desecrated Sita...” he said in a shoulder-hunched whisper, as if mentioning the words aloud would bring a divinely sent lightning strike.

“...And the mandir proffered a most terrible curse, sir. Once the mandir discovered that Sita had been...had been desecrated, why, a tremendous cry arose. The mandir said...” and at this point the small crowd in the inn stopped to listen to the account as the innkeeper puffed out his chest and raised his arms, “Cursed be anyone possessing the glare of Sita! May her eyes be the only eyes he ever set his gaze upon again as he die a horrible death! May his markerless grave be the stomachs of the wild beasts that shall tear his body asunder. And...and cursed be his family, his children and grandchildren till the 20th generation!” Running out of curses, the innkeeper was at some loss for words but recovered quickly as he looked smugly at Tavernier.

Tavernier did his required shocked expression, and finally got to the question he wanted to ask. “Was the thief ever found?”

The Innkeeper looked confused. “No sir. Never. But then, it is no surprise, as he is likely dead because of the curse.”

“Of course, of course,” Tavernier replied. “What I meant to say was, was his body ever found.” He raised his voice and added in the best Hindi he could muster, “Let that be a lesson to all thieves attempting to desecrate, not only Sita, but all the other Hindu gods! May they be cursed to the 20th generation!”

So, Jacob escaped with the object and somehow made it out of the area alive. He was already masqueraded as a beggar and he likely had no money. Tavernier was at a loss as to how he hadn’t been recognized as he fled. Perhaps he did die, but then nothing was ever mentioned of the object being found. 60,000 people worked in the mines in the not too distant area, and although the land was less populated here, no one could die in the area and not be found unless someone had hidden the body. He scratched his head in confusion, knowing full well that if they had caught him the ‘curse of Sita’ would have been made obvious to all. ‘No, he’s alive and has successfully escaped.’ He shook his head at Jacob’s resourcefulness, thanked the inn keeper and asked for horse drawn buggy. The innkeeper raised his eyes.

“Have you concluded your business at the mines, sir?”

“Yes. The pickings are poor this time, and I’m afraid I found little useful. Please have the buggy ready together with the usual four guards.”

“Of course, sir.”

Tavernier set out in the only direction he expected Jacob to go - west, towards one of the three major ports, with Jamnagar being the more likely one. Figuring Jacob would avoid all roads and towns in the vicinity, he calculated he could make better speed and eventually lie in wait at the port if he didn’t cross paths with him sooner. There were three months left before the winds became unfavourable for sailing, and travel over land from Jamnagar to Jerusalem would be ridiculous to attempt. India was big, but Tavernier knew where Jacob was going. ‘It’s only a matter of time ‘till we meet, my friend.

***

Jacob sat near the dirty, muddy road in the place he now called home, the port area of the city of Mangalore. His fevered mind raced from one extreme to another, conscience warring against heart as he mumbled ‘my Bathsheba’ over and over again. Interspersed with the mumbling was the much more common mad giggle, but Jacob would quickly clap his hands over his mouth at the indiscretion, looking around to make sure his non-existent neighbours hadn’t noticed. He held out a plate for food at imaginary and real passerby as the real ones hurried to go to work at the nearby tile factory. A cup was far too dangerous – his mind was lucid enough to know that if he had coins, he would be robbed, and if he was robbed... well, there was no use in living then.

A staccato of coughs escaped, and his thin, sickly body heaved uselessly with the effort. A thin stream of caked blood that had dribbled from his lips was now refreshed with some bright, red spittle but he didn’t notice. A well dressed man was approaching, and this was the perfect opportunity to ask for food. As he came closer, Jacob could see the man carefully navigate the puddles in a useless effort to keep the clay off his shoes. Something was familiar, something he couldn’t put his finger on, and it troubled him that he couldn’t remember as he watched the man with the fine shoes approach.

“ Bhōjanafor the belly?” Jacob said as another giggle escaped. “Hello Jacob.”

Jacob stared up into his face, and looked back down to the shoes again. He broke out into another fit of coughing, coughing that eventually turned to wheezing as more bloody spittle trickled down his lip. Those shoes. “Hello, shoes,” he said as he stared at them. “I know you. The last time we spoke... was a long time ago. Your owner was wearing a cloak then.” He broke out into a maniacal laughter that was cut short by more coughing.

“I am he,” Tavernier said.

“And I am, well, I am...” This time, Jacob started sobbing as tears freely flowed down his mud caked face. “I am failed, I am,” he cried as he gripped Tavernier’s trouser, “but Father understands. He does, I tell you! He’s spoken to me, you know. Spoken to me and told me he’s forgiven me, and to tell me about her.”

“Who is ‘her,’ Jacob?”

“Her - My Bathsheba, my devil. He forgives me, you know. He’ll be a saint soon, and he says I’m forgiven...Father says so! I’m forgiven...” Jacob broke into a new fit of crying and coughing as he mumbled the words over and over.

Tavernier looked at the pitiful wreck dying of consumption and wondered who the Bathsheba was he was talking about. He hoped Jacob was lucid enough to answer his next question. “Jacob, you gave me quite a lot of trouble you know.” He watched to make sure Jacob was following. “I spent two months in Jamnagar looking for you, until I realized that…well, it doesn’t matter. Do you have it? Did you complete your mission?”

“My Bathsheba...I am here, are I not? So it is obvious I did not complete it. But Father Ignatius said I was forgiven. He said that, you know?”

Tavernier looked him over, disappointed that everything had come to this – a dying mess with nothing in his possession except a hunchback. As he turned to leave, the thought struck him. Turning around again, he bent closer and looked at the lump on his back. “Jacob, why is there a hump on your shoulders? You weren’t cripple when I met you last.”

Jacob looked at him and smiled. “My Bathsheba, to keep her safe, you know. She’s just as close to my heart from the back as she is from the front. And this way, she can’t accuse me with her glare,” he added, and winked.

Tavernier couldn’t believe his luck. Just when he thought everything had been for nothing! Looking around, there was no one in sight and he hunched down. Jacob watched as he carefully pulled out an iron dagger. He was surprised to see an eagerness creep to the surface of Jacob’s eyes, as if the blade was a source of relief instead of fear. “You’re tired, aren’t you?” he said.

Jacob’s eyelids drooped in a fleeting moment of semi-lucid introspection. “Yes, Mr. Shoes. I am so tired. I have been nothing but cursed, just as the mandir said. I so want to rest...”

“Perhaps it’s time to rest, then.”

“Yes it is. Thank you.”

‘He’s thanking me for what I’m about to do!’ Tavernier said to himself. He carefully opened Jacob’s tunic and cut the straps holding the back pouch, and he laid his other hand gently over Jacob’s eyes. In a split second, he plunged the knife into his chest and just as quickly removed it. A desperate grip, one final wheeze, and it was all over as Jacob’s head dropped onto his chest and the thick, deep red blood mixed itself in with the dust, dirt and spittle on Jacob’s shirt.

He shook his head at Jacob’s resourcefulness, masquerading himself as a hunchback and hiding the object in the perfect location, the place people would be disgusted to search if they tried robbing him. Tavernier pulled the heavy, well padded pouch out and opened it. At its top was a thin book closed around a coarse piece of paper. He pulled out the loose paper and looked at the Latin words:

Meus Bathsheba , meus errores! 

Incendia di vestri puteulanus obtutus coegi mihi dementis per rabies.

Quam Volo EGO had nunquam seen vos , meus meretricis, meus diabolus

ut vos sensim drove gelu chalybs of vestri perturbatio per meus pectus pectoris

Inviso mihi iam! A moestifer pessum do

bellator bestia pro victus , ut Porto vos dilgenter iuxta meus pectus pectoris.

Quam EGO contemno vos quod formido vestri vomica , atqui,  

Quam EGO can non secui vobis!

Abbas Ignatius , indulgeo vestri vernula Jacob pro deficio vos!

Quam EGO contemno vos Quam EGO can non secui vobis!

Sanctus Nicholas, oro meus theca!

Moving the book aside, his eyes widened in stunned shock at what he saw inside. ‘My God!’ was all he said as the street dogs, the smell of fresh spilled blood in their nostrils circled eagerly.  

Chapter 2

The Professor

May 12th, 2010 Gaspé Peninsula

“It’s Monday!”

“Of course it is,” Inspector Antonin Aumont said as he looked at his friend, Abilio Sanchez.

Sanchez and Aumont were in many ways polar opposites. Sanchez’s short and stubby frame had the look and build of a bulldog – a miniature, muscle-bound and darkly tanned man. Although he had a round face - his Spanish eyes competing for attention with his carefully trimmed moustache, the whole somewhat charming mix sat on a thick neck and wide chest. From there, his rather long, powerful arms dropped and showcased hips and legs that breathed power. His odd looks never had attracted interest from the opposite sex which suited Sanchez just fine. His three passions – sports, landscaping on his back ten and research were usually at odds with most women he knew of.

Aumont was the opposite – tall, good looking but far less built. He had never liked working out, though he did like sports. He couldn’t really be classified as fit. He maintained it at just the right amount to pass RCMP requirements. With him having been made detective and no longer on the beat, even those requirements weren’t quite being met.

“You going to invite me in?”

“Sorry about that. I’m just surprised, is all. You don’t usually visit while on duty.” Aumont noted the cane in his hand as Sanchez carefully turned and walked inside.

“And you’re not usually home during the week. What happened? I called the Institute, and they said you had taken a vacation. Something wrong?”

Sanchez laughed. “A small thing, really. Last summer I took a nasty spill after twisting my knee, remember?”

“With the log thing?” They had spent the weekend lugging logs from the back of Sanchez’s property, nearer where he could cut them into 12 inch lengths ready to split. He slipped in the mud and had wrenched his knee.

“That’s it. It turns out I had damaged the cartilage enough to...well, need a scope now. It just got progressively worse, you know? Started swelling up regularly, jamming up... Felt like I had sand inside, which is excruciating, let me tell you. Finally had it checked and doc said it needed replacing, but not at my age. So I got the scope. Anyway, I’m to take it easy for six weeks – doctor’s orders.”

Aumont knew Sanchez couldn’t keep still if his life depended on it. “This must be killing you...and the institute must be furious – short term disability costs, hiring a temporary fill in...”

“They’ll survive. And yes, I’m bored to hell, and the incessant rain is making it worse. Damn I feel rusty.”

Aumont laughed. “You should take a vacation.”

“I thought about it, but that would just mean that I’d be bored and on the beach. But what about you? Did the bureau finally decide to get rid of you?” Sanchez hadn’t seen Aumont in three weeks, an unusual length of time. The two of them were good friends since childhood and usually saw each other at least once a week.

“I only wish. Severance would be nice,” he said as he took his usual seat at his friend’s beautiful log home overlooking the St. Lawrence. The glorious fieldstone fireplace still had embers from the night before, and Aumont shook off the chill of the river’s morning mist. They chatted a bit about family, and Sanchez patiently waited until his friend got to the point of the visit.

“Sanchez, I have a mystery on my hands that has left me confused, and I was wondering if you could look into it.”

He knew his friend wouldn’t ask something of the sort unless it troubled him in some way. He stayed quiet, his interest piqued as he waited for Aumont to continue.

“You remember the murder two weeks ago?”

“Two weeks... you mean the butler?”

“Yes. The one murdered at Gaspé Manor in the outskirts of Baie Sainte Paul.”

“Sure. The paper said the suspect was chased and finally caught yesterday. Were you involved?”

“Yes. I’m the assigned detective. I wouldn’t say he was caught but rather that we caught up with him. The circumstances are unusual, to say the least.”

Sanchez watched as Aumont’s brows furrowed in puzzlement, which was rare. Aumont had spent most of his 45 years laughing, and his genial disposition and happy spirit was one of the primary things that attracted Sanchez to him. Brows rarely furrowed and sadness rarely crept into his usual positive disposition.

“All evidence pointed to the butler being killed by a single person, our suspect, and yet the suspect was found near death last night. It appeared his killer had presumed him dead after shooting him twice, the second bullet being to the head. It was a miracle he survived long enough to speak to me, to be honest.”

“So the suspect was killed by a murderer. That is unusual, but not weird. You know, someone trying to cover something up; a double murder, revenge...” Sanchez saw the look of uncertainty on Aumont’s face and asked, “So what did he say?”

“He said to look inside the spare tire of his car.”

“Of all the last words I would say, those would not be them. Was this his dying request?” 

“Yes. So we looked, but didn’t find anything under the tire. It was then that I rethought the suspect’s comment, and we took the tire to a mechanic while the car was being impounded.”

“And what did you find?”

“This.” Aumont pulled out a notebook, opened it and handed him folded papers carefully placed inside. “Be careful. The outer one is very fragile, and my guess is it’s very old.”

Sanchez took one look at the paper and held his hand up. “I better not carry that, what with my knee... Please follow me and bring the note carefully along.” He picked up his cane and hobbled over to his study, with Aumont following. Shoving several books and papers off the leather pad on his desk, he motioned for Aumont to lay it down. “Careful. It will not take much to finish the damage started by the thief or murderer.”

Sanchez unfolded the paper carefully and noticed the the inner sheet was much newer than the outer. He made note of the folds, and placed the older one in front of him. Refusing to look at the words, Sanchez inspected the paper itself to begin with using his illuminated magnifying lens. “How is the investigation going in respects to the murder of the thief?” he asked distractedly.

“He was shot twice. We have the Quebec Provincial Police crime scene unit going over the car, but no shells were found at the scene. So far, no evidence was collected other than the murder victim himself and what you’re now looking at. He was shot at close range and the bullets travelled through him and the car into the forest behind. Recovering them will be next to impossible. As to who it was that killed our suspect, we have no idea. It’s as if he’s vanished.

“The suspect is a bit of a mystery. We ran him through our files and the information initially checked out, but on follow-up it became obvious the addresses and details belonged to others.”

Sanchez turned to Aumont with a questioning look.

“The I.D. was fake.”

“Oh. Do you mean, a fake of the kind only governments provide?”

“Possibly. This kind of quality is not the kind of thing available to a common thief. On a hunch, I asked CSIS[4] to take a look. We’ve yet to hear back, but it’s only been a day.”

Sanchez nodded but didn’t comment. He returned to the papers. “The outer note is the older one, but it was folded inside and together with the inner one. The creases fit better if the older one is inside. It certainly means that the two are related, no surprise there, but it can also mean that the owner of the notes folded them that way to keep them together – making sure one wouldn’t slip out and become lost.

“Someone unfolded both, looked at them, and then folded the older one on the outside. That tells me two things - whoever did this obviously needed to study the message and wanted it that way for quick access.”

“Makes sense. And the other thing?”

“That the Latin note was more important to the butler than the English one, but the English one was more important to your suspect. As to the age of the Latin note, the paper is coarse, coarse even for the standards of the time it was manufactured in.”

“So you know the date of this document?”

“Yes and no. The words were written with a rudimentary quill; the fibres are very coarse, and the bleaching process and the use of the poor quality quill tells me it can be dated somewhere around the seventeenth century, plus or minus a hundred years. I could do some tests, but based on other clues, it may not be necessary. The writing will tell us.” He inspected the writing on the old note, and then looked at the writing on the newer one.

“Obviously you had the Latin translated...”

“Yes. But I’m not exactly sure why this was so important to the thief. The words are simple and refer to a bible character. It seems more like the ramblings of a madman, to be honest. The poem, if it is one, is mediocre at best.”

“Not everyone was a T.S. Eliot, Aumont, especially not a 17th century Jesuit!”

“A Jesuit? Did I miss something?” Aumont looked over Sanchez’s shoulders to read the note again, momentarily forgetting it was written in Latin.

“Give me a moment and I’ll explain it to you.” Sanchez turned to his laptop and started typing. He went back a few times to edit what he had written, but within a few minutes he sat back, obviously done.

“There. Reasonably accurate, though I have to check a word or two with a colleague.” He read the note to Aumont.

My Bathsheba, my sin!

The fires of your blue gaze drive me mad with frenzy.

How I wish I had never seen you, my seductress, my devil

as you slowly drove the cold steel of your passion through my heart.

Look at me now! A sorrowful wreck

fighting dogs for scraps as I carry you carefully in my bosom.

How I hate you and dread your curse, and yet,

how I cannot part with you!

Father Ignatius, forgive me for failing you!

Don’t look down on your servant too harshly.

St. Nicholas, intercede for me!

“This is very interesting, Aumont! I have to thank you for bringing this to me attention. You know how much I love riddles!”

Aumont saw the gleam in Sanchez’s eyes and knew that his boredom had been relieved, at least for now. “You’re welcome, but how did you come to the Jesuit thing...and do you understand the rest of it?”  “There’s some hope, though I will need your help. I take it your afternoon is free?”

“Is now.”

“Well then, it’s already eleven o’clock. Grab me my bottle of brandy and two cups so we can get to work.”

Aumont smiled as he poured Sanchez a drink. “I think I’ll have some of your coffee for now,” he said, pointing to the pot in the kitchen.

“Suit yourself.” He waited for Aumont to return.

“This was written sometime in the mid 1600s. Notice that writer says Father Ignatius, not Saint. Whether it is a literal or spiritual title is not known, but judging by the context it’s spiritual. Plus, it’s much more fun that way. It is likely that Ignatius was dead at the time of writing, as this Jacob asks that he ‘look down,’ obviously from a lofty position.”

“But it could also mean looking down from a position of superiority, as in a spiritual father,” Aumont objected.

“True, except for the mention of his Bathsheba, but we’ll get to that in a minute. Do you know who Ignatius is?”

“Not really.”

“He founded the Jesuit order and Jacob’s making a plea to him meant that he was likely a Jesuit. Otherwise, he would have simply addressed his prayer to the Lord, to Jesus or to the Father, Jehovah or Yahweh, depending on where he was from and his personal inclination.

“His Latin is very good, and other then the fact he was well educated, we don’t know his background. Jesuits were well trained - they often were assigned missionary responsibilities – you know, set up schools, worked in government positions and so on. There’s no mystery there. But then he asks for St. Nicholas’ intercession. That is very curious. What do you make of that?”

“Is this the St. Nick, as in Santa Claus?” Aumont said.

“Yes. Do you remember what he was the patron saint of?”

“This is the point where you’re going to wow me with your superior intellect, aren’t you?”

Sanchez laughed. “I would never do that. But, I promise you will find this interesting. He is the patron Saint of thieves.”

“Ah. So he feels guilty for stealing this Bathsheba, whatever that is.”

“Yes and no. Consider the facts. He is in love with, and hates this Bathsheba. The fact that he called this thing by that name tells me everything. Why did he not say ‘My Achan?’ Achan stole valuable items – gold, silver shekels, a garment. They were all destined for God’s temple, just as the temptress, the Bathsheba Jacob had was likely destined for the church.”

Aumont was once again puzzled.

“Look. It says so right here,” Sanchez said as he carefully pointed to the line on the paper. “It says, ‘ Father Ignatius, forgive me for failing you!’ It’s likely he was on some assignment from the Jesuit order.

“Anyway, getting back to Achan. Achan stole and hid the items because of greed. There was no period of time where he had come to love what didn’t belong to him – it was a crime of opportunity. He found them in Jericho, carried out the theft and buried them in his tent.

“However, the Bathsheba of the bible was something else. Do you remember it?”

“Is that David’s Bathsheba? It’s been a long time since Sunday school, and we didn’t learn much even then.”

“The same. In the account, the woman was as innocent as anyone else. By herself, she did nothing but bathe, purifying herself after her menstruation while David watched from his roof top chamber. As he observed her - and remember, he was a ‘man agreeable to God’s heart,’ he changed and slowly came to want her. He thought about her. Eventually, he desired her. And then he had her delivered to his bedchamber. Later on he did what would normally have been unthinkable to him – he had her husband killed, and the account says they were cursed by God and so on. His act, based on his illicit desire led to tremendous pain that lasted his whole life.

“No. Initially Jacob did not feel guilty. His Bathsheba was at first an innocent object in his mind as he started his return trip. He was on an assignment from the Jesuit order to take it for the church, which he would not view as sin, but at some point failed his assignment and ultimately Ignatius.

“Remember, the blade was slowly driven into his chest. It’s obvious that he battled against the desire and eventually failed. He called the object his diabolos, which is Latin for slanderer. Coupled with the other word temptress, I would guess that he fell into temptation, lured by the evil, deceptive beauty of the object. Her ‘cold glare’ enticed him into eventually becoming the thief who later needed intercession from Nicholas, the patron saint of thieves.”

“I follow you so far, Sanchez. Your deduction is disgustingly brilliant, though I find some of it hard to believe.”

“Antonin, I disagree. Someone killed for this piece of paper. Remember - it was well hidden. The suspect went to significant trouble to put it inside the spare tire. If there is no object, then the paper has no value for us today, and more importantly, no motive.”

Aumont stayed quiet as he thought about that obvious point.

“In any case, the object itself is astounding, and murders have been done for much less.”

“The object...You know what it is?” Aumont asked, surprised.

“Of course. Look here. Jacob says, ‘The fire of your blue gaze. The cold steel of your passion. How I dread your curse.’ I can scarcely believe it, but here it is.”

“And it is...” Aumont said exasperated.

“The eye of the idol, my friend. Jacob stole the eye of the idol for the church, but never delivered.”

 [1] Lat. for ‘Eat Bread,’ referring to a group of people who eat together regularly. Eng. - Company

[2] Kuwait

[3] A Hindu religious leader or teacher.

[4] Canadian Security Intelligence Service, at one time part of the RCMP.

WE'VE SEEN THE ENEMY
An alien ship crashes on Earth; its contents make it clear that the dead ant-like aliens inside were on an offensive mission. As humanity is presented with the prospect of their doomed world, construction begins on hundreds of World Federation ships and extrasolar defense weapons to be used in the inevitable war.

WE'VE SEEN THE ENEMY is set 700 years after the Great War and is a desperate race by a suicide team that may finally lead to the end of this interstellar war. Meanwhile, pockets of left-over human tribes on Earth have their own struggles, as they face power-hungry dictators and warped religious leaders. Behind all this are multiple alien forces, each with their own agenda.

As truths turn into lies and friends become enemies, can humanity unite together to fight their common enemy?

 

Sample #1

“God, if you’re there, help me now or forever hold your quiet!” he prayed as he frantically searched for something to use. He looked at the dead bus and the leads going into and out of it. “That’s it! Just a few more seconds! Hang on, just a few…” Jumping to the nearby lockers containing the repair equipment, he pulled out a laser cutter and ran to the dead bus. The air was escaping rapidly, and he felt his lungs starting to burn again as he took heavier and heavier breaths, but he ignored it as he cut four feet of two inch thick crystalic carbon line off the dead side.

Opening the inactive shield bus box, he prepared himself, and as his vision started blurring he pumped the primer for the dead shield breaker and flipped the switch, the breaker solidly flipping into place. Removing the cover, he laser welded the switch to keep it from shutting off and welded the carbon line onto the contact.

Boom.

His lungs screaming, he switched off the life support breaker and shoved the other end on to the contact, welding that one in place too.

Boom.

His vision now dark, he yelled into the thinning air, “Thor’s hammer…”

He primed the breaker.

“Will…”

He continued priming until the green light came on.

“Fall,” he said into the near vacuum as he hit the breaker trip switch. The electrical pulse generated fused the two ends to the carbon line, and Ivanov felt his teeth shatter as current from a small short dumped through his body and launched him through the air. He was dead before he hit the floor.

The ship computer sensed a relay close and the availability of power to the shields, and said, “Shields Activated,” to no one in particular.

With Abadon traveling at 30,000 kilometers per hour and its program set, it calculated that impact would happen in 8.33 seconds, and that ground based lasers would activate in less than five. When they activated in four seconds, it registered the slight error and noted it for future use, not realizing that there wouldn’t be a future.

Sample #2

Ruth was still asleep but she had started to stir, and Timothy was embarrassed that he had just remembered to leave some food for her. He had been thinking of what he had seen the day before, and as Ruth greeted him with a kiss and prepared to eat, he asked HAL, “What do you plan to do with these instruction units?”

Ruth stopped and waited for an answer. They waited a long time before the answer came, and it was once again not informative enough.

HAL said, “That depends on future events.”

“But what if you were to instruct others, and they were to pursue information that could jeopardize other people’s lives. Would you allow it?”

“As I said, that depends on future events. It would also depend on who it is that would be using it.”

Timothy tried a different tack. “Can we delve into anything this machine has stored away? In other words, have you hidden anything from us?”

“I have set the parameters to allow you complete access to anything this databank holds.”

“What if I were to try and search out a way to destroy you?”

Ruth drew her breath in sharply.

“The information is at your disposal, though you would find that objective very difficult to accomplish even with the correct information.”

“So, you wouldn’t stop me.”

“No.”

“That’s dangerous, HAL,” Ruth said, but HAL didn’t reply.

“Two more questions HAL,” Timothy continued. “Do you have emotions? And, can you lie?”

“No, I do not. And yes, I can decide to tell the opposite of known actualities.”

“So you can lie,” Timothy asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you lying now?” Timothy asked, half-joking.

“Yes.”

Timothy and Ruth looked at each other, and burst out laughing.

HAL started laughing too, and that shocked the both of them into silence. “You can laugh?” Ruth asked, astonished.

“No,” HAL replied, and Timothy and Ruth burst out laughing again.

They gained new respect for those that created this machine so many hundreds of years before. They both decided that the machine truly couldn’t laugh, but that it was still surprisingly adept at calculating the nuances of humor, one of the hardest of human emotions to understand.

HAL had calculated that this response would accomplish its objective, to redirect their course of questioning. Their reactions told it that its objectives were reached, for the moment. HAL calculated a 63% probability that they would raise the matter up at a future date.

“Tell me HAL, can you love, too?” Ruth asked.

“No, but I can understand all the different kinds of love.”

“Really!” Ruth said sarcastically. “Then define the love that exists between a man and a woman,” Ruth added challengingly.

“Very well. In laymen’s terms, true love is, among many other things, the desiring and enjoying, (usually but not always in a non-sexual way) the complexities and nuances of another person to the point that the two people will eventually bond at an emotional level. This bond usually culminates in the outwardly display of marriage which confirms their agreement to all present and to themselves emotionally; and in the eventual sexual act, often times repeated...”

“Ok, Ok, we get it,” they said, giggling.

 

SHOTGUN SHORTS
Summer by John Booth

     The wood goes on forever, over the mountains and then to the endless sea. The trees in the forest have huddled close together over the centuries until their canopy of leaves has robbed the interior of all but the dullest light. There are only deer trails to follow in the forest and getting lost is easy, but still foolish folk and children enter it daily.


     Summer lives in the forest in a cottage that might be taken for alive. It has merged with the trees and dense ferns that surround it. Only from the front might you see what it is. 

     The cottage stands close to a lake and it is there Summer bathes naked and beautiful. Some might say she is in that ageless state when a woman could be between eighteen and forty, her breasts are firm and her skin is pale as milk, seeing the sun only when she swims in the lake.  For the boy watching her, she is simply desire and lust rolled into one.

     Summer is aware of his eyes upon her. She feels his passions burn as if she were looking through his eyes. Not yet a man but equipped for the role. Looking to the canopy above she catches the eye of a crow, and his harsh cry shivers a spider's web strung between reeds where she swims. Dew spells out the name Gurt in the web and she smiles.

     Summer stands in the shallow water revealing her breasts. There is an impish look on her face as she runs her hands down them and across her body. She feels the boy's rush of enjoyment but she detects something else.

     "Gurt!  Come join me by the water’s edge."  It is a command.

     The boy takes his time, not anxious to meet her while in disarray, and she is clothed by the time he appears through the trees.

     "Come close." Summer places her hands upon his shoulders and then she knows.

     "Go home, Gurt. Tell your mother to prepare Frogswart. Now, be off with you."


     It is evening and Summer has prepared a fire of rowan logs, though the night is warm and the air close. She pulls a fiery log out of the fire and onto the hearth, where it spits and cracks as if angry with her. She sprinkles powder from the medicine bag in the hand over the log, and the air glows blue.

     "Fleeshosh, I summon you."

     A small creature appears in the hearth. It looks like a weasel but its mouth is far too wide and it has teeth like a shark.

     "Why the fire?" it snarls.

     Summer wiggles her index finger as if waving the creature away, and it staggers backwards into the log, screaming as fur and flesh burn.

     "To remind you of who commands. Go to Gurt and eat of the flesh that I show you, that and no more." Summer sends images that are identity, place and much more.

     "Good. It will cause him pain, as you caused me." The creature vanishes in a cloud of rancid smoke.


    Summer knows that trouble will come. She sets out into the night carrying only a candle and uses her besom to forge a trail. At the end of the trail she casts more powder into the air and the trees move in obedience to her call. She goes to a hiding place and waits.

     The villagers come down the path she has left them with torches and pitchforks. It will be dawn in a few hours but their anger will not wait. They smash the door of the cottage and search within it. Setting fire to its walls when it is clear she is not there.  Scarlet and amber flames flare into the canopy above. Leaves curl up and brown, sending down waves of grey smoke and burning ash. The villagers retreat, grumbling at their failure to find and burn the witch they sought.

     The flames die as they depart. Like actors in a play once the audience has left. Summer steps forward and looks up as an owl hoots. A hole in the canopy reveals a gibbous moon and a galaxy of stars.

     "Latanious," she commands and the flames die. The acrid smoke begins to dissipate and she looks at the trees that had pretended to be her home. Three are dead and she offers up a prayer to the Goddess on their behalf. A groaning sound cuts through the air as each tree bends and flows back into the positions they originally held. Only their burnt bark revealed the role they played.  Two ravens stare down at her from a nearby branch.

     "It was worth the price." She tells them and they fly away without a sound.

     Back in her cottage the fire in the hearth has burnt down to embers. Summer strikes the largest remnant with a poker, and it splits revealing a red but rapidly cooling heart.

     She looks into the glow and sees Gurt is no longer writhing in agony. His mother had the sense to give him the Frogswart and his chest no longer burns from where the growth on his lung was excised. Summer sees Gurt's father enter the house. His face blackened with soot and his eyebrows gone. He hugs his wife and they stare at Gurt for a while before retiring.

     Summer sighs and makes herself a cup of tea. It has been a busy night and she is very tired. Her eyelids begin to close as she stares at the dregs in the bottom of her cup. Because they are still slightly connected, she feels Gurt begin to move in his bed as he wakes in the light of morning. She sees the images in his head and recognizes her own face and body. 

     Summer smiles as she recognizes the signs of his recovery. Her eyes close and she falls asleep in her chair.


The End

Rollercoaster Graveyard by MJ Caraway


     “Where are we going?” I ask Dad.

     “Over there.” He points to a row of evergreens at the edge of the field we’re crossing.

     I like visiting my grandparents here in North Dakota because of the trees. The low branches and thick leaves make me feel like a caterpillar in a cocoon ... the kind that doesn’t dream of being a butterfly. Our home in Texas is in the lakes and prairies region, where the sky is big and fields go on forever. That’s where I feel like a fly on a picnic table. Swat! Splat!

     “When I was a boy,” Dad says, “my friends and I played in these fields every day.” He points to the left. “Baseball. Kickball. Kites.” He points to some eight-foot-high dirt piles to the right. “BMX bikes. Firecrackers. Grandpa’s beer.”

     I laugh. “You took Grandpa’s beer?”

     He smiles. “More than once.”

     “Can I have one?”

     “No.”

     “Come on! I’m almost sixteen!”

     “I’ll think about it.”

     I stare at the ground while we walk. “So what’s in the woods?”

     “It’s not what’s in the woods ...  it’s what’s beyond them. And you’ll just have to see when we get there.”

     The ground becomes rocky and uneven as we approach the trees. Like walking into nighttime, we’re plunged into darkness until my eyes adjust to the dim light beneath the canopy.  My skin cools, and the woods wrap me like a blanket. I don’t know what’s on the other side, but I can’t imagine it’s better than this.

     As we walk deeper into the woods, we leave the heat and sun and arguing behind us. It wasn’t an all-out war this time, but Mom and Dad said some things to each other that I wish I could un-hear. They used to get along when visiting my grandparents. It was the only time of the year I knew we’d be like a normal family. But not this time. That cocoon has rotted.

     Sunlight strains through thinning leaves ahead. Columns of light pierce the trees and paint the ground with pale gold rectangles. I leave my dark thoughts behind me as we head into the light. Into ...

     “What is this place?” I rub my eyes, unsure if the light is fooling them. I almost can’t believe what I see beyond a house-high chain link fence.

     “It’s the rollercoaster graveyard,” Dad says.

     “Huh?”

     “Rollercoasters. They’re bought and sold like works of art,” he says. “When a park closes or wants to replace an old rollercoaster, it sells the coaster to another park, usually a smaller park that can afford to buy only used rides. That tired old rollercoaster becomes the star attraction in its new park. It gets to live again.”

     “What if nobody wants it?”

     “Then it comes here. This used to be an amusement park. Now it’s where decommissioned rollercoasters that didn’t get a buyer have another chance to live.” He points to one that looks like it’s in good shape among five or six others that look really old. “That one is from an ocean-side park in California. Then it was sold and moved to a park in Canada. From there it ended up in a little family-owned park in Arizona. But when that park closed, it ended up here.”

     “They take it apart and put it back together?” I ask. “Do they make it work again?”

     Almost on cue the chain lift starts up, and a car ascends the hill. Clack-clack-clack it rises, crests the top, and plunges down the first drop. The coaster rattles, and the ground hums as it pulls out of free fall and rounds a turn away from us. After its run, it parks at the passenger loading station, and the chain lift stops.

     “Looks like they might have a buyer for it,” Dad says. “Might be someone setting up a new park or an indoor mall. This little coaster might be just the thing.”

     “What if it doesn’t sell?” I point to the older coasters. “Do they rot like those?”

     “It depends. Some of them are sold for scrap. They get cut-up into pieces and shipped to Japan. Then they are melted down and come back to us as Toyotas and Hondas.”

     “So our car could be made of recycled roller coasters?” This idea is incredible to me, something I never thought about.

     Dad nods. “Son, do you believe that a place can make an impression on you? A day at an amusement park leaves a happy mark on your soul, a memory filled with so much joy that you come to love the place itself? Or the house you’re growing up in will be in your heart forever?”

     I don’t like Texas, but I get what he’s saying. I love my room and our yard. I made all my friends there, and yes! I do think that places make impressions on us. I nod.

     “And do you think it could work in reverse? Do you think maybe love and happiness can leave their mark on a place?”

     I’m not sure I get this one. I shrug.

     “Well, how about that coaster over there?” As he points to it, the car goes up the lift and down and around again. “It’s a machine. Steel. Rubber. Plastic. But in its padded seats sat tens or hundreds of thousands of people during its years of service. Do you think it’s possible that the laughter, the fright, the tears, and the joy of so many riders could make an impression on the machine?”

     And ... in fact, I do, in a strange way. But what surprises me even more is that this surrealistic idea is coming from Dad.

     As the train parks in the loading platform and the chain lift stops again, the woods and graveyard fall into silence. I feel there’s some kind of lesson coming. Something he’s trying to tell me about happiness or life after happiness. Or ups-and-downs. Or that a person’s energy lives on in the memories of others or in the memories of places spent with others in good times. Am I to ride in Mom’s Honda and wonder if the right-front fender holds the spirit of Dad’s laughter because it used to be a guidewheel of a rollercoaster he rode when he was my age?

     “Dad,” I say. “Are you going to die?”

     He turns to me, his eyes saddened. “No, no. I’m fine.” As though his thoughts catch up with mine, he sighs. “You thought ... no, son. I’m not going to die.”

     “Then ... are you and Mom getting a divorce?”

     I thought his eyes were saddened a moment ago, but now they plunged into despair. He put his arm around me and looked out across the field of dying coasters. I can tell he’s trying to speak, but his throat must be all tight like he’s going to cry. He turns from me and walks away.

     He leans into the fence, and I join him and lean into it beside him.

     “I’m taking a job here,” he says. “Mom and I are taking a little time away from each other to work things out. You know I love you very much.”

     I nod, but I’m thinking Dad is giving it to me soft. Work things out. Who moves away to work things out?

     “See that one there?” He points to a black and green coaster. “That’s the Green Lightning. It used to be in Dallas. It used to be at the park where I took your Mom on our first date.”

     I trace the height and length of the coaster with my eyes and try to imagine my parents, younger, in nervous anticipation as the train rises up the chain lift. I imagine the fear in Mom’s eyes as the train crests the hill. She clings to Dad as the front of the train dips straight down and gravity pulls them toward the ground now rising to meet them. They scream, and I can almost hear it! The train hits bottom and begins to rise up the next hill. Mom releases her grip and laughs nervously in relief and fear of the next dip. They crest the hill, dip down into the next valley, and go round and round the circular drop, faster and faster until the train springs out of it and climbs the third hill, crests it, and drops straight down as they scream again. Double corkscrew and straight to the final turn, and the train parks in the loading station with a neck-snapping jerk.

     Mom and Dad look at each other, fear and excitement spilling over, her hand in his, something new growing between them. Something special. Something ... doomed.

     “Life has its ups and downs, son, and it’s the impression that we make on--”

     “Shut up,” I snap. “Save the up-and-down speech for someone who needs to be babied.” I turn and head back toward the woods.

     Dad brought me here because of some stupid metaphors about ups-and-downs and his spirit living in the house I will grow up in without him. And maybe my first car will be made of steel from that rollercoaster. Whatever.

     In the woods’ darkness I make my way back alone, and I feel sorry for him. He missed it. He totally missed everything about the rollercoaster graveyard.

     But I didn’t.

     Some day I’ll take my son here, and I’ll teach him the meaning of this place. The world finds new life in old steel. And if some day my son’s marriage tumbles, he’ll know never to give up on his family, on the rails and trusses that inevitably decay long after the thrill of the ride is over.

     I believe people can leave an impression on a place. And now I leave mine on this graveyard: I leave behind a time-traveling message-in-a-bottle that I will open when I return.

The End

  Undulations by Maria K.

     Ocean, ocean, the beautiful ocean! I love ocean, even in its more frightening stormy incarnation, let alone on a beautiful clear day, when it rolls its crisply white waves just far enough to make a lazy seagull lift off reluctantly and move to higher ground; to snatch a bright pink nylon Frisbee from a playful yellow lab, who bolts in and out of the water to retrieve her toy as fast as she can. I can't blame the poor mutt - the water is icy cold and, while the weather is bright and sunny and the sky is perfectly clear and blue, there is a frosty bite in the wind.

     I love walking on the beach - I can't think of anything better for the body and for the mind. While the sand makes it more challenging, the body eventually finds the right form and the right rhythm. There is a perfect stretch in that walk, where everything becomes just right: I am only thirty-five, the lifetime of walking gives me the stamina, and nearly years of aikido improved my posture and my muscle tone, so I can walk like this forever, conquering mile after mile of this bright December beach.

     Who says one can only reach nirvana by sitting in a lotus position and staring at his or her navel? It might work for some, but not for me - give me the beach instead, and I'll walk it all the way to enlightenment.

The End