Comes Rushing like a Raging Fire

My Gift

This novel is my Gift to God!

                                               

           

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dedication

 

 

This novel is dedicated to Reverent Ross Allen Bartlett, PhD., productive, faithful and trusted, Stewart of the Lord.

 

 

 

Inspired and Encouraged By

 

 

Monsignor Michael Flynn, of the Archdiocese, of San Diego, California

 

 

Thank You

 

 

I owe special recognition, to Mrs. Louise Campbell, who thankfully, volunteered to edit the manuscript (even though I got in a hurry, and didn’t let her finish!).

 

_____________________________________

 

The Gloria Stern Literary Agency

XXXX Hollywood Hills Drive

Hollywood, California

 

Subject: My novel, Comes Rushing like a raging Fire

 

Dear Ms. Stern,

 

     Attached, please find the final draft of my manuscript. 

 

     I know, it has been more then a few years, but …if you are still interested in handling this, please read on.  If not, feel free to use the attached SSAE and no hard feelings.

 

     Still reading.  Good.  So far as the editing, I have followed your advice and made good use of your suggestions.  I hope you agree.

 

     Okay.  Regarding the site, in Egypt.  If we name the real mountain, we are going to have rank amateurs out there digging up the countryside.  I say we stick with Mt.  Jabal, (Arabic for mountain). 

 

     Using Binti (Arabic for girl) for the child’s name.  She’s a grown woman now, with a wonderful family and a happy life.  She doesn’t want the publicity, and given the current problems in Egypt… it serves no purpose to use her real name. 

 

     For the same reason, I must insist on using an alias, for the Reverend.  He died recently, (I’m writing now because I couldn’t release this, with him still living), but his daughter’s work is important.  She does more good, in one day, than all the books I will ever write, all put together.  But the reality is the resultant publicity would reduce her work to a sideshow.  It doesn’t affect the story.

 

          Sincerely,

                           Rick W. White        

______________________________

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The novel is written in voice of Webber Lee.

 

 

Webber Lee’s comment

 

Over thirty years ago, since the start of what became known as the 6-day war, (the Yom Kipper war) an ever-decreasing burden of work, offered me an opportunity to pursue a lifelong yearning to write adventure novels.

At this joyful enterprise, I have managed some success.  My action novels, based upon my experiences as a pilot in Viet Nam and Africa, (the last of which has been optioned by Warner) have been very rewarding, both financially and personally. 

For those of you familiar with my work, this effort, (and it was an effort, at first overcoming my objectivity problems) and later, the research, the endless reading, from dozens of widely strewn sources, marks a significant departure from the previous genre in one respect only: What follows is not a novel. 

This is a true story.  The people reported upon in this account are real people.  The actual names have been used throughout, with only a few exceptions, which are noted.  All of the events reported upon, actually happened. 

Like a skier, who concentrates so hard, on avoiding a tree that he inevitably crashes into it, I found this project the one great obstacle of my writing career, always looming ahead, a challenge constantly on my horizon.  I have avoided it for years, in part, because I am offended by the wasted reams of melodramatic and partisan verbiage, written almost daily, concerning the religious personalities of the world. 

I further confess, to some specific built-in objectivity problems.  Doctor Stampell was a faithful, and hardworking Stewart of Lord, but an ass, none-the-less.  That is compounded by the guilt I feel, at the concept of exposing the final, very private last moments, of some dear friends, whose lives were lost, those many years ago. 

The aforementioned aversions, evaporated a few years ago, when my wife, Nirvana, was working for a nameless clutch of Bedouin camps, and a chance meeting with a Nubian Christian woman named Reha, caught her attention.  Reha was middle aged, when my wife met her again, a grandmother, but the passion burned hot in Reha’s veins, as she described the day, of our first arrival in Cairo, those many years ago.  Nirvana left me knowing, that this story deserved to be told, and now, with the recent passing of Doctor Stampell, there isn’t time to stop. 

 

 

 

 

 

Webber Lee’s Acknowledgments

 

 

            No part of this story has ever been told before, and no biography of Dr. Maitland Stampell, Nirvana (nee Stampell) Lee or Dignus Fleming, have as yet, have been written.  Aside from my own experience, this story has emerged in bits and pieces from private letters, and diaries, from legal filings, from various official reports, from old newspaper accounts, and from interviews with survivors and their relatives. 

            I am indebted to Dignus Fleming, for his unfailing assistance, and friendship, and with great generosity, he placed his personal papers, and private diary, unreservedly at my disposal.  Without his support, this book could not have been written.  I have received valuable assistance from Pastor Gilbert, of the Southern Baptist Church.  I should also like to thank Mrs. Burbank, for the use of her daughter’s diary.  I owe a special debt of gratitude, to Mr. and Mrs. Theodore Truddle, who gave me permission to read, and to quote from the letters of Theodore Truddle.  I was enabled to use Detective Goldman’s reports, deposited at the library of the Torrey Pines University, by the kind permission of President Watson.  I was made the beneficiary of numerous Egyptian and Israeli army reports, by the kind assistance of various army officials.  I have been fortunate to have-been blessed in this effort, with the valuable assistance of Monsignor Michael Flynn, of the Archdiocese of San Diego, California, who read the manuscript and contributed much valuable advice. 

            I should like to record my enormous obligation to my wife Nirvana, who, on behalf of this project, laid bare her soul. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter One

The bullets fly at sunup

 

My father was livid, when I told him, that I joined the Air Force.  He didn’t give a damn about me.  He was only worried, about, who would get his money, when he died.  I hated his money.  I once bought a bike, just to spend some of it.  If I could have, I would have burned it all. 

            I think the biggest problem with modern society, is the lack of campfires.  Campfires talk to you, show you visions, and, make you think, of things.  We had a fireplace when I was a kid, but we never used it.  Buying wood to burn, my father always said, was a waste.  I suspect, I never got married, until I met Nirvana, because I was afraid, I would turn out like my father. 

            I remember thinking that, watching the campfire, in the early morning, predawn black, in the Egyptian army camp.  I thought, “All the money in the world, couldn’t buy you something as pretty as this.” The desert night was black all around us.  No lights could be seen, from horizon to horizon.  The bright stars were, a blanket, warming the heavens, reminding me, of my in place in the world.  I thought, the heavens really do declare the glory of God.  The world was at peace with the universe, despite the turmoil, in our hearts, and the war going on, all around us.  Our hands were tied with copper wire, and we were waiting for sunup, for our turn before the firing squad.  I said, to no one in particular, “So here we are, on the threshold of eternity.” I thought, I guess they are right: ‘We reap, what we sow.’    

The Israelis’ are rumored to be smarter then everybody else, but I don’t think they were ready for Egypt’s attack, in what became known, as the Six-day war. 

I never met any Jewish people, when I was growing up, but my grandfather, was a rancher, who raised cattle.  He had a friend, who was Jewish.  I was there one day, when they were doing business, and I remember a whole kitchen tabletop covered with $100 dollar bills.  That Jewish man, always paid cash, for my grandfather’s cattle, and he liked that.

After the Six-day war, Doctor Stampell concluded that Israel, ‘Was building the third temple’, when the Israeli army the whipped the Egyptian army.   I got the impression that these Egyptian army dudes, had been in the field for a couple of days, looking for us.  They hadn’t shaved, they didn’t have anything left to eat and they were low on water. 

            I tried to talk to the officer, Major Sa’aid, but he was only interested in one thing.  He wanted to know, what we knew, about an Israel tank, on the Egyptian side of the Red Sea.  I knew nothing and that’s what I told him.  Major Sa’aid didn’t believe me, and I didn’t want to tell the major that we had stolen that tank out of that bunker, right near where we were camped. 

Then, he would have shot us for sure.  We had found that bunker, a tank shelter, right near the where they were holding us prisoner.   We had stole just one tank, but we didn’t really have any choice.  And, we weren‘t spies!  Israel already had a dozen tanks hidden, in that bunker, on Egypt’s side of the Red Sea, before the war started!  That’s how the Israeli’s got their-foothold on the Egyptian side.  And, now that I think about it, stealing that one tank, that the Egyptians found, had probably started the war!  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Two

Reprieve

 

 

The shoreline of the Red Sea, where we were waiting, rises sharply to form a small cliff.  Into the cliff, a steep sided, flat-bottomed gully slashes, from the waters edge, for about a hundred-yards, where it terminates at a stone culvert wall, built a few millenniums before Christ.  On the top of the wall, was a road, and upon it, the Egyptian army, was racing to the front. 

            The Yom Kipper war was hours old, and we were Americans, in the wrong place at the wrong time.  My name is Webber Lee. I am the Captain/owner of an airplane charter service.  Seated on the sand, next to me, was Ms. Nirvana Stampell, the daughter, of the world famous, American evangelist, Doctor Maitland Stampell. 

I hadn’t had a drink for a whole day, and, I was at that time, living proof, that a man can drink Jim Beam corn whisky, by the glass full, and smoke Marsh Wheeling cigars, by the hand full, and still live to a ripe old age of forty-five.  We were seated on the sand, in an open sided tent, and with our hands tied behind us with bare copper wire. 

            As I watched, a fit young fellah, an Egyptian peasant, was marched up to the old stonewall.  He didn’t see me, but I recognized him.  He had sold me, the smoked fish that I enjoyed, under the wing of my airplane, on our second day in camp.  And I remember, they were very tasty fish.  Smoked on Tamarisk.

            Major Sa’aid was the Egyptian officer in charge.  He turned the fisherman one hundred eighty degrees, and he stepped to the side.  As the rising sun touched the fisherman’s face, the bullets from the firing squad passed through the young man’s body on Major Sa’aid’s signal.  We were next, and our only crime, so far as I could tell, was eating some of the young mans’ fish! 

            Major Sa’aid had decided we were spies.  It wasn’t true, but it wouldn’t make any difference to the bullets.  He had no evidence that we were spies.  All that he had was his suspicion.  He thought we knew something.  An Israeli tank had turned up on the Egyptian side of the Red Sea, and he would shoot us, if we didn’t tell, what he thought we knew, of that Israeli tank. 

We both had been beaten up, something awful.  I even had part of one ear shot off.  It looked like the bandit Karoush had tried to beat Nirvana and I to death.  But we weren’t defeated.  We just didn’t give a damn.  Nirvana was praying, but she wasn’t sad.  She was upbeat.  This was really something.  The day before, Nirvana, had risked her life, to save me, although she hardly knew me, at that time.  We had apparently been caught, because of me.  We had been beaten to within an inch of our lives, and, it was as if, we go before firing squads every day, so no big deal. 

            I didn’t want to get shot, but what could I do?  I didn’t know anything to tell Major Sa’aid. 

Major Sa’aid came into the tent and helped us to our feet.  A tall man, he made a point looking down on us, down his long, narrow, well-humped nose, which twitched, apparently to display displeasure.  He pushed his officers cap back, exposing a long, narrow forehead.  His features were elongated, hardened, carved from a block too narrow for its length.  The wrinkles of his brow cut deeply into the brown skin.  I didn’t have much respect for Major Sa’aid’s intelligence.  He was getting ready to have us shot, for nothing.  He asked, “Vhat have yu’ tu’ say?”

            I told him, “I didn’t do anything.  And, I don’t know anything.  I just fly the plane.”

            Major Sa’aid smiled a friendly smile.  With a flourish, in keeping with the occasion, he lighted a cigar, one of my Marsh Wheelings’, and he offered it to me.  I took it, in my month, and I clenched its end delicately with my teeth.  The Major stepped to the side and we walked out. 

Nirvana said to me, “God rebukes using sinners.” I didn’t know what the hell she was talking about.

            When we got to the wall, we were turned a round.  Luckily, ol’ Major Sa’aid, took along the expedition camera bag, and set it near us, as if he was going to shoot the camera bag, along with us. 

I wanted to see the sun come up one last time.  There were only six soldiers.  I thought, three bullets for each of us.  Theodore Truddle’s big dog, Skunk, came with us.  He was dark with a white stripe and bigger than a Saint Bernard.  Skunk seemed to know, what was up.  He didn’t like the men with the guns and he didn’t want to pass in front of them.  I didn’t blame him. 

            Nirvana wondered aloud, “This was supposed to have been, a Christian archeology expedition.  Six weeks in the desert.  And, no-body, was supposed to get killed, but Ashley got killed, and then Gutshank, and Two Ton and Mr. Yee.”

Major Sa’aid announced, “I shoot the innocent, so that the guilty may confess.”

            Nirvana was said, “Tell God you’re sorry for your sin.  Ask for His forgiveness.”

            Major Sa’aid said, “You speak of God; of forgiveness.  But I remember yu’, hair like a dog, when I was the Muhafiz, attached to the Mamur.  I saw yu’!  Stoning is tu’ good for yu’.  The harlot hu’ sweeps out mosque.”

            Nirvana countered, “Don’t waste your hate, on the demons, I was dealing with.  It would be better to concentrate on your own salvation and attainting God’s forgiveness.”

            Major Sa’aid lectured.  “Inchala, she has a voice in her head, like an ass braying, and will surely give it utterance.”

Nirvana preached, “There is no witness so dreadful, no accuser so terrible, as the conscience, that dwells in the heart of every man.” And, once again, I didn’t what the hell she was talking about. 

            I wondered, how could I stand it?  I looked to the rising sun, bright between the soldiers, as their pointed rifles became little black dots.  The sun was just above the edge of the water on the Rea Sea, and the distant rolling thunder of the war was the only sound I could hear.  “To hell with all that,” I said quickly.  “Major, let’s get down to business.  Untie my hands.  I should like to salute you.”

            Major Sa’aid had sort of a dumb-ass sense of etiquette.  He was going to kill us, for nothing, but that was okay, so long as he did it with sufficient style.  I think he thought he was British.  He did as I had asked, and then he held the salute while I flexed my wrists, which I noticed had turned a little bit green, from the copper wire.  I dragged one last drag on the Marsh Wheeling cigar and came to attention.  I returned Sa’aid’s salute, with, what I thought, was parade ground crispness, “See you in the Promised Land, Major,” I told him. 

            Major Sa’aid snapped his salute arm smartly to his side and stepped back.  Experiencing this silliness, I had forgotten, at least for a few seconds, that I was about to be shot.  The fear had left me.  Contemplation is really something that exists outside of time, I thought, Tennessee Williams said that, I was pretty sure.  The idea of being thankful was still forming in my mind when I saw something in the sun.  And then the sun exploded in my face. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Three

(Notes from my wife’s diary, Nirvana (nee Stampell) Lee.

 

 

The next thing I knew, I was in a long, dark tunnel.  There was no bright light, no beautiful angel, no sweet music and no peaceful feeling.  I was being dragged, by the head, deeper and deeper, into a pitched-blackness.  I was coupled somehow to Captain Webber, and I was being thrown, banged, scraped and dragged.  And, the only sound I heard was an incessant grunting and cursing. 

            Captain Webber had me in a headlock.  I tried to talk, and Webber cut me loose, and asked if I was okay.  I took a quick inventory.  Throbbing headache, some nose bleeding and apparently, one charley horsed shoulder.  Maybe broken.  “Try to keep up” was all Webber said. 

            Between grunts, I found out we were in the crawl-sized stone culvert that passed under the road.  The white flash that knocked me senseless wasn’t a welcome to the hereafter, but an Israeli’ air-to-surface missile.  Captain Webber had seen it coming, and had turned around, at the last second.  He said, “Israeli’ Phantoms, right out of the sun.”  I was on my hands and knees, banging my sore head every so often, nursing my game shoulder, and wondering how Captain Webber had managed to drag me, and the expedition camera bag, when he had been so beat up, in the first place.

            Webber certainly had persistence.  And, determination!  That was for sure!  Non-stop savoir-faire.

            Skunk, the over- sized sheepdog, that had took a liking to Theodore Truddle, met us with face licks, as we emerged into the bright sun, on the other side of the road.  The waddi, was a narrow gorge, only a about twenty-foot wide.  It was deep and cliff sided and we followed it into the-foothills, with Captain Webber carrying me, and the expedition camera bag.  I was hurting, and it was quite a bit of work to stay on my feet, but we kept moving, farther and farther, from the war.  About an hour later, we came upon a breakfast campfire.

            A family: a man and wife, and several children, sitting around the fire.  Skunk knew them and claimed them as his people, and they welcomed him like long lost family.  The woman spoke broken English.  Her name was Reha and her husband was Yusuf.  

            A water skin was offered and room was made for us near the breakfast fire.  Yusuf was extremely excited.  He seemed to think, that we had come out of the desert, to bring him the dog, and despite our ragged looks, we were welcomed.  He told us an exciting story, about the sheepdog Skunk, in a jackhammer burst of animated Arabic, as Reha tried frantically to translate. 

            Reha was understood to say, they were preparing their camp, only days earlier, alongside, a small creek, that flowed from the Southerly base of Mt.  Jabal.  We knew of the place.  It was the only creek in the area.  Karoush had taken me there, a prisoner, held within the great bus, after his men kidnapped me, but that’s another story. 

            Reha was saying, “Yusuf was attending to the donkey.  I was preparing the meal.  Binti, the oldest, was at the edge of the spring, feeling the water.  The other child was playing in the water.  Across the creek, the old goat-herder was camped with his flock.  A child shrieked. 

            At Binti’s back, an asp, an Egyptian cobra, was rising to strike.  Reha screamed.  Yusuf was too far.  Reha was on the other side of the fire, a spoon in one hand, a baby in the other. Skunk, the sheep dog, heard the fearful cry and came like the wind, thank God.  Skunk threw the Asp aside, delivering it a backbreaking chump at the same instant. 

            I thought these people have nothing.  A donkey and a cart, a tent made of rags, but they sure were happy.  They had three children.  But one, Binti, the little girl that Skunk had saved, they were extremely proud of.  I think, I prayed over her, on the day we arrived in Cairo, the week before. 

Binti was about eight or nine, bright eyed enough, but she could hardly speak.  I mean, she could speak, but she was babbling her words.  By comparison, her much younger sibling could talk.  And, she wasn’t very coordinated.  She walked like an infant.  Reha said of her, in English, “Binti is our gift from God, entrusted to us for His Glory.” Reha normally spoke Arabic.

            Reha gave us molokhiyya, a thick vegetable soup, and beans, saying, “All we have, is for the stranger in need.” As we were eating, Yusuf’s mood became somber.  Again, Reha repeated his words.  The morning after Skunk had saved Binti, their donkey awoke Yusuf, with alarmed braying, before daybreak.  Spear in hand, he quieted the beast, and watched as the old-goat header’s camp, was surrounded by three trucks, with bright headlights.  They killed him with a gun and stole the flock. 

            I said, “Karoush.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Four

Sober, right now

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In my mind, I have trudged back, over those far off, Egyptian sands, I had visited in 1973, many, many times.  I’m sober, right now, and my half-shot-off ear has healed, a long time ago.  Ditto my split head.  I’ve had many baths, numerous shaves, stopped smoking those nasty cigars, fell in love and I got married in the church, had some of kids, & several grand kids.  I can still remember, the desolate Egyptian dessert, the oppressive heat, and feasting on manna, all those years ago. 

I met Fleming, for the first time, when he came in, to charter my airplane.  I was in the charter business, with one airplane, a four-engine Boeing flying boat, that I had bought at auction, from the State Forestry.  I called her ‘The California Goose.’  She was my love, and when I wasn’t flying her, I was fixing on her, or polishing her, or simply petting her.  And when the sleep, would over-come the urgency of my love, I slept in her, on a folding cot in rear. 

When I first saw Fleming, he had just emerged from a Cadillac limousine, straight-faced, freshly blue-suited, his eyes signaling a thank-you, to young Yee, who held the door.  Young Yee was the kid of the Mr. Yee, who was the cook, on the expedition to Egypt.  Fleming entered the coffee shop, at Montgomery Field, and exchanged good-days, with the young Hispanic girl, who tended the lunch counter.  As reported, Fleming told her, “I am interested in the California Goose Charter Services.”

            I guess, she smiled, and she told Fleming, “Webber only has one airplane, a retired Coast Guard duck, he bought at auction from the State Forestry.  It’s over there,” she pointed to the tarmac behind the building, where the hangars arched in either direction, fronting on rows of small airplanes.  The Boeing seaplane was by far the largest plane at the field. 

Fleming commented and queried, “An oligolistic business… Is it a good one, this retired Coast Guard Duck?”

Fleming always talked like that!  I guess that’s where my wife Vanna got it from!

The waitress said, “Papa says so.  It has a tank in the belly, for dropping water on forest fires.”

“I see.”

The young waitress talked too much, “He’s been living in it and it stinks, cause he uses the belly tank for his toilet.”

“Living in it?”

 The young waitress told Fleming, “Some fink is trying to repossess it, and, by living in it, Webber put them off.”

 Fleming signaled his acknowledgement.

When I first met Fleming, I thought, he was part of the cabal that had been trying to seize the Goose and I figured he had something from the court that was going to force me to give her up.  I was fixing tires on the Goose that got slashed the night before, by that damn re-possession agent Cary Stewart.  It had been raining, but the sun broke through as Fleming climbed out of the Cadillac.  I thought the sudden sunshine was a sign from God, Himself.  It was like God, almighty, had brighten the up the day, when Fleming arrived. 

My office was a dark little tin box, behind the hangers at Montgomery Field, in San Diego.  I followed Fleming in, stepped around to my side of the desk and flopped hard, harder then I had intended to, into my worn-out swivel chair.  Fleming, seated himself, across from my desk, on my other chair, the steel folding one, I kept near the door. 

Fleming was about sixty then, tall, black skinned, white haired, thin, and looking as strong as wire rope.  He had a parade ground, drill sergeant, sort of perfect look to him.  Clean fingernails, slick shave, and high and tight, boot camp, haircut. 

I hadn’t shaved or slept in days, and my air-force issue captains’ hat, and leather flying jacket, were caked with mud, and my coveralls, were soaked through from the rain.  My cigar butt wouldn’t hold still, all during that meeting.  It twitched at the edge of my mouth, in time to my stomach quaking.  Fleming didn’t say anything, so after a cold, long minute, I set a Jim Beam bottle up on my desk. 

I kept a .357 in my desk drawer, and when I got the bottle out, I thought about shooting him.  I was mad about the tires, and I wanted to shoot somebody.  I had the shakes, but I poured two fingers of the Jim Beam without spilling.  I snorted it, poured again, and I asked him what he wanted.  Fleming stood, and he offered me a long boned, all the way across the desk handshake.  He told me his name, and that he was associated with Stampell Ministries and I told him he looked like a damn lawyer. 

Fleming sat down again, his back as straight as Stampell’s reputation.  He delivered in a smooth, deep base monotone, “Stampell Ministries is interested in chartering your aircraft.  Your references are excellent and your equipment appears adequate.”

I was glad I hadn’t shot him, but something about him, his too perfect-ness, pissed me off.  I made a point of not being sorry that I had taken that drink.  “Excellent references, huh?  Who in the hell sent you?”  And why in the hell didn’t you call first?

Fleming told me, “Your competitor.”

There was only one other flying boat in San Diego.  I said, “So why the hell, didn’t they fly you?”

Fleming explained, “Just this morning, their insurance carrier refused to give them coverage for our next expedition.”

I knew all about insurance.  The bank had been trying to seize the Goose because I couldn’t keep it up.  My payments were current, but they wanted full coverage, even when the Goose was parked.  “Well, I haven’t got any insurance to refuse me coverage, so if that’s okay with you.”

Fleming nearly floored me.  He said, “Our business is faith in the Lord.  We have no need of insurance.”

Lord, if, only the banks had such faith, I prayed for the first time since Vietnam.  I told Fleming, “So where do you want to fly to?”

Fleming said dryly, “The Egyptian side of the Red Sea.”

His faith may have been in the Lord, but he was asking to fly into a war zone, where both armies thought that God was on their side.  The Egyptians were on one side of the channel, and the Israelis’ were on the other, had been since the year before, and so far as I knew, they were both shooting everybody and anybody who ventured in-between, and that was why my competitor had cancelled.  I said, “If you don’t mind me asking, why not just fly commercial and rent a bus?  It would be faster and safer.”

Fleming said, “For forty days, we will exploring the western shoreline of the Red Sea, for the remnants of Pharaoh’s army.  We anticipate a need to move the camp every few days.  A seaplane would be most convenient.”

I queried, “Pharaoh’s army?  Like in the Bible?”

Fleming told me, “Precisely.”

I remember thinking that would be interesting.    I told him, “I’ll need some money upfront.”

Fleming told me, “If you can guarantee me, that you will be prepared for a 8:00 P.M. departure this evening, and if you can match your competitors quote, I am prepared to tender a you check, immediately.” 

Immediately!  That would sure save my neck.  So he gave me the check and I departed precisely on schedule.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Five

Home Coming

 

 

While I was meeting Fleming in my office, my future wife, Nirvana, was burying her first husband, at Forest Lawn cimentary, near my office, in San Diego.  It was a small, private ceremony, which had been attended by only a few guests.  When the service was over, an older lady approached Nirvana.  The old woman asked Nirvana “By chance, are you, are the daughter of Dr. Maitland Stampell?”

Nirvana answered, “Yes.  My father, I think.”

The older woman made her entreaty, “Would you mind asking him to pray for the arthritis pain in my joints?

Nirvana said she would, and left immediately, deciding, without giving the decision a moments’ thought, she would like to visit Fleming.  Fleming had been, so much a part of Nirvana’s childhood, and she was truly lonely for Fleming’s touch. 

I’ve talked to my wife and Fleming, many, many times, over the years.  Fleming is one of those people, who is never satisfied, with a days’ work or a days’ worth of worries.  Fleming had no sooner hired me, paid me off, and returned to his desk, at the great stone-walled Stampell mansion, which is perched on the coastal bluff, north of San Diego. 

The desk, a tribute from an old student, was a miniature of the Roman Coliseum.  Its angled shelves tiered up and away, to the extent of Fleming’s reach.  Maps by the hundreds, professional and institutional contacts, suppliers, shipping companies, all of the information Fleming needed to safely put a dozen Americans into the middle of nowhere, anywhere in the world. 

Habitually, Fleming wore a black cardigan waistcoat, and black trousers over his spare, long frame.  He kept his thinning hair close cut, but enough of the tightly curled, Negro stubble remained, to cover his skull with a snow-white -watch cap. 

Fleming studied a three ring binder one page at a time.  It’s divisions were meticulously labeled, as was its cover:

 

for the glory of god

a 2^nd expedition

to the land of egypt

in search of pharaoh's army

 

            Two charter flights had cancelled.  Cairo University had agreed to participate, then withdrawn, without explanation.  Egypt’s Antiquity’s Department, usually underfoot, had expressed its non-interest.  Even the weather, delaying Doctor’s return from Ararat, seemed to foreshadow, that the wind was blowing from the wrong direction.

            Fleming tried to re-assure himself that everything was ready.  A rental truck awaited their arrival in Cairo. 

Supplies, tools and rubber boats, awaited the truck, together with two cases of champagne to celebrate the anticipated success.  Maps, tents, snakebite kits, an air compressor, a generator and icemaker, were all stored in the warehouse on the ministry grounds.  The student archaeologists, Fleming smiled: for this trip, there was only one student archaeologist, Missouri Stenson.  Nebraska University was paying for his expenses: he needed the credits to keep up his eligibility to play-football.  The other expedition members, including a six member diving club, were selected on a basis of their willingness to participate in costs. 

            A single tone from the door chime sounded, activated from the large entry gate.  Fleming quickly scanned the immense desk that surrounded him.  He wasn't expecting a delivery.  He moved briskly to answer the door.  Urgency for work, yet discovered, hurried him along, into the hallway, with its wall of windows that looked out upon the expansive rose-garden and driveway.  Fleming stopped to inspect.  The morning had broke clear and sunny, but a heaven bound, renegade cloud, escaped from the coast hugging fog, and was passing across the drive as he peered out.  Out of the cloud, an older model red pickup truck trailed a lazy wisp of purple smoke up the twisting drive.  Not someone he recognized. 

            Moving along, Fleming paused to admire his favorite of the oil paintings along the hall: The family portrait: Doctor Stampell, Jeremiah, Nirvana and Fleming.  Doctor was in his forties, at the time the painting was commissioned.  The perfect likeness showed him fit, stern and seated erectly.  Jeremiah stood to Doctor’s left.  At twenty-one, he was bristling with confidence, wearing his lucky amulet and the metal from Mexico University, his arm around Nirvana’s waist.  Nirvana was fifteen, tall, pretty, but her eyes were always distant, like a gazelle in a lion’s cage.  The artist had caught her look perfectly.  Fleming was on Doctor’s right, half a pace back and the only one smiling. 

            A slight glow crossed Doctor’s face, but otherwise, the painting was quite dark.  Dark-clothing, dark-leather-chair, dark-wood-paneling.  It was nearly devoid of color, except for the bright red of Nirvana’s lipstick, something that Jeremiah had insisted upon.  Fleming touched his chin.  It had been twenty years since she had disappeared, twenty years since Jeremiah had been hospitalized, twenty long years since the painting had been done.  He prayed aloud, “God, if she is alive, keep her safe and according to your intention, bring her home,” and Fleming went out. 

            A thin woman was emerging warily from the truck. She wore a black ankle length dress and wide brimmed black hat, and on seeing Fleming, she turned away.  She stood perfectly erect, stiff and prickly, as the rose canes she faced in the garden.  Fleming didn't recognize her, but she knew entry gate combination, so he knew she wasn’t a stranger. 

After a moment, she plucked a rose and turned, head bowed, her face hidden, behind the hat brim.  She held the rose, and she said, “This I remember,” and she crushed the rose with her fist.  Fleming felt anger flush his cheeks.  She inhaled the remnants of the rose and whispered, “It was you who taught me, ‘this is the fragrance, of forgiveness.’”

The sound of her voice struck him with the impact of a thunder- bolt.  A flood of memories electrified him.  With all his strength, he resisted his first impulse to seize her.  He wanted to believe it was Nirvana, but a thousand disappointments plucked at his heart with renewed cruelty.  The woman, that was the child, was beginning to take shape in his mind.  Like the rose petals falling lazily to the stone, the memories tumbled out of their closet.  Hug her, his heart cried out, but some little part of him, an extremely strong little vein of him, held him back.  She had left without so much as a good-bye and it still hurt.

            “Memories are a storm for me,” she lifted the floppy hat brim, revealing tear reddened, steel grey eyes set in a wide boned, sun-wrinkled face. 

            “Nirvana, my precious child.” Fleming seized her, kissed her cheeks, her forehead, hugged her and looked at her again.  “Praise God, you're safe.  How I've prayed for this day.” 

            She collapsed against his chest sobbing, for several long moments.  When the sobs abated, Fleming said, “Come, we’ll have some tea.”

            “No,” she protested, “I don't feel like tea.” She pulled away and sat on the concrete bench before the rose garden.  “I haven't had time to cry yet, let alone tea.” She managed a teary-eyed smile, “My Mike has died and I just buried him.”

            Fleming sat beside Nirvana, and took her thin, hard hand.  Fleming asked, “Mike?”

            She worked a tissue firmly under her nose.  “A big, sweet, lovable guy.” She moaned, helped herself to another hug and pushed away, “I met him the day after I left here.  He was too old for me, but I was so exultant, triumphant even, that such a fine man could love me.  I felt the Grace of God, in our union.  It was a many splendored thing, to be in love with Mike.  It was beyond splendid.  Incomparable.  Defying the laws of human nature.  I married him, but he treated in loco parentis.  He demonstrated joie de vivre, to me, everyday.” Her eyes sparkled for a few seconds and then blurred, “He died a week ago.  Cancer.  He woke up one morning with a sore back and within days, he could hardly walk.” Bitterness sharpened her tone, “He wouldn’t talk of his dying and he wouldn’t let me doubt his getting well, even though it got worse every week.”

            Fleming usually spoke with great authority on these matters, but for the moment, he philosophized a lukewarm sermon, to see where her heart might lay.  “There's no understanding these things, except to acknowledge its God's will.”

            Nirvana composed herself and spoke resolutely, “God's will or not, I spent every penny fighting it.  I emptied the bank account, mortgaged our cabin and sold a truck, and all of the tools.”

            “Did you pray for him?”

            Nirvana smacked him with the honest frankness of a sledgehammer, “I don’t pray.  Haven’t since I left here.”

            Struck silent, Fleming wondered.  How could she live without prayer?  The worst of his nightmares settled on his heart as he remembered, the treatments.  Could the shock treatments, have affected her eternal soul?  He turned to her, saw she was innocent of any knowledge of it and his voice died in his throat.  It was Doctor’s place to explain, not his.  Fleming didn’t trust psychiatrists.  In his experience, he found them godless frauds, nailing their so-called cures to the wall like freshly scrambled eggs.  A trio of the state’s best had maimed him for life and a whole institute full of them hadn’t done Jeremiah any good, even after twenty years.  She was watching him intently.  He whispered, “Will you stay?” 

            She said tearfully, “I don’t think I can stay here.”

            Before Fleming could help himself, for it wasn’t his style, he laid on the guilt.  “A cruel deed, leaving as you did.” He seized her hand more tightly, “Never writing, never calling.” Sorry instantly, he lowered his head and asked her the question he had asked himself daily for twenty years, “Why?”

            She closed her eyes, considered each of the twenty years.  After a few moments she spoke to the blue sky.  Her father’s daughter, Fleming’s speeches flowed from her.  “All these years, I couldn’t remember precisely why I left this place, but I just knew, I didn’t want to come back.  Then, this morning at the funeral, with the fog and the smell of the ocean, it occurred to me that I missed you.  And then just now, when you asked me, I remembered why I left.” She faced Fleming.  “Mike wouldn’t let me talk of his dying, so I had to keep it bottled up inside me.  When death finally came, all I had left was sadness.  It never ends.  It lasts all day, all night, draining the life out of me.”

            Fleming jerked imperceptibly as he recalled Nirvana waking in the hospital, after her nearly successful attempt at suicide.  It was an instantaneous explosion of tears.  “God has betrayed me!” was her only explanation, repeated a thousand times.  She cried, for days on end, the tears draining the life out of her.  There was no respite, no turning her from her firm, absolute determination, to end her own life.  Fleming never understood the details.  Don’t talk of it, he begged. 

            She was saying, “Grief is all I have left, except for when I am dreaming about Mike, to the point where eating, even dressing, is a major accomplishment.  When Mike was sick, every night I dreamed of him being well.  Since he’s gone, I wake up and his presence is so strong, I feel as if I can make him come back just by wanting him so badly.” She hung her head, “If I could just touch him.” She looked into Fleming’s eyes, and said passionately, “Life is so monstrously unfair.  Mike is dead and I am angry, angry as I was when I left here.”

            “Angry?” Fleming thought back twenty years.  The morning she disappeared was clear in his mind.  The treatments had eliminated her suicidal depression, just as the psychiatrists had promised.  She had came home in a thick cloud of mental confusion, but her spirits were good and she was looking forward to traveling with Doctor.  Fleming couldn’t remember her being angry.  She had simply left without a word.  He was on the phone with the institution, he remembered and his happiness with Nirvana’s improvement had been spoiled by the news that Jeremiah had hurt two of the candy stripers.  Fleming came back to the present and wondered aloud, “Why were you angry?”

            The teary pain in her eyes turned to ice.  “Julie and Dionne should never have been hurt.  When I overheard you talking about it, I wanted to go to them, but I ended up just running.”

            Fleming studied her a moment, in awe of the intensity that was boiling just beneath the surface.  Mystified, he whispered, “Julie and Dionne?”  They had befriended Nirvana, during her treatments, and at the time, they were the only friends she had in the world.  “Oh, my God.” He prayed silently, for an eternity encapsulated in ten seconds.  He whispered softly, skyward, “Nirvana, I have prayed for this day.  Please,” he looked into her. 

            Nirvana was mush in his hands, always had been.  Her words came more briskly, than she intended.  “There's not much to tell.  I hitched to Big Bear Lake and met Mike the same afternoon.” She smiled a minuscule little smile.  “He liked me.  He was a carpenter and we built little houses.  Cabins.”

            A moment passed, before Fleming realized that was all he was going to get.  He spoke quickly, remembering, “Doctor gets in a two o’clock today.  He's been on Ararat.”

            “Again?” Nirvana said quietly.  She tentatively seized the little snippet from her past.  Ararat: a word to relish.  Its mention incited memories.  Snow.  Ice.  Wind.  And cold.  A happy, warm place, with hot chocolate and singing around the campfire every night and mornings started with strawberry jam and butter on hot biscuits.  And the ice caves.  It was a piece of her childhood she had totally forgotten. 

            “We have an expedition leaving tonight for Egypt, in search of Pharaohs Army,” Fleming rambled, “but this time we are expecting a much warmer reception.  Sadat has made many changes.  He expelled the Soviets over a year ago and the government is exhibiting an outward confidence that previously existed only in Nasser’s era.  In any case, the expedition is scheduled to leave tonight, which won’t leave us much time to get re-acquainted.”

            Still enjoying her recollection of Ararat, Nirvana murmured, “No time between expeditions?”

            “Doctor’s return from Turkey was delayed two weeks, by an unseasonable snow storm and an uncooperative government.  But, we’ll have some time, before the televised crusade at Stampell Hall tonight.  He has a piece of Noah’s Ark, that he will present to the world.”

            Nirvana asked, “Stampell Hall?” 

            “Yes.  It’s located on the Torrey Pines University grounds, near the science wing.  We also have a small library and two class rooms, dedicated to the Lord's work.”  He down shifted, away from the bells and whistles, back to the nuts and bolts.  It wasn’t going like he had imagined it.  “My part of the business hasn’t changed.  Just this morning, my backup charter for this next expedition cancelled.  My faith is in the Lord for our third choice.”

            Nirvana smiled: Fleming’s first choice would be a mule train, if, he could get it cheaper than a bus.  She couldn’t imagine a third choice.  “Are you still doing everything?  Single handedly, slaying all of the lions that enter your little coliseum?”

            “Oh, no.  These days, we have trained teams of counselors at the crusades to help with the potential converts, a phone bank to field pledges, and a production consultant to supervise the televised crusades, and a hundred seventy member choir with a full time director.  My bailiwick, these days is expedition planning, transport, permits.”

            “You've almost retired.”

            Fleming agreed, “Yes, almost, but of course, my primary focus remains our seminary students.  That’s our future and that’s where I put my efforts, however long it takes.  Just yesterday, for instance, one who knew you, stopped by.”

            “One who knew me?”  Nirvana marveled.  She couldn’t recall a single friend from her childhood, seminary student, or otherwise. 

            Fleming hoped fervently, “You must remember Ortega Pinion?”

            Nirvana touched her lip, tasting the name, “Ortega?”

            Fleming added hints, as the psychiatrists had told him to do years ago, to help her fill in the blanks.  “Ortega Pinion, from Palomar Reservation.  You called him Teg.  He was your escort to the junior prom, your first real date, as I recall.”

            She played along, her mind drawing a blank.  “Yes, of course.  How is he?”

            Believing her, Fleming breathed easier.  He delivered his assessment in monotone,  “He stops by on an irregular basis.  How should I say it?  He, is one of my disappointments, and as consequence, our friendship is stilted.  His compulsion for life evaporated years ago.  Overnight, fecundity of his mind, his budding promise, distilled into vacuous, cynical genius.  He is a vessel of enormous intellect, with a great capacity for carrying the Lord’s work, but like an ark without a tiller, he has cast himself adrift upon the boundless, meaningless seas of humanist philosophy.”

            Peck, peck, peck, Nirvana recalled Fleming’s typewriter.  As a child, she sat on his knee as flowery phrases were pecked out, tested and pecked out again.  Fleming had fun with words.  He would say ‘I have no seed, so I must be the fertilizer.’ He wrote Doctor’s sermons.  Nirvana said, “Is this Ortega married?  Children?” 

            Fleming told her, “No.  He has his PhD.  He teaches and he works.”

            “Quite a bit like you then,” she thrust playfully. 

            “But my work has purpose,” Fleming parried.  “Ortega dismisses God as a fraud.”

            Ortega.  This time the name fell on familiar neurons and happy memories surged over her.  They were dancing.  The stars were out, the moon came and went, and the day broke.  In a blink, the memories were gone, leaving her with only a tantalizing splash of the feelings that once held her.  Nirvana surprised herself with a smile.  “I would like to see him.” The smile lasted until she remembered Mike. 

            Fleming chatted, “Ortega is going on this next expedition to Egypt.”

            “Egypt?  The exodus?  Pharaoh’s army?”

            Fleming paused, feeling very satisfied.  Her memory was all right, after all.  When she had first disappeared, the doctors had worried, that perhaps the ECT treatments had affected her mental inventory.  He offered a silent prayer in thanks and then quickly brought his thoughts to bear.  If he could get Nirvana into Egypt, into the Lord’s presence, surely Christ would finish the good work started in her, so many years before.  Nirvana was watching him.  He detoured her, “Ortega has discovered an interesting anomaly concerning the shoreline of the Red Sea.” Fleming added, with maximum distaste, “He is going for the glory of science.” Nirvana smiled at Fleming’s consternation, giving him the opening.  He took a playful jab, “You should consider going on this expedition to Egypt.  You could use some solitude, some toil in the wilderness: it would be good for you at a time like this.”

            Nirvana wasn’t hearing his words.  What she heard was the creaking of an old jaw trap, prying itself open, intent on seizing her.   She said, “I have some things to think about.”

            She turned on the concrete bench to face the mid-morning sun.  Warmth flooded over her, erasing the last chill of the early morning funeral service, warming her bones, bringing a peace to her skittish spirit.  She thought, I feel so safe here, and when she opened her eyes, all she could see, was roses and blue sky.

            Fleming put an arm around her, his heart content for the first time in years.  Even the roses seemed especially bright for the occasion.  Their aroma filled the soft morning air and the only sound was the gentle hum of the honeybees.  In the distance, the fog shrouded coastline, offered a vista of the world from above the clouds.  It was as if God was granting him a sample of things to come.  He thought, the timing is perfect and she needs God to fill her life with purpose.  Fleming said, “The vines are heavy,” before he could help himself. 

            Nirvana turned on him.  “Don’t,” she warned.  Seeing she had hurt him, she helped herself to a hug and then quickly changed the subject.  “At the funeral this morning, a little old lady asked if I was of the same lineage as the famous Dr. Maitland Stampell.  When I told her, 'My father, ' and she seized my hand and asked that I pray for relief of her arthritis.”

            “And did you?”

            “I had no choice,” she laughed. 

            Satisfied with her answer, Fleming commented smugly, “Even now, people remember the healings, but our long-term impact is academia.  We are graduating ten seminary students this year.”

            “I’ve saw Doctor on television.  He should have stayed with healing.”

            Rising, Fleming said,  “The healing kept us in a tent.  Come, let's have some tea.”

            On opposing sides of the black oak entry door, stood large clay pots, one fired porcelain white, and the other plain brown mud.  “This is new,” she said of the brass placket mounted at eye level.

            “Yes,” he opened the door for her, “Doctor’s credo.”

            “Refinement.  I think I hate that word.”

            “It’s God's word.”

            “Don't talk to me about God’s words,” she said.  “These past few weeks, they have been bouncing around in my head like so many extra marbles on a Chinese checker board.”

            Fleming smiled in his heart; confident her reconciliation with God had already begun.  He led her along the wide, window-lined hallway, the rose garden on the left, the portraits on the right.  “I've prayed for you every day,” he stopped at the family portrait. 

            Seeing the portrait, Nirvana’s eyes were drawn to the ugly little green face on Jeremiah’s amulet.  Seeing it clearly for a split second, she felt an icy shiver vault into her core.  She jerked around to face the rose garden, running, in her mind, scrambling on her hands and knees, along the secret path between the rose bushes that led to the center of the rose garden.  It was her place to hide, her secret place, where no one ever found her. 

            Fleming basked before the portrait, praying his thanks that the family would finally be together again.  He turned her toward the portrait, his arm around her shoulder.  “I remember the day Jeremiah was awarded that medal like it was yesterday.  The ceremony was Doctor's proudest moment.” Fleming was smug in self-satisfaction, until he noticed for the ten thousandth time, Jeremiah’s amulet.  The green jade face was laughing a mean smirk and it caused Fleming to feel a slight tinge of guilt.  He ignored it and chose to bask in his pride, although in his heart, Fleming was aware that the Mexico University award ceremony, this pinnacle of family pride, was the last happy moment the family had ever enjoyed.  It was if the pride had brought them nothing but grief, and the little stone face seemed to know it. 

            Nirvana pondered a fog that she had ignored for many years.  This was a place she didn’t want to be, a place she didn’t want to think about, a place best left in the fog, like the grave yard. 

            “Jeremiah is coming home today,” Fleming was saying, “He's cured at last.  Doctor is going to retrieve him.”

            “Jeri?” Nirvana touched her forehead, “Cured at last?” She remembered the triumphant victory song from the tent revivals, Cured at last!  Cured at last! Holy Jesus, has come down and touched me, the Holy Spirit has filled me, I’m cured at last, cured at last, cured at last.  Innocently, she said, “Doctor also said ‘that God heals and the medical doctor submits his invoice.’  Did Doctor pray over him?”

            The surprise was absolute.  Fleming felt as if he had been hit with a solid right.  He stammered, “I don’t recall that we ever considered praying over Jeremiah.  He’s been institutionalized, for his temper, and, ah, other problems.” Confusion overwhelmed him as the dimensions of the blatant faux pas became apparent. 

            Nirvana stared coolly at the amulet.  “Who cured him then?”

            Fleming thrust, “Just this past month, a Catholic priest, named Michael Flynn, spent a week with him.”

            Nirvana parried, “Doctor used to preach, that all the Catholics, were all going to hell.”

            Fleming commented, defensively, “We had nothing to lose.  In any case, it has been three weeks already, and the only peculiarities presently exhibited by Jeremiah, relate to his fecund exposure to Catholicism.  Michael Flynn, the priest, has promised me a letter, when he’s up to it.  But it’s the conclusion of all, that Jeremiah is well.”

            “Jeremiah is well?”  Nirvana flung Fleming’s hand off her shoulder. She spit the words into his face, “When I hear his name, I feel filthy!  Jeri will never be well.  How can he be?  No one understands how sick he really is.”

            Fleming was too surprised to comprehend.  “But he is cured.  He'll be coming home to take his place at Doctor's side.  It’s a blessed event.”

            She turned away, supremely confused.  Jeri was a blank, a stranger on a painting.  She remembered the necklace with the little green face, and that he had a pet snake, but nothing else.  She thought aloud, “I was not happy here.  In fact, I made myself forget this place.  I would be happier in a tent.”

            Fleming felt the ground under his feet firm up.  He preached, “You are not the first to yearn for the idyllic life.  We all felt the same urge to meliorate our lives, and fell victim to life’s troubles and work.”

            Nirvana faced him and thrust a finger into his face, “Why not just live?” 

            Fleming spoke softly, slowly, hoping to defuse some of the anger, “Because God gives us talents to use for His glory.  It’s His will that, we go into the vineyard, for the harvest.  And it’s His will that we don't bury our talents.”

            Nirvanas’ finger wagged, “Ah, by your own words, then, Doctor is a hypocrite, who buried his God given talents in favor of television and his stupid expeditions.”

            “Nirvana, your mother prayed her last breath for the success of your father's ministry.”

            Rage consumed her.  “Don’t bring my mother into this,” she hissed, “and don’t ever, ever, speak of her in the same sentence in which you refer to Doctor.” Fighting the tears, she said,  “He never cried for her, not even once.  He used to take me to her grave, just to lay on a guilt trip.”

            Fleming stalled, then recovered himself with hardly a pause, “Nirvana, you grew up in luxury, but up to the moment of your birth, your father was penniless.  Before the war, we spent more time eking out our subsistence, even boxing for the prize money, than healing.  We worked the South in a rusted out old pickup, towing a homemade trailer.  We’d find a wide spot in the road and put out the signs.  There were times Doctor healed a whole tent full, and yet the collection plate wouldn’t buy us supper.  Your mother, Doctor, little Jeremiah and I, we saw some tough times, before you were born.  I know you must have suffered, growing up without a mother, your father gone much of the time, but you have to get on with it.”

            “That is easy for you to say,” she injected.

            Fleming schooled, “No, it is not easy for me to say.  I wasted my youth hating people whose names I never knew.  I speak from experience: until you forgive, there can be no healing: until you heal, there can be no growth: until you learn to trust God’s will, you will suffer alone.”

            Shut up, please, just shut up, she begged silently.

            Fleming schooled, “Someday, I'll tell you why I never had any children, but for now, suffice it to say, your father lives every breath to serve God.”

            “God!” she shrieked, “Get out of my head.” She pushed Fleming away, her expression a waxen image.  She felt used.  She wanted to say, I came for sympathy, not preaching.  I need a hug, not a sermon. She verily shook as she spoke, “Do not speak to me of God ever again, or someday, I will go into Doctor’s television church, I will go before his television god and I will show him up for the hypocrite money changer that he is.”

Nirvana turned away, instantly sorry she had hurt Fleming, and absolutely, totally confused by her own actions and she left without looking back. 

            Fleming called after her, “Come back to the Lord: what happened is past; think of your future.  Life is a split second in comparison to eternity.”

            “I warned you,” she told her rear view mirror as she drove away.  And at that moment, she decided to get even for all the suffering Doctor had her put though.  She took her example from the Bible story about Christ over turning the moneychangers tables that fronted the old temple, in Jerusalem.  She decided to over turn Father’s money changing table.

 

 

b

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Six

Up-setting the money changers tables

 

 

The same day of Mike’s funeral, in the evening, Torrey Pines University police Detective Goldman, observed the service lot behind Stampell Hall, with seething hostility.  Using a eucalyptus tree, to steady his ornate, opera-style binoculars, the tweed coated police detective focused on the oddly out-of-place group.  The parking area was inundated with dozens of religious types, assembled in groups according to their costume.  There were Buddhist monks, Hindus, Muslims, a Rabbi, even an Uncle Sam.  They had arrived in a charter bus an hour earlier.  A woman, apparently in charge, was coaching them to chant, one group at a time. 

            Detective Goldman fidgeted with the revolver in his shoulder holster, not quite sure of what, if, anything, he should do.  There were far too many of them to arrest, and time was short: Dr. Stampell’s televised crusade would start within minutes.  Adding to Goldman’s confusion, one of the bus drivers had showed a billing invoice that indicated Stampell’s Worldwide Ministries had hired the buses: if, the ministry had hired the buses, then it followed that the ministry had also hired the odd-balls: these monks who were pissing in the bushes; These Hare Krishna’s who were passing around marijuana joints; These turbaned blacks who were sharing bottles of whiskey; the suspicious Rabbi, standing off to the side, with the equally out-of-place man in Uncle Sam costume.  Goldman knew something wasn’t right. 

            The woman in charge was my future wife, Nirvana.  On her signal, the man in Uncle Sam costume entered Stampell Hall.  Detective Goldman followed and watched as the well-worn figure took up a position on the stage near the American flag.  Goldman glanced about the auditorium for any sign of trouble; crusade patrons were filing in; the television broadcast crew was hurriedly rushing the last of their setup.  Dr. Stampell would be arriving any minute.  Detective Goldman approached the Uncle Sam, and presented his identification.   Detective Goldman demanded, “What are you doing here?”

            Without shifting from military attention, the Uncle Sam grumbled, while staring straight ahead, “I’m standing where I was told to stand.  I ain’t working for you.  Leave me alone.” His breath reeked of liquor.

            “We’ll soon see, who you are working for,” Detective Goldman left him.  A small bus was arriving, parking along side the open side door of the hall as Goldman exited.  It disgorged twelve young people, Dr. Stampell’s ‘student archaeologists.’  One group had just returned from Turkey.  The second group was prepared to leave for Egypt this evening. 

            Goldman turned his attention to the weirdoes: The woman was gone and her troops appeared ready to march.  Detective Goldman hurried to the front of the hall where Dr. Stampell was arriving.

            Young Yee was opening the black Cadillac limousine door as Detective Goldman rounded the corner at the front of the building, his hand on his pistol butt, just in case.  Dr. Stampell was the first to emerge, tall and fit, his shoulder length hair flowing like a silver mane over the collar of his trademark black tuxedo.  He waved to the people around him.  A second man, exited the Cadillac, medium height, rail thin, and milk white.  Detective Goldman thought, Dr. Stampell’s son, Jeremiah.  They entered the hall without incident.  Fleming was the last one out of the Cadillac.  Detective Goldman intercepted him and explained about the odd collection of people behind the building. 

            “Not to worry,” Fleming told him.  “What happens here is God’s will,” and he left the detective flabbergasted. 

            Lance Linecka, one of the student archeologists bound for Egypt, watched as Dr. Stampell entered.  “That must be the son,” Lance said to no one in particular.  “His name is Jeremiah.”

            From his seat, two over from Lance, Morris Knutson commented casually, “He's been in the nut house.”

            Knutson was one of the divers from Berkeley.  Lance had met him at the expedition orientation and didn’t like him for a dozen reasons.  He was twenty-one, in perfect shape, and out weighed Lance by forty pounds.  “That's not true,” Lance said under his breath.

            The public address system rumbled, “Ladies and Gentlemen, stand and welcome, Doctor Stampell, back from the rugged wilds of Mount Ararat, in ancient Turkey.” A standing ovation followed.

            Doctor Stampell walked victoriously to the podium, his black tuxedo pristine.  He wore his long silver gray hair swept back from his high, bronze colored forehead.  Holding a tattered Bible high, he reveled for several moments in the ovation.  “Praise God,” he said loudly, his commanding baritone galvanizing the excited faithful into shouts of praise.  He said, “In the beginning, God created the firmament.  And above the firmament, God created the waters.”

Lance told Knutson, “The waters above he's talking about, were in the ionosphere, high above the earth.  It made the whole earth like a giant green house.”

            Knutson said, “Yeah, right, and he’s really got a piece of Noah's Ark.”

            Lance held his rage in check, “Tell me how come they are finding frozen Woolly Mammoths in Alaska and Siberia, chewing on tropical plant fragments?  You see, the poles froze when the waters from the heavens fell for the first time.”

            Knutson said, “I’m going on this deal for the class credits.  But, I don’t have to believe it.”

             Doctor Stampell was saying, “clues left for us, by a loving God who understands the insatiable nature of the intellect He has given us.  I thank God, for this ancient fragment of gopher wood, collected from high upon Mount Ararat, in the Republic of Turkey, by these blessed, God loving young people, we are privileged to have here tonight,” he gestured toward the left half of the front seating section.  The dozen student archaeologists, who had just returned from Turkey, waved their hands and smiled toward the television cameras.  Applause broke out and a few of them stood. 

            Doctor Stampell waited a full minute.  “These young men and women, excavated the glacier ice pack of Mount Ararat, with picks and axes, with backs that were aching, with the sweat of their brows burning their eyes.  They chipped away the ice, until at last, we were rewarded with this hand hewn relic of old that I hold before you this evening.” He passed a book-sized bit of board over his head and presented it at arm's length to the nearest television camera. 

            Doctor Stampell glowed, “I know in my heart many of you will hear God's message this evening and will find your faith in Almighty God reinforced through science applied to Holy Scripture.  Let us pray, for the success of this ministry.”

            Nirvana Stampell, my future wife, rose from her seat near the stage.  Her rage was subdued, her energy having been diverted to the planning necessary to execute this moment.  She had prepared well, had practiced what she was going to say.  Her extras were reasonably well rehearsed.  She hadn’t come to preach: She had come to show the world a charlatan.  Rising to challenge Doctor, it was a sudden surge of pride at seeing him, proud in God’s work, sincere in his message, that caught her off guard and left her speechless. 

            Lance whispered cautiously, “That’s the lady from the parking lot.”

            Doctor Stampell saw her instantly.  His eye contact was eagle sharp, laser intense and bore through the woman shield of Nirvana to the little girl core in half a heartbeat.  With all his being he loved her and wanted to hug her, but the pride that kept his back straight, was bolting through him, freezing him in place.  She had run away from him and she could damn well come back to him.  Nirvana tacitly understood and felt herself floored with just his glance.  She called meekly, “Father.”

            Morris Knutson exclaimed, “That must be the daughter!”

            Jeremiah Stampell stood on the stage.  He crossed himself.  “Vanna?  Is it you?”  His knees buckled as he fell into a prayer of thanks. 

            Two of Goldman’s student security guards started towards her, but halted when Dr. Stampell raised his hand.  “Praise, God, I know that voice,” Dr. Stampell announced to the world.  He motioned her to come forward, “You are seeing prayer answered as I speak.  This is my daughter.”

            Nirvana felt the spell break.  Doctor was trying to draw her into his television world.  The spasms of rage that had driven her for the past day, the wrath she had been saving, the pent-up fury for all those childhood trips to her mother’s grave, when he hadn’t shed a single tear, boiled up from her stomach.  She wanted to retch in his face.  Nirvana Stampell spit out the words that had been bouncing around in her head, “You money grubbing hypocrite. You are the unfaithful servant who has buried his talents!  Admit to the world, the only thing you hold sacred, is the television camera!”

            Maitland Stampell was too surprised to speak. 

            Nirvana was enraged, “Religion before God, is kindness to the orphans, not television productions.  By grace are ye saved: grace freely given by Christ: not by works, or by testing for the sake of refinement.”

            Doctor Maitland Stampell stated sternly, “Refinement is from God.”

            “Which god?” Nirvana hinted a victorious smile, “Your god, Doctor Stampell?  The television god?”  She waved her hand to the Uncle Sam character that had been standing unobtrusively at the side of the stage.  He stepped smartly toward center stage and threw down his knapsack.  It slid a few feet, then, burst open.  Startled, the gentle people seated on the stage dove for the floor.  Before them, a fast inflating, three ported blowup sex doll rose proudly to her naked glory, holding a toy rifle in one hand and a fist full of money in the other.  Uncle Sam prayed to the doll. 

            Morris Knutson laughed out loud, “That’s rich.  I like her.”

            Nirvana Stampell said, “This is the television god, Doctor Stampell.”

            Doctor Stampell said prayerfully, “God loves you.”

            Nirvana Stampell cackled, “Another god then?  Which god?”  She signaled the back of the chamber.  The doors of the auditorium burst open and in charged the groups of the strangely dressed people from the parking lot.  Shouting as Nirvana had taught them, waving placards, they surged toward the stage. 

            White frocked Shi'eit Muslims marched down the right isle, shouting “Ala Ackbar, Ala Ackbar,” while waving posters of a bearded, turbaned cleric.  A procession of Buddhists followed the Shi’eits, carrying before them an enormous gold painted plaster statue of the enlightened one.  Hindus and Hare Krishna’s swarmed down the center isle, chanting something unintelligible in musical unison.  Behind them, a lone Rabbi strolled, reading from his prayer book. 

            Down the left aisle poured in a cadre of angry black men, white frocked like the Shi’eit Muslims, but wearing flat topped hats.  Morris Knutson tried not to sound too happy.  “Those are Black Muslims.  There could be trouble.”

            The Black Muslims ran to the stage, screaming angrily, their faces etched with hate.  The first of them yelled point blank into Dr. Stampell’s face, “I seen you on the TV.  You ain’t for the poor folks.” He grabbed the microphone from the surprised Dr. Stampell and told the camera, “Just for once, tell all them rich white people to give some money to us.”

            Nirvana Stampell shouted at Dr. Stampell, “I give you the religions of the world.  Which god should we pray to, the television god, or one of these others?” 

            Doctor Stampell turned away from Nirvana, grabbed the wrist of the big black man and with sheer strength drew the microphone to his own lips.  “God forgives you all,” he prayed precisely to the black man.  “God loves you.  Praise God for your rage.  Thank God for your anger and applaud God for your strength.  Then come with me and be a soldier for the Lord.”

            Wrestling unsuccessfully to break Stampell's grip on the microphone, the black's expression changed in an instant from quiet determination to a snarling anger.  He swung a wild left hook toward the doctor, who avoided it by simply leaning back slightly and turning his jaw away as the fist passed harmlessly by. 

            Over extended and twisted around himself, the black man straightened up and angrily flung loose of his grip on the microphone.  Stepping back, he assumed a boxer’s stalking pose and attacked in the same instant; a left jab; a right cross. 

            Dr. Stampell jerked his head back to avoid the jab, and he shirked the cross by simply turning his jaw from the punch, at the last second.  The black's second hook was lower: a slashing, devastating, lung cashiering stone hard trump into Stampell's kidney.  An instant later, the black staggered him with a smashing right to the side of his face.  Stampell wavered, but held his ground, his chin jutting, “God loves you,” he said.

            The black hammered him to the floor and began screaming into the glassy eye of the nearest television camera.  “I da' man now.  Send, da' money to me.  Send the money to Washington Carver.”

            The young men, who had just returned from Turkey, leaped to their feet.  They tried to gain the stage to help Dr. Stampell, but were prevented by the sheer numbers of religious demonstrators blocking their path. 

            Jeremiah Stampell grabbed at Washington Carver’s arm, wrestling for control of the microphone.  The big black man backhanded and elbowed him to the floor.  Jeremiah quaked uncontrollably a few seconds and then lay still. 

            Fleming crossed the stage in a brisk walk.  Squaring with Washington Carver, he faked a right jab and when Carver’s expected left fired a split second later, Fleming hooked the wrist from the inside with his right fist, opening up a shot for his left, which had launched low, from behind his waist, half a second after the right.  Washington Carver never saw it coming.  The large bony knuckles of Fleming’s fist came across Carver’s lower jaw from left field and he was out cold, even before he had dropped to floor. 

            Fleming shouted, “Students, get to your buses.” He leaped from the stage to Nirvana’s side.  He begged her, “What did you hope to accomplish?”  Nirvana stood before him, her mouth agape.  Fleming shook her shoulders and brought her back to the moment. 

            She shrieked, “Accomplish?  Nothing!  I wasn’t trying to accomplish anything at all.  I was trying to keep my head from exploding.  I’ve got all this crap in my head!  I’ve got this big old jaw trap waiting to squash me.  My heart wants to scream at the whole world.  What the hell is wrong with me?”

            “If you are angry with Doctor, tell him!  If you are mad at God, tell him, but don’t look to heal yourself with vengeance.”

            Nirvana said, “It wasn’t Doctor, was it?  It was God, wasn’t it?  God did something to me, something terrible.”

            Fleming pleaded, “Nirvana, you can’t fight God!  God is in you!  You are fighting yourself!  Get the bitterness out of your heart and get on with life!”

            Nirvana shouted into his face, “What life?  Tell me what disaster befell me, that was so terrible, that it caused me to want to forget everything?”  

            Fleming said woefully, “I don’t know!  We never knew!”

            On the stage, one of those from the Black Muslim group menacingly drew out a long knife with murder in his eye.  One from the Shi’eit Muslim group, who also had a knife, answered his challenge.  In a heartbeat, they charged one another, their knives high and ready to strike. 

            The Rabbi was standing at center stage, reading from his prayer book.  Caught between them, the Rabbi was felled by twin knife strokes, from opposite directions at the same instant.  The purveyors of death, who struck him, then whooped happily, and ran from auditorium. 

            Nirvana was astonished, “They were just supposed to chant.”

            Seeing it and not understanding, but ever trusting in God’s will, Fleming had to salvage what he could from this turn of events.  “You must leave,” he told her.  “Go now.  Our charter will be leaving from Montgomery Field.  Tell the pilot you are going in Doctor’s place.  Leave! Get on the bus.” He pushed her toward the door.

            Dr. Stampell was bleeding profusely from the nose and mouth, rocking on his knees and cradling the Rabbi.  He prayed incoherently, between intermittent jags of crying.  The Rabbi reached up and touched him on the cheek and Stampell leaned forward to hear the man speak as a television crewman thrust a microphone into range.  “It’s cool,” the Rabbi said, and he died. 

            On the stage, Washington Carver awoke, holding the microphone.  He quickly got to his feet.  “All you people,” he shouted at the television cameras, “saw what happened.  They don’t want no poor black man to have nothing.  But they don’t have no say over you.  You can send me the money.  Send it to Washington Carver, the Salvation Rescue Mission, San Diego.  This is one time the money will go to real poor people.  I am poor.  All my friends is poor. Send the money to me.”

            Detective Goldman burst onto the stage.  He thrust his identification into Carver’s face.  In his other hand, Detective Goldman held his weapon.  A television crewman crowded in with a microphone.  “You're under arrest, dirt bag.” Detective Goldman snarled.

            Washington Carver glanced at the detective, as if, appraising him seriously.  Cameraman Three, on the auditorium floor, focused his camera carefully, past Dr. Stampell, past Goldman, to the face of Washington Carver.  The camera caught the pensive hint in the quickly gentling brown eyes.  The frenzy momentarily abated.  The large nostrils flared.  The sweat beads on the forehead broke and ran like tiny rivulets down to his chin, where they seemed to hang.  Detective Goldman’s gun was under Washington Carver’s jaw, rock-steady, the hammer back.  Detective Goldman pocketed his badge and reached for the microphone. 

            Washington Carver’s soft brown eyes sharpened as he rolled his head slowly to the right, away from the gun.  Then suddenly, his left hand lashed out in a chopping motion toward the under side of Goldman's wrist.  The virgin weapon exploded, sending the bullet harmlessly through the ceiling.  Carver cocked his fist, held it a split second, and then hammered detective Goldman to the floor with a bone crunching right.  Glancing about, seeing the dead Rabbi, he told the television camera, “Them was on their own mission.”

            The sound of the gunshot ignited pandemonium in the auditorium.  People ran screaming toward the exits, trampling, clawing, and fighting to make their escape.  They ran headlong into Goldman’s student security officers who were charging in.  The several television cameramen fought them to hold their ground, struggling to capture the scene forever. 

            A security guard jerked Dr. Stampell to his feet.  “He's dead!  We have to get you out of here.”

            Dr. Stampell ordered, “We will need to pray for him.  We will need to call his family.  Get his name.”

            The guard hesitated and reluctantly investigated.   He said, “The Rabbi doesn't have a wallet, Doctor.”

            “Well then look in his prayer book.  We just need his name.”

            “It’s not a prayer book, Doctor.  It’s a pocket dictionary for lawyers, a legal one, with a black cover.” Looking up from a kneeling position, the security guard said, “Doctor, the Rabbi smells bad.  He needs a bath.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Seven

Serious Volunteers

 

 

 

Moments later, I was waiting in my airplane cockpit, at Montgomery field, when the headlights of the small-chartered bus came into view.  The driver was lost and he weaved through the rows of parked aircraft, his dim headlights barely lighting a safe path.  The bus stopped along side my plane and spilled its cargo of student archaeologists. 

            Exiting the bus quickly, the bus driver stacked suitcases on the tarmac, the sleeping bags and duffels, he threw.  The students grabbed up what they recognized and swarmed onto the plane.

            I switched on the cabin lights and met the charge at the door.  “Welcome aboard.  Personal gear, to the back, and don’t use the toilet, until wurr' airborne.”

            I took my seat in the cockpit and started the four engines one at a time.  As they each roared to life, I revved them a moment or two, at high throttle, and then idled them back, to a gentle, plane-rocking purr.

            Ortega Pinion introduced himself to me.  Dressed in tan safari khaki, he said, “Mind if I sit down?”

He sat down and I told him, “We're still waiting for Dr. Stampell.”

            Through the small cockpit windows, I nervously inspected the airport tarmac around the plane.  Lance one of the students, was looking carefully at me.  I was probably a little drunk.  My eyes were probably blood-shot and my shirt was wet from sweat, under my flight jacket.  Lance said, “Captain Dude, you okay?”

            I felt my stomach groan.  It had been a busy day; it had been two days since my last meal.  There hadn't been any choice: I had to guard the Goose.  I glanced back through the curtains that separated the cockpit from the cabin, to the excited, young faces and I felt old.  I told Lance, “I will be fine, when we get in the air.”

            A shapely young woman came forward.  Lance said, “Captain, this is Ashley Burbank.”

            She smiled for me, but she spoke to Lance, “How much longer?”

            Lance brazenly admired her cleavage.  “Those are beautiful pearls,” he chortled.  “Some girls would kill for those.”

            “Thank you,” she said, as her eyes stole a glance at me.

            I always held my cigar, a hand width in front of my face.  The bait she was dangling wasn't for me, and so I felt a peculiar immunity to her charms.  It took me only a second to realize I couldn't even remember the last woman I had been with.  At forty-five, I was tired of the game and perhaps she could sense it.

            Nirvana Stampell carried only a purse and a bottle.  As she carried them into the Goose, a beam from a set of car headlights crossed the seaplane.  The late-model hardtop was coming toward the haggard Goose, causing Nirvana Stampell to say “There! That's probably Dr. Stampell,” and she pointed.

            It wasn't possible to see the car's color in the darkness, and there wasn't a light bar on the roof, but the men in the front seat were wearing TV familiar Dick Tracy hats, and their silhouettes definitely suggested trench coats. 

            “Button that hatch,” I shouted as the engines screamed.  The seaplane lurched forward. 

            “Help me!” Nirvana ordered Lance. 

            The seaplane rolled toward the runway, bouncing across the uneven tarmac, gaining speed, pitching Nirvana and Lance from side to side, in the still open doorway.  Their eyes locked for a split second and they shared the recognition that there was a danger of falling out.  Together, they grabbed the unyielding door and pulled with all their might.  

            A wild right turn, and sudden bounce onto the runway, pitched them both toward the cockpit.  Nirvana found herself on the floor, flat on her back, between the pilot's seats.  I gave her a cursory glance.  “We can't get the door to close,” she told me.

            I groaned, “We've got other problems.”

            The car was cutting across the open field along side the runway, clipping off the stubby red and blue marker lights with abandon.  It bounced wildly onto the smooth runway and quickly accelerated.  Once in front of the goose, it began slowing, weaving back and forth across the runway.  Cursing, I reluctantly pulled back the throttles and slowed the plane to a halt.

            The car spun around, and came to a stop along side the open door.  Two very large men climbed out, and scrambled onto the hood of the car.  The driver was angrily waving a handful of papers.  “Hold it!  Don't you move, damn you!” he shouted as his partner boosted him into the Goose.  “Cary Stewart,” he sung out sarcastically, and tipped his Dick Tracy hat toward the cockpit.  “United Collections.”

            “Collections?” the word fell out of Nirvana's mouth. 

            I moved along side of Nirvana.  “I can handle this,” I told her around my cigar butt, “You move to the back.”

            I hadn't shaved in a week, and in the instant our eyes met, she knew it had been nearly as long since I had slept.  My flight jacket was completely worn out and she sensed that my Levi’s shone in the darkness.  She knew that I lacked a certain lack of respect for civilized custom.  I drank a little bit of Jim Beam, everyday, but I was not a falling down drunk, even back then.  “You are certainly my father's sort of man,” she told me quietly.  She stepped around, the over-sized man who occupied the space near the doorway. 

            “Even'n, Mr. Stewart,” I told him.  “I still got your money, right here.  Two payments in advance, plus, enough to cover a whole year’s insurance.  The same offer I made you this morning.  Less the new tires, of course.”

            “Money!” Cary Stewart  snorted.  “I don't want your damn money!”  He checked his wristwatch.  “This is my airplane in nineteen more hours, at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.  You ain’t going anywhere, you raggedy ass sonofabitch.”

            “This is a Christian expedition,” Morris Knutson called.  “We have no need of your foul vernacular.”

            I said, “Come on Stewart.  You don't want my ship,” I was trying to be conciliatory.  I pulled a bulging envelope from my jacket.  “Just take your money.”

             Stewart stared at the envelope, his tongue passing along his upper lip, his hand quivering to grab it.  He wiped the hand across his mouth.  “Face it, mister, raggedy ass sonofabitch,” he glanced down the passageway, to the confused and frightened young faces staring at him, “you fouled out big time, when you started messing with me.”

              Cary Stewart 's partner reached, “Take the money.  The boss will hang our asses if, he finds out we turned down an offer like that.”

             Stewart kicked his partner's hand away.  “We didn't come to collect.  We came to repossess.  This plane was ours two months ago.  Then this asshole pulls this crap of moving in.”

              Cary Stewart spread his arms and asked the passengers, “You want people moving into their cars so we can't repossess them?  You want to have ta' evict people out'ta their TV sets?  This asshole, don't get away with this,” he said, slamming a fist into his palm, his voice quivering with rage.  “He's lucky I leave him his jockey shorts.”

I barked, “I made you a reasonable offer.  You refused.  Now get out.”

            “Get out?” Stewart appeared calm.  He spoke to the handful of papers.  “Judgment; Writ of execution; Writ for possession; Three day notice; Eviction notice; Order to vacate.  This flight is over, Fly-boy.” He grabbed at me to throw me through the doorway, but I jerked a black leathered flight glove right up under Stewart's chin, and followed it with a hay maker left, knocking the surprised collection agent hard against the bulkhead.  The passengers howled. 

            I growled, “My holding tank is full, or I'd stuff you in it.”

            “Use the shive,” called red bearded Gutshank, who was ‘filling in’ for the red bearded, overly large Missouri Stenson. 

             Stewart sneered a toothy smile and tossed the papers, like a gauntlet like, at my feet.  “I'll show you the inside of a holding tank.” He spit his dentures into his hand, pocketed them and slapped a backhand left in my direction, followed by a low kick to my groin.  I keeled over.  “Welcome to the collection business,” Stewart laughed.  He looked victoriously at the youngish passengers and basked proudly in the fear he saw in their fresh faces before he moved in to finish me off.  He jerked me to my feet and quickly hammered me a couple of times: quick, inside shots to the head.  As I folded, Stewart kneed me in the face to put me away. 

            “Raggedly ass sonofabitch,” Stewart told those near him.  “Old worn out coat, trashy blue work clothes all the time.  He’s got no style.” Stewart hooked his thumb in the lapel of his sport jacket, which hinted the shininess of silk under the open trench coat.

            Nirvana Stampell felt the anger surge inside her.  The fight wasn't fair.  The bill collector out weighed me by at least fifty pounds and was obviously a trained fighter.  Besides, she had to get out of town now, not later.  Moving deliberately, Nirvana stomped hard on Cary Stewart’s foot, with her spiked high heel. 

              Cary Stewart screamed and grabbed his-foot with both hands, dancing crazily on one-foot.  “You little bitch,” he caught his balance, then slammed Nirvana with one arm against the bulkhead.  He held her throat with a forearm, his sore-foot with the other hand.  “I'm here on ah' matter ah' law, lady.”

            The large sized black man, Theodore Truddle, gritted his teeth and stood.  “It’s fightin' and preachin' that always gets me in trouble.” He spun Cary Stewart around and launched him against the opposite bulkhead of the airplane, where he landed with all the grace of a sack of rotten potatoes thrown to the hogs.  The impact rattled the old Boeing.  Truddle growled, “Round where I cum' frum, da' men folk, don't put `dey hands to lay`dies, much less curse em', less'n, th'are' th'ar wives.”

              Cary Stewart pushed himself up.  He snarled, “Around here, we mind our own business.”

            I staggered to my feet, blood dripping, from my month and nose.  I squared with  Stewart, and methodically pulled a rolled up sweat sock from my flying jacket pocket and snapped it out straight.  The toe of the sock was weighted with a stone hard bar of Lava soap.  Swinging it full circle, I caught the side of Cary Stewart's jaw with the weighted toe of the sock.  A second later, I directed another devastating blow, which slammed into the side of Cary Stewart's head, sending him to the floor.

            Theodore Truddle leaped over Cary Stewart and pushed me back, into the bulk head, shouting, “Yu' gots’ him down.  Yu' hit him when he iz’ down, dey' law call dat' mayhem.”

             I studied Theodore Truddle a few seconds and said, “It’s over,” and I grabbed one of Cary Stewart's feet and rolled him over backwards, and out the door.  Cary Stewart crashed on top of his partner and together they fell haphazardly to the pavement.  I yelled, “You stay the hell outta’ my airplane.”

              Cary Stewart came to, screaming, “Fine, asshole, but you ain't leaving.  You try moving this crate, and I'll crash it with my car.”

            I shouted, “You crazy bastard!” I pulled a .357 Colt from my shoulder holster and snapped a shot at the automobile engine compartment, as Cary Stewart and his partner dove for protection.  The airplane passengers screamed in unison as the .357 Colt exploded again. 

            “I'll get you for this,” Cary Stewart shouted from his hiding place behind the Chevrolet.  “This whole world ain't big enough.  Next time, I leave you nothin' but your jockey shorts.”

I watched them for a full minute, snarling under my breath, while the blood dripped from my battered face.  I waved Stewart off with an up raised finger, picked up my cigar butt and I grumbled, “I tried to pay him yesterday,” and then, I pulled the door shut.  I staggered back to the cockpit.  Within seconds, the seaplane was lifting off amid the cheers of the passengers.  I circled the lumbering seabird above the city lights, my jaw set firmly clenched on my cigar butt, my eyes drilled into the space, the blood still dripping from my nose and lips.

Ortega Pinion was in the copilot’s seat.  “Everything all right?” he asked.

            My teeth hardly parted, “I'll show that sonofabitch the inside of a holding tank.”

            “No problem,” Ortega didn't want to rattle me any worse then I already was. 

            My far away stare came into focus.  “I've thought enough.” I quickly took in the city below the airplane. 

            “Excellent!” Ortega was glad that I seemed to be snapping out of it.

            I banked the seaplane left, toward the black Pacific.  “We have a necessary detour and then we'll get under way.” Throttling back, I grunted,  “I tried to pay that jerk yesterday,” The airplane began a gentle glide down to the intersecting freeways below the landmark Mount Soledad; gradually losing airspeed, on a course that seemed to indicate a freeway landing was about to be attempted. 

            “Are we in trouble?” Ortega ventured.

            I told  him, “Nope.  This plane can fly at sixty knots.”

            I leveled the seaplane off at two-hundred-foot elevation.  Shrieks from the passenger cabin indicated they had noticed the unscheduled low altitude maneuver.  “It’s okay,” I yelled over my shoulder.  I smiled at Ortega, “Highway fifty-two, east bound, right on Genesee.”

            “I know you wouldn’t be ambiguous  or disingenuous, but, are we all right?” Ortega worried.           The house crested canyon walls on either side of the freeway were above the plane.  I was busy, turning off the running and cabin lights, cranking down the landing flaps, lowering the landing gear.  We weren't flying much faster than the traffic below us, Ortega realized, and we were still slowing.  “Captain?” Ortega said, “mind if I ask what's happening?”

            Just then, I flinched, as if I had been struck with an electric shock.  I jammed the controls hard into the instrument panel, sending the seaplane nose-diving into the busy freeway traffic.  Screams and the commotion of flying bodies erupted from the passenger cabin.  Ortega was thrown forward and smashed into the instrument panel.

            Someone from the passenger cabin called out an alcoholic slurred, “Oh-lay!” A red light flashed just above the cockpit, and Ortega and I, felt a tremendous rush of realization, that another plane, or something, had nearly collided with our darkened bird.  Next to me, Ortega saw me, tight mouthed, and struggling to pull back the controls.  Only the bulging of my eyes belayed how desperately I was fighting.  Otherwise, I was calm.  The plane lurched violently, bounced upward and then dropped again. 

            Ortega pushed himself away from the dash.  His lip was bleeding and his forehead had been bumped.  Looking out, he saw the backend of an eighteen-wheel semi-truck, shining in the darkness.  He said to me, “Whoa, look out for that truck!”

            I banked the seaplane to the right, following precisely an exit ramp off the 52 eastbound free-way.  There was a moment’s respite as the plane followed the road up the hill, and straight into a residential section.  “Left,” I said, flying the Boeing only twenty foot above the street lights, “and right there,” I said with satisfaction.  My gaze was fixed at the end of a long, quiet cul-de-sac.  “Bombs away,” I said ceremoniously, pulling back on the handle that opened the fire-retardant chemical tank.  The seaplane lurched upward as the 1,000 gallon holding tank emptied its rancid contents on the house at the end of the street.

            Nirvana Stampell was watching intently, at the rear of the cockpit.  She said, directly to me, fearfully, “You’re going to piss Cary Stewart off.  You can’t win a pissing contest, with a skunk.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Eight

The Faithful

 

 

Half the world away, Yusuf, a Sudan man of Nubian extraction, awoke to the complainant braying of his donkey.  Emerging from his meager tent, with a spear in hand, to probe the pre-dawn black of the Egyptian desert, he found the donkey’s tether and moved it twenty paces to better graze. 

            The camp bordered a tiny spring that trickled from the rock base of Mount Jabal.  On the other side of the thin ribbon of water, Yusuf observed the old goat-herder, was already preparing his morning meal, over a dim fire.  The old goat-herder’s oversize bull mastiff, sheepdog, stood at his side, guarding the small flock that clustered at the edge of the dark around the campfire.  The old goat-herder, had presented a gift to Yusuf’s family, one of his lambs, to Binti.  Yusuf felt a slight tinge of guilt.  Yusuf didn’t even know the old man’s name.  He wondered about the old man’s children.  Maybe he didn’t have any children.  Yusuf considered the thought for a moment.  A flock, so frivolously given away, would soon be gone.  Perhaps the old man had a wife.  What would he tell her?  Maybe he would tell her, the lamb had been burnt.  Yusuf smiled.  Maybe, he would tell her, the lamb had spoiled.  A shy smile, creep back across Yusuf’s face.  Or the old man, would say the lamb, had been eaten by the cat.  Yusuf appreciated the lamb, even if he had let his mind wander.  The lamb, was by far, the most extravagant gift, Yusuf had ever received. 

,            The track they were traveling on, was the little used route, once preferred by ancient invaders, a stony trail created in the millennium that preceded the Pharaohs, moving from oasis to oasis.  It was a timeless, endless landscape of stone and sand, and it was not the shortest route to Cairo, but there were water holes. 

            Yusuf roused Reha his wife, Reha, then, awoke their crippled daughter, Binti, age nine.  While Reha cared for the infant and the other child, one two years, one six, Yusuf helped Binti to eat, helped her with her toilet, and washed her in the stream. 

            His wife, Reha, called Binti, ‘Our gift from God, entrusted to us, for His glory.’  It was Reha’s plan to place Binti, before the famous American, Doctor Maitland Stampell, a disciple of the prophet Jesus, to be healed.  To further her plan, Reha fasted during the daylight hours, held a crucifix, prayed on her paternoster beads, and didn’t speak, all sacrifices for the healing of Binti. 

            Yusuf didn’t understand these beliefs, but he didn’t complain, in compliance with the Koran passage that commanded, ahlul-kitaab, “Respect the beliefs, of the people of the book.” Yusuf was a Muslim, and he believed, that God issued edicts to be obeyed, not books to be argued over.  Yusuf was satisfied with his lot, for as the Koran schooled, “God has placed on no man, no burden, too heavy to be borne.”

            Yusuf accepted Binti, as she was, crippled, blind, deaf, because this was the way God, wished her to be.  Yusuf believed in his heart, if God wanted to heal Binti, God would will it, and Binti would be healed, whether they traveled to Cairo, or not.  Christians, like his wife, Reha, were always looking for some way to change the order of things, and were they constantly arguing, about the meaning of the book.  Christians, Yusuf thought, were confused.  Religion was simply faith, without argument. 

            As he squatted to eat his own cold breakfast, three trucks came into the oasis, and stopped with their headlights illuminating the old goat-herder.  Men and dogs came from the trucks.  A shot rang out and the old goat-herder fell dead in the water.  A stones throw away, in the darkness, Yusuf quickly pulled his cart to cover behind some bushes.  He silently retrieved the donkey, struck his tent, and hurried his family away, as the first gray light of dawn came cascading over the horizon from the East. 

            An hour later, the trucks passed, in a great cloud of dust, loaded with the dead man’s sheep and pursued by his oversize sheepdog.  Yusuf’s donkey panicked, the cart lurched, and the crippled little girl Binti, tumbled to the ground, a cry escaping from her lips.  Yusuf leaped from the cart and scooped her up, “Binti, Binti, sa grulbintiljamilu.” He kissed her away her tears.  Climbing aboard the cart, he handed Binti to his wife, who prayed over the child in the English, of her cleric, “Jesus love Binti.  She is our gift from God. Entrusted to us, for His glory.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Nine

Our Fathers

 

 

Nirvana Stampell’s hands shook so badly, she could hardly open the Southern Comfort whiskey, she had brought aboard the Goose.  Once she had it opened, she drew the sweet, warm fire from the bottle, in deep, reality snuffing gasps, until it flooded her exhausted senses.  Nirvana was exhausted, from the day’s work she had been doing, to upset Doctor’s money changing tables.

            Ashley Burbank was in the seat next to Nirvana when she awoke two hours later.  “I do hope you don't mind,” her drawl smacked of someplace east of Texas and too much alcohol, “but I admit to sampling your liquor.”

            Nirvana liked her instantly, the tone of the confession, the warmth of the smile, the friendship offered, with no strings attached.  She said, “Call me Vanna and I don't mind.”

            “Pleased to meet you.  I'm Ashley.”  She poured Southern Comfort, into a paper cup.  “Down home, this would be considered outrageous,” she handed the cup to Nirvana.  “My lands, wouldn't they all jus' carry on.”  She flapped a hand about, “Daddy says, ‘Liquor will make you friends, whose names you can’t remember’.  Are you going to be one of those?”

            Nirvana schooled, “Well, you tell him for me, there's nothing so absolutely abandoned in this whole world as a perfectly sober woman.”

            “Ah!” The hand became an attack butterfly.  “You speak of my Auntie Eileen, a spiteful, horrid old maid, perfectly miserable.  She spends her days, bathing in self-righteousness, and her nights spying on us sinners.”

            Nirvana sipped from her cup, “Well, like all other sinners, we’ll sleep good tonight.”

            “To us sinners,” Ashley toasted her. 

            Nirvana asked tentatively, “How did you come to be here?”  

            “It’s all my Daddy's fault,” Ashley said.  “Limestone, from where we Burbanks hail, ain't but ah' a little ol’ nothing.  And, on account of that, there was this sentiment going around, to participate in one of those student exchange programs.  The enticement being, this only child’s supposed benefit to be gained from exposure to her more worldly peers. 

Daddy decided it would be much safer to bring a young lady of quality, down home to Limestone, rather then to have his only daughter shipped off to the wilds of the world. 

Well, of course, the reputation of the English and the French let them off without a moment’s consideration.  And naturally, we Burbank's couldn't have no communists, or Germans, and no colored, so that precluded all those countries lying in the latitudes South of Georgia, and Italy and Spain, as well.”

            “I see,” Nirvana swallowed her giggles.

            Ashley said quite seriously, “With those criteria established, we ended up, with two young ladies out from Los Angeles, California.”

            “Ah huh,” Nirvana poured herself a bit more of the Southern Comfort.

            “Well, just imagine my daddy’s disappointment, when he discovered the city of angels, wasn't anything aw' taul as advertised.  Rishel and Kelly, spirited as fresh colts, just went out, and tried every young man that come around, including some football players, and half the band and Pastor Gilbert's oldest. 

            There was so much to tell, Auntie Eileen, nearly choked on gossip.  Why, if she had her way, I'd have been only the second forty-year old virgin ever produced by the state of Georgia. 

Daddy packed them for home after the second week.” Ashley sipped.  “And to answer your question, how I came to be here, Rishel and Kelly, had been gone just two days, when I found an outfit accidentally left behind.  Just for fun, I tried it on and wore it down stairs to show Momma. 

Drat my Burbank luck, Auntie Eileen was visiting, and with her encouragement, Momma done throw’d a fit, and slapped my face. 

I was so surprised, I just ran.” Ashley sipped and she said, “I walked clean to Four Corners truck stop wearing that scandalous skirt, and climbed in with the first trucker who looked twice.  I didn't even ask his name, nor he mine.  It was my first time, and it was over so fast, there are times I forget it ever happened.”

            Her, first time?  It troubled Nirvana, that she couldn’t remember her first time, or even, her first boy friend.  She could recall nothing, of the date with Ortega, except a vision of him, heart-stopping handsome, in dress Army uniform, for the junior prom dance. 

            Ashley was saying, “Ah' waste of something precious, I am sure, but I'm glad I done it. 

Momma told this child nothing.  I was so ignorant, the day I got my first period, the teacher sent me home to an empty house.  I thought I was dying, so I called an ambulance.  The doctor, at the hospital, bless his heart, told Momma, ‘He was delightfully astonished, with my innocence’ and, Momma and me, laughed, all the way home.”

Insane hilarity overwhelmed them.  Ashley wiped away the tears.  “The next morning, after my visit to the truck stop, Pastor Gilbert drove me to Atlanta without a word.  Just seventeen, and here I am, shipped out of town, like unclaimed baggage.  What do think about that Lance?”

            Nirvana dreamily reflected on Ortega.  She hoped for something more, and subconsciously picked at the scab on her memory. 

            Ashley grinned wanly, “Vanna, what do think about that Lance?”

            Nirvana said quickly, “Ashley, these expeditions attract people with problems.  Doctor will accept anyone, who will pay his own costs.  You should be careful.  You may get involved with a young-man here, and chastity may get thrown out the window, in a moment of passion.  Self-restraint, with a handsome stranger, is all but impossible.”

            Ashley stated firmly, “I plan to return to Limestone, a woman of the world.”

            Nirvana looked out to the moonlight glistening off the clouds, a few thousand foot below them.  It dawned on her, that Ortega was on the plane.  She said, “I need to stretch,” and she walked to the cockpit.

            I hello’d her from around a mangled cigar butt.  I said, “Captain Webber, at your service, Ma’am.”

            “My name is Vanna Stampell,” she said.  “It’s nice to meet you.”

            I gestured, “This is Teg.  Grave digger.”

            Nirvana felt her heart stop.  Ortega was a link to her past, the answer to all her questions, her first open window to her youth.  Ortega Pinion met her gaze, with very calm, deep, black eyes.  Full black hair, parted in the center, and combed straight back, that fell loosely at the sides, softening the finely chiseled features of his darkly tanned face.  He turned off his portable radio and removed the earphone.  He said, “Grave digger is merely an honorary title.”

            “Ortega,” was all Nirvana could manage.  She sat on the ice chest between the pilots’ chairs.  Dry mouthed, she said, “How have you been?”

            “Well, thank you.  How are you?” Ortega said with sanitized courtesy.

            I asked, “You two know each other?”  

            Ortega said, “We had a ephemeral encounter, many years ago.  Excuse me.” Ortega eased out of his seat, and exited the cockpit.  Nirvana took his place, her nostrils excitedly devouring the remnants of his scent.  It sparked against the flint hard, dark shell of her past, and for half a split second, tantalizing memories danced just beyond the limits of recollection.  Like so many other things, Ortega was a piece of her life, she simply couldn’t bring into focus. 

            I sensed Ortega's exit wasn't a coincidence.  I inspected her, and said after a moment, “Thanks for your help with Cary Stewart.  I owe you one.”

            Nirvana said, “Any time.” She searched her past for Ortega.

            I said to Nirvana, “You been on the radio news, you know.  It sounds like the cops are looking for you.”

            Nirvana mumbled, “I suppose they are.”

            I took a shot from the hip. “The news says you caused a riot, and tried to wreck you father’s church and got some Rabbi killed.”

            Nirvana wasn’t in the mood.  She said pointedly, “My father doesn’t have a church.  What he has is a television studio.  You said you owe me one.  So, how about dropping it?”

            I said, “Yeah, so I did.  Okay, it’s dropped.”

            Nirvana was already rising as Ortega entered.  “I was just leaving,” she hesitated at the cockpit curtain, and considered me.  She watched, as I tapped one of the gauges on the instrument panel.  The fresh tapped indicator, climbed slowly from the zero peg to center range, held a second or two, and then fell back to zero.  Nirvana said, “Captain Webber.  What does your father do?”

            I said, “He was in stocks,” I thought a second, and then added, “and he counted his money.”

            Nirvana shifted her focus, “And your father?” she said to Ortega, “What did he do?”

            Ortega looked off through the windshield, to some place farther then the moon that dominated the sky.  He saw his father, drunk on the floor, and the pungent odor of urine inundated his senses, forcing his nose to twitch.  The memory was so vivid, he wondered for a second if we could smell it.  Ortega sucked wind and he said quietly, “He drank.”

            Nirvana said, “You see, Captain, neither of you is following the religion of your fathers.  Why should I?”

            Ortega said very slowly, his voice calculated to come across without a hint of preaching, “Slandering the religion of another, and thus the heart of his soul, may be the greatest sin.”

            Nirvana felt the blood rising in her cheeks.  She remembered what Fleming had told her, about Ortega being lost on a sea of humanist philosophy.  He was pulling her chain and she didn’t like it.  “Are you my father's disciple?  Have I slandered your religion?” she demanded.

            Ortega's quiet eyes settled on her.  He said, “When I meditate, my heart speaks to my soul, for the Great Spirit to listen.  I seek harmony with all things, and I am the disciple of no man.”

            Nirvana was quiet, a full moment, her, lip quivering uncontrollably.  She said, “You didn't answer my question.”

            A cruel smile turned up the corners of Ortega’s lips.  He said icily, “We agree on one thing: Your father’s religion is fraud.”

            Nirvana could feel the anger steaming off her neck.  Only the hum of the engines stirred the air in the cockpit.  A girl screeched, in the passenger compartment, and there was the sound of laughter.  I absentmindedly tapped on another of the gauges.  The needle jumped, held steady at mid-range for a second, and then dropped off the scale to the left.  Nirvana stormed out of the cockpit. 

            I said dryly, “Damn short fuse.”

            “A jar without water,” Ortega mused.

            I said, “Huh?”

            Ortega said “An old saying, from my aunt.  A woman without a husband is like a jar without water.”

            I said, “And so what are we?”

            Ortega smiled.  “According to my aunt, a man without a wife is water without the jar.”

            I told him, “Well, I don't need a wife.  My father had one.  She drank, and spent his money and screwed with the paid help.”

            Ortega said it, as if reading from a textbook, without condemnation, “A man who spends all his time making money, is married to a woman, who doesn’t have a husband.”

            The passage, slatted like spittle, on my father’s grave.  It didn’t matter that I had never seen the grave, the remark left me, with a score to settle.  An hour passed slowly, in awkward silence.  An angle wasn’t easy to select.  I timed my question, and caught Ortega a quarter of a million miles away, staring at the moon, I asked him, “You got a wife?”

            Ortega turned, and met my eyes in the glow of the cockpit instruments, his defenses down.  “I have nothing.” He turned again to the moon, and whispered, “My mother died, when I was very young, but I remember her telling me, ‘the moon is your friend.  The moon will follow you everywhere.  The moon will guide your steps and watch over you.’  When ever I see the moon, I think of her.”

            I choked, and felt like I had kicked him in the balls, “I’m sorry.  It must have been hard on your father.”

            Ortega gritted his teeth, “I excelled to spite him.” He snatched my Jim Beam bottle, and chugged a stiff snort.  “He killed my mother and I hate him.”

            I contemplated him for a moment and then said, “Go ahead, I have plenty.”

            When he was able to slow his breath, Ortega annotated, “Proud backs don’t bend easy, and jobs for Indians, are piss-ant jobs.  All the men beat their wives, because they are ashamed.” The whisky dissolved his crust, “That wasn’t me, with Nirvana, a little while ago.  That was my lecture class persona, the complicated, native-American.” He inhaled deep and the bitterness burst out of him, as if rancid fluid out of an infectious boil.  “She destroyed me and I hate her for it.  She is the essence of deceit.” He quickly consumed the contents of the bottle. 

            Ortega was sleeping soundly when I pushed myself up for the trip back to the toilet.  Entering the cabin, I inspected the passengers on the way back.  The skin divers were supremely confident, engrossed in them-selves, and higher then kites on uppers, leering with that superior glare, that I had learned to hate at flight school.  They only spoke to one another and I didn't care to know their names. 

            Lance was cuddling the curvaceous blond with the necklace.  Two seats farther back, the big black who, had helped with Cary Stewart, sang to himself, peacefully in his sleep.  “When they crucified my Lord?  Sometimes it makes me tremble, tremble, tremble”  

            Nirvana Stampell was sprawled on the floor, at the rear of the passageway, squirreled into a pile of sleeping bags.  Returning, I started to step over her, when I noticed a tear slowly blazing a wet track down her cheek.  Clutching a liquor bottle like a teddy bear, she mumbled something in a pained childlike voice.   I said, “I’ll take a rain check.”

            Back in the cockpit, I dug out my lighter.  It took furious puffing, but at last, a slight wisp of cigar smoke appeared from the wet cigar butt.  I drew long and thoughtfully and blew the smoke toward the stars. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Ten

Forty Days

 

 

Collection agent Cary Stewart’s arrival at the mansion was noted in Detective Goldman’s diary.  A Mexican’s low rider was just leaving, as Cary Stewart & Detective Goldman met it at it the entry gate.  The young Mexican was smiling as he passed, and told the two visitors, “Hi.  I’m smiling because I’m going to Seminary.  You guys have good day.”

Detective Stewart returned the young man’s smile.  He then said to Detective Goldman, “That’s a country down South some place.  I think Cinminary is famous for its dope.”

The elaborate, wrought iron entry gate, marking the Stampell Ministry estate, was just closing as University Police Detective Goldman slowed his unmarked Ford Falcon to inspect the barrier.  He waved his badge and drove through a split second after the exiting car cleared. 

      “You see that sign on the gate?” collection agent Cary Stewart asked.  “It said, 'Warning.  Don't talk loud while you're here'.”

            “Don't talk loud?” Detective Goldman said, aloud with wonderment.  

  Cary Stewart continued, “That brass placket said, 'Look out for the wrath of God.  Fire and Brimstone'.  Woe and Havoc.  Stuff like that.”

            Detective Goldman said,  “Stampell is a fruit cake.  Did you notice that young Mexican in the car that just left?”

             Stewart demurred, “I was readin’ the brass placket on the gate.”

Detective Goldman ventured, “I’ll bet that individual was associated, with the crowd that ran rampant over my campus last night.” Detective Goldman parked on the circular drive directly behind a low-rider 1954 Chevrolet.

              Cary Stewart said, exiting the Falcon, “Check out this ride.”

            Detective Goldman inspected the Chevrolet.  “See all these little fuzzy balls, he's got hanging around in there.  That's how you can tell, he's on LSD.”

              Cary Stewart stroked the roofline of the vehicle where it had been cut and lowered several inches, and said, “This Mexican knows a pretty good body man.”

            Detective Goldman asked, “How can you tell the owner is Mexican?”  

              Cary Stewart said, “That little sticker there, that's a Mexican flag. A buzzard, with a snake.  People think it’s an Eagle, but it’s a buzzard.”

            “I'll remember that,” &  Goldman wrote down the license number.

            The mansion door opened for a youthful Hispanic man, wearing crisp blue jeans, a white tee shirt and a broad smile.  He carried a check proudly before him.  Seeing the bruise blackened faces of Cary Stewart and Detective Goldman, he said, “Hay man, been duking’ it up?  It’s cool, but it’s better, to let it pass.  Look at me: I went to Turkey, and now, I am go’ in’ to seminary,” he spread his arms expansively.  “God bless, Mon.  God bless,” he got in the Chevy and slowly drove away.

              Cary Stewart said, “He's high on something.”

Detective Goldman agreed.  “My thought exactly.  He was probably in Turkey buying hashish.  This place is a front for dopers!”  

              Cary Stewart agreed, “They probably grow allot' marijuana in Ceminary.  I think it’s down there, in South America some place.”

            Detective Goldman said, “Yes, I think so.  Did you notice the knife scar on his face?”

              Cary Stewart said, “Yeah, I ain't blind.”

            Two brass plackets greeted the visitors at eye level, mounted with brass screws on the heavy, oaken door.  The hand-etched script read:

Faithfulness in the Lord is not success

It is the goal of life, not the occupation

It is work on earth, not the reward

It is refinement by testing for the duration

Dr. Maitland Stampell

The second, placket read:

WARNING

Welcome to this place, consecrated to the Lord.

Come not to these premises in darkness,

Nor raise your voice in anger,

Beware, the wrath of the Lord:

Fire and Brimstone, Woe, and Havoc

 

              Cary Stewart said, taking in the large, empty pots on either side of the opening, “That's the same brass plackets they had on the entry-gate.  Only these are smaller.” He prompted the door chimes. 

            Fleming opened the door, dressed in his usual butler-styled, black cardigan waistcoat and black trousers.  Fleming said, “Gentlemen, how may I help you?”

            “Lieutenant Goldman, University police.” The trim, tweed-coated detective held his identification.  “This is Mr.  Stewart, a licensed private investigator,” Detective Goldman introduced his large companion, who wore his lime green, Hawaii-print shirt, tucked half in, half out of his brick-orange trousers.  The silky sport coat was tan white, except for the chewing-tobacco stains on the lapel.  Under the stylish hat, a bloodshot, blackened eye peeked painfully from between swollen folds of knuckle-blacked skin. 

              Cary Stewart grinned a toothy sneer.  “This place goin’ broke?”

            Fleming took offense, “I beg your pardon?”

              Cary Stewart said, “I’m a trained detective and I notice details.  One of your expensive white pots got busted, so you had to replace it with a plain clay one.” He grinned his own special brand of meanness. 

            Fleming cocked his head, “Sir, the pots are a symbolic lesson: one is plain clay, dried in the sun and fired in a wood smoke fire.  The everlasting beauty of the white one comes from the refining: It’s been glazed and fired, tested, if you will, in the potter’s furnace.  For like these pots, it is in the testing, that we simple clay vessels are made pure, for the use of the Lord.”

              Cary Stewart chuckled, “Sounds like a lot of crap.  If you’re going broke, why not just admit it?  Sell the damn white one and you can buy fifty clay ones.”

            Detective Goldman said, “I am investigating the incident that occurred at Torrey Pines University last evening.  Mr. Stewart, is involved in the periphery of the investigation and has some questions for Dr. Stampell.”

              Cary Stewart pointed a thick finger at Fleming’s chest.  “That damn pilot you guys hired, dumped a load of you-know-what  right on my house.”

            Fleming’s chin crept out imperceptivity, knowing of my living-in-the-plane, arrangements, “I know not ‘what’ was dumped on your residence, and, it is not my nature to relish, in the misfortune of another, but in your case, I may make an exception.”

            “Shit,” Cary Stewart snarled, “a whole plane load of shit, right on top of my house, and my whole yard, with my clothes on the line.”

            Fleming schooled, “If you wish to see the Doctor, state your business, without the flourish, of the impoverished vocabulary of the street, or vacate yourself from these premises.”

              Cary Stewart snarled and clenched a fist, “You listen real good, Butler.  That daughter of his interfered with the service of a lawful court order last night, which is illegal.”

            Two large Doberman Pinschers, jet-black, with trademark rusty red slashes, adorning their faces, parked themselves on either side of Fleming.  Fleming said very seriously, “I caution you both, most urgently, to keep the tone of your voice civil.  As regards, the violation of law, I can't help you.” Fleming deferred to Detective Goldman, “Perhaps this gentleman can assist you.  You have no appointment, no specific business, and Doctor is not feeling his best.  These facts considered, your instant demand, to engage Doctor in colloquy must be considered, something of an imposition.” Fleming spoke curtly to detective Goldman.  “How may I help you?”

            Detective Goldman demanded, “I’ll have to insist.  We both must see Doctor Stampell.  I am a sworn peace officer of the State of California.  Conduct yourself without interference to my duties, or you're liable to find yourself up on charges.”

            Fleming was taken aback, “Charges?”

            Detective Goldman warned, “Charges, Mr. Fleming.  I don't take my orders from a butler.  I’ve done my homework, on this organization, and I know all about you.  One slip and you’ll find yourself detained at my convenience.”

              Cary Stewart snarled menacingly, “We ain't a couple of street bums.”

            The dogs came off their haunches, intently watching Cary Stewart.  Fleming smiled, a tight little smile, noting the Dobermans’ increased interest in Cary Stewart, “Well, now, you'll have to step inside while I see if the Doctor is up to seeing you.”

            Fleming closed the door as they stepped inside.  He told the two guests, “Please sign our guest register,” he directed them to an elegant stand near the door.  He watched as they each signed, name, address, business affiliation.  Fleming smiled pleasantly.  He said, “You may sit if, you like,” and he left them, closing a door that separated the entry from the rest of the structure.  There were no chairs.

            “Damn cold in here,” Cary Stewart grumbled.  “And no damn chairs and my feet are killing me.  That little bitch daughter of Dr. Stampell’s tried to break my feet, you know.”

            Fleming came back after several moments.  “Doctor Stampell invites you to his study.” He opened the door and hesitated,  “By the way, Detective Goldman, your secretary advises 'be careful not to exceed your mileage budget, or you'll be back to your bicycle.’” 

            Detective Goldman huffed, “What are you doing, calling my secretary?”

            Fleming countered flatly, “I'm sure, you understand, my need to confirm your credentials.” Fleming led them along the window-lined hall that looked out on the rose garden.  On the right, the hall was lined with expensive oil paintings of old-testament biblical scenes.  The family portrait caught  Stewart’s attention.  On the son’s chest, a red, green and white ribbon held large a gold medal.  A Mexican flag was cast in relief upon the golden metal.  The young man also wore a necklace, a small, green stone with an ugly little face on it.  Detective Stewart looked it over, very closely. 

            Fleming didn’t approve.  “Oh, and Mr.  Stewart, your employer, Mr. Thrillkill, mentioned to me how angry he was that you wouldn't accept the payment offered last evening.  He reminded me to forewarn you, insisted that I convey his message to you, 'Bring in the cash or the collateral, or don't come back’.” 

            Dr. Stampell waited for them in his study, a tall, windowless room in black walnut.  He sat satin-robed in a wing-backed leather chair, before the lighted fireplace.  His visitors had expected him broken and defeated, but the doctor, projected strength and authority, in the spiritualistic orange glow of the fire.  His eyes shone with vitality and determination.  On the table, at his side, sat a crystal decanter, his glass, his Bible, a small lamp and leather bound writing pad.  His large right hand lay on the Bible.  “Gentlemen,” his voice was strong, despite the swollen face, “why are you here?”

            Detective Goldman held out his identification long enough for a blind man to read the fine print.  “Your daughter is in a great deal of trouble,” he paused for effect, “and I expect your help finding her.”

            Doctor Stampell grunted, poured him-self two fingers of bourbon and considered  Stewart.  “Who are you?” he asked after a moment. 

            “  Cary Stewart, United Collections.  The airplane you chartered belongs to my boss.” Stampell’s gaze shifted to his bourbon.  “Where'd they go?” Cary Stewart demanded.

            Doctor Stampell spoke quietly, as a base drum patted softly.  “To do God's work, Mr.  Stewart,” he raised his eyes from the glass, “and I remind you, to hold your tongue to a civil tone, or I shall withdraw the invitation that brought you here and you shall leave.”

            Two Doberman Pinschers, rusty-red, in color, large and sleek, trotted into the room.  They heeled, tight mouthed, at either side of Doctor Stampell’s chair.

            Detective Goldman said, “We want specific answers, Doctor.  Your daughter's prank resulted in the death of someone who was doing God's work and property damages that are still being assessed.”

            Doctor Stampell set his glass down and picked up his Bible.  He held it out, to Detective Goldman.  “What happened last night was God's will, for it is written, 'not a sparrow falls but that the Father wills it.’  Therefore, I suggest you ask God for His help regarding the death, and the Federal Aviation Administration regarding the flight plan of the airplane.”

            Detective Goldman refused to back off, “Where is your son?”

            Stampell pronounced, “My son has nothing to do with this.”

            Detective Goldman nearly shouted, “Well then, tell me where he is.  We know your ministry hired those rioters.” Dr. Stampell's answer was an iron faced glare and the only sound in the room was a steady, nearly undetectable, growl from the Dobermans.  The fierce, Doberman Pinchers, were wound spring tight, and their attention focused on Detective Goldman. 

            Fleming stepped forward, “Your allegations are an egregious misrepresentation of the facts, patently uncivil and unsuitable for the present company.  The invitation that permitted your entry, into this private residence, is withdrawn.  It is necessary that you gentlemen, vacate yourselves from these premises without delay.”

            Detective Goldman warned Doctor Stampell, “If you help your daughter in anyway, you could be guilty of aiding and abetting, and by God, I shall see you convicted.”

            Stampell preached, “If you must swear by God, to be believed, you are already condemned.”

            Fleming addressed them curtly, “You have been asked to leave.  Another threatening utterance may well result in unpleasantness.”

            Mrs. Yee came into the room, the black Dobermans from outside flanking her.  “Will gentlemen be staying for tea?” she asked no one in particular.

            Fleming said firmly, “The gentlemen will be leaving.”

            Detective Goldman snarled to Dr. Stampell, “Don't try leaving the country.”

            Doctor Stampell said without pretentiousness, “My heavenly employer directs my travel itinerary, not the State of California.”

            Mrs. Yee scooted them from the room, flanked by the four snarling Doberman pinschers.  She said to them, “I show gentlemen out.” The snarling Dobermans herded the two men out, rudely probing their privates, and nipping at their ankles and buttocks and tearing at the trouser rear pants pockets. 

  Cary Stewart, protested, “Hey, Lady, these damn dogs are tearing my pants, pockets!  And, these are expensive pants!  Yeah’ know, I think, one them bit me on the rear!  I’ll sue, if the skin is broken!”

Mrs. Yee walked them to the door.  She warned, “Gentlemen must be careful not to raise voice!  Fire and Brimstone, Woe and Havoc, are all very sensitive.  Not good, for gentlemen, to upset Doberman pinschers. And, by the way, the gentleman must be very careful, when trying to inspect the rear!”

            After they were thrust outside, Fleming squared himself with Dr. Stampell.  “He said that the ministry hired the rioters!”

            Stampell murmured, “You can thank yourself for Nirvana’s organizing skills.”

            Fleming fought to withhold his tears.  “Maitland, I feel we are near some horrible, unseen precipice.  Deep in my heart, I am troubled.  How can this episode have anything at all to do with the will of God?  We paid thousands of dollars for two hours of ungodly, speculative news accounting.  The phone banks were dead afterwards and yourself and Jeremiah were both sent to the hospital.” Tears began well. 

            Dr. Stampell sampled his whisky and looked to the fire.  “We must trust,” he said after a time.  “Jeremiah will heal, and Nirvana, thanks to your quick thinking, is apparently on a heading for the desert wastes.  Mark my words: All that has passed, is God's will.”

Fleming said, “We used to preach Christ crucified.” He said after a moment, “I’m confused,” and he turned away to pray quietly. 

      Dr. Stampell said, “According to His plan, my saintly wife died giving birth to that child, and in a sense, giving birth to this ministry.  Therefore, in a fire of God's own choosing, Nirvana’s mind and body will be refined, cleansed and tested, tempered for His purpose.”

            Fleming turned to face Stampell, tears tracking down his cheeks.  “I am afraid for Nirvana,” he said.  “She didn’t bring friends home from school, after the expedition to Mexico.  She didn’t have one girl friend when she was growing up.  Not one.  She was afraid of what Jeri might do to them.”

            Stampell preached, “God knows all things.  He will not give me a cross that I cannot bear.  He knows I have tried and failed with that daughter, and according to His plan, God has intervened.  Nirvana will be tested in the fire of Egypt’s desert, until the dross of sin has been burned away.  Then she will be suitable for marriage to a man of God.  It will be a blessed union, that will bring forth a heir to my ministry.” Dr. Stampell looked into the fire and placed his hand firmly on his Bible.  “She will be prepared for such a marriage, by the time the law has finished working its course with her.”

            Fleming thought, truly the Lord comes riding upon the colt of an ass.  He is feeling sorry for himself.  Fleming said, “I confess that I felt on the day of Nirvana's reappearance that our prayers for your heir had been answered.  But now.” Maximum distraction overwhelmed him.  He studied his hands, which were trembling.  “I fear that Satan has determined to destroy this ministry.  We are strong, you and I, so Satan is after those who follow us.  He is out to wreck havoc on the best of our harvest, before we can bring in the sheaves. 

For example, Jeremiah was a God praising young man, but overnight, he became introverted, quiet and eventually, self-destructive, even before he attained manhood.  And Nirvana, was on fire for the Lord as a child, but her voice was stilled long before it blossomed in her, before her womanhood bloomed.  And Ortega Pinion, novitiate of unequaled promise died on the vine, a godless-cynic.  Even more distressing, how will we attract new disciples if, our prospective converts have to take a beating like you endured last night?  Even, Flynn, the Catholic Priest, was hurt while he was praying over Jeremiah.”

            Stampell said in disbelief, “Hurt while praying?  Ha!  He probably slipped while mounting that high and mighty Roman pulpit.  I’d venture that Flynn was in the wrong pew.  Perhaps he should see if these holy rollers, the Pentecostals, are hiring.  That Catholic probably sat in there, saying one high mass after another, drinking great big goblets of wine, one after another.  He was as likely injured on the way to the john as hurt praying.”

            Fleming whispered, “Flynn was in a closed room with Jeremiah for seven days.  His fingers on one hand were smashed, an arm and two ribs were broken, and his nose was smashed to a pulp, and some teeth were knocked out.  Lucifer was a democrat in a republican heaven.  He challenged the governor.”

            Stampell was unimpressed.  “We risked it all when we first got into this business, or have you forgotten those prize fights for the Lord?”

            Fleming whimpered, “I can find no comfort in any of this,” as a tear tracked down his cheek. 

            Doctor Stampell said, “Do you remember that Saturday night the day before Pearl Harbor?  Jeremiah was a little boy, about five or six.  My saintly wife was fat with Nirvana.”

            Fat with Nirvana, Fleming tried to control his anger.  This was one aspect of life that he could never understand.  It wasn't Maitland’s choice, it was hers, he tried to remind himself.  When he saw Dr. Stampell spreading his arms, he pounced, “And when she died, did you think your prayers had been answered?” Instantly, regret flooded over him.  I am truly sorry, God, he prayed, regretting that he had not been able to bite his tongue.

            Dr. Stampell hadn’t noticed any of it: not the rage, the regret or the grace that came with knowledge of forgiveness.  Doctor Stampell rambled, “It was warm for December.  I was praying over a man afflicted with the devil of alcohol.  The man wasn't a man too fond of his bath and the demon was fresh on his breath.” Doctor Stampell re-lived the moment, “While I was praying over that man, a woman of God came to me.  She saw the spirit of God in Jeremiah, and when I looked on him, I saw it too, and I knew that Jeremiah, would some day, be powerful for the Lord.” His voice slowed, “Even until yesterday, with Jeremiah, finally, speaking the praises of God, I believed that God's spirit was in him.  All these years, I've prayed he would turn away from Satan’s enticements and join me in God's work.” Doctor Stampell paused, his eyes watering.  He glanced to Fleming, unable to speak. 

            “What is it?” Fleming whispered.

            Doctor Stampell swallowed hard.  “Last night, seeing Jeremiah in the hospital, his sickly body, wasted not so much from the injury as from the wages of sin, I realized that he would never have the strength to carry out the Lord's work.” Stampell cleared his throat.  “This thought troubled me all through the night.  I never slept.  I called out, 'Lord, who shall carry on for me?' And now, this morning, I see clearly God’s plan: Nirvana's forty days in the desert have begun.”

            Fleming worried, “It might well be a long forty days indeed, beginning, as they have, with no shepherd guarding the flock.  Your passport was on the plane that left last night.”

            Dr. Stampell said quickly, “How long until we can retrieve it?”

            Fleming said, “I have left word for Mr. Yee at airports along the route.  At worst, it will be 3 or 4 days.”

            Dr. Stampell said, “Very well.  In the mean time, let’s go fishing.” He pressed the intercom.  “Mrs. Yee, we shall need a pot of coffee.”

            Mrs. Yee answered,  “Yes, Doctor, and dry wheat toast?”

            “Yes, thank you.” Expressionless, Dr. Stampell eyed Fleming, gingerly touching his jaw.  “I met a dandy prospect last night.”

            Fleming confirmed, “I saw it too.  We’ll need a check for his bail, this Washington Carver.  God has created in every individual a void, which only He can fill.  I believe Mr. Carver’s ‘kee’ is about to be filled with the Holy Sprit.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Eleven

Minor Miracles

 

 

 

I remember flying into Cairo, airport, like it was yesterday.  “Seven-niner, Roger, Cairo Tower,” I told the tower.  “Right on three-seven,” I turned the lumbering seaplane onto the designated taxiway.  “The controller is directing us away from the commercial.” My voice evaporated, as two military jeeps, came along either side of my seaplane.  The jeeps, were manned by four men each, equipped with 50 caliber machine guns, pointed right at the cockpit. 

            “What did I tell you?” Morris Knutson poked his head into the cockpit.  “This is definitely C.I.A.  These dudes know what's happening.”

            “You shut up and sit down,” I ordered him. 

7          The jeeps, guided us to the far end of the terminal, where a sharp right turn brought us face to face with a formation of sharply dressed troops.  I shut down the engines, grabbed my captain’s hat and flight bag and left the plane with as military a manner as I could muster.  A smartly dressed Egyptian military officer waited ten paces from the bottom of the stair.  His boots and sidearm leather were spit-shined, and in his hand he held a small, stiff quint. 

            “Cap'pee'tan Webb'burr,” the Egyptian Officer spoke English, with an accent, heavily affected by the African.  “Diz wone Ma´jur A´min Sa'aid.  Fall'low me,” he ordered me.  He lead, me into the building with two machine gun toting troops following.  As we walked, the officer asked, “Diz' simz' tu' bee' sum' quest'chon a'boot Doc'tour Stamp'pall.  Iz Ee´ aagg'boar air'oh'craft?” 

            “We have Dr. Stampell's daughter on board,” I said. 

            We rounded a corner, to an open room, where a large group of scruffy looking people crowded against a steel handrail.  They screamed in delight at the sight me.  Major Sa’aid told me,  “Diz' peoples have come far'rum all places tu' zee' diz' Doc'tour Stamp'pall.  Yu',” the officer said with a hint of warning, “should have told diz' won Ee' wasn't cum'ming.”

            I told him, “I just fly the plane.”

            The officer assured me, “Sum'won' iz' ree'ponse'si'bale.”  Moving along the handrail, the officer whipped each hand in his path smartly with his quint, much like he was swatting-flies.  In his path, lay a small girl child which had been pushed under the rail.  The officer stopped and twisted to me.  He held his head tilted back, his jaw jutting, so he could look down his long, narrow, well-humped nose, which twitched its displeasure with the crowd.  “Az' yu' con' zee', diz' peoples are lepers.  Touching iz´ not for diz’ wone.” He pushed his officers cap back, exposing a long, narrow forehead.  The wrinkles of the brow cut deeply into the brown skin.  His features were elongated, hardened, carved from a block too narrow for its length.  “Diz peoples try diz´ wone tu´ far,” he whipped the quint across the back of the child and he stepped over her. 

            “Yusuf,” the mother screamed as she threw herself toward the girl child.  Catching one ankle, she tried to pull Binti to safety.  Yusuf backhanded his wife across the face, bloodying her lip, breaking her grip.  He snarled in Arabic, “Leave her.  We’ve come this far.”

            Major Sa’aid towered far above these events.  “Thee family's ov' diz' peoples have brought tham tu´ diz´ place tu´ be made no moor sickness,” he explained to me,

            I felt my knees go slack.  The child hadn't even flinched.  I doubted if I could hold myself so steady.  I stumbled along behind the officer, fearful of what the mob would do when they found out that Dr. Stampell was not on board. 

            Major Sa’aid led me into a small, windowless room, furnished with a steel desk and two chairs.

            “So people really believe this stuff,” I wondered aloud, sinking into a chair, ever more fearful of the Egyptian’s retribution for my fraud.

            Major Sa’aid continued his explanation.  “Prophet Jesus gave to disciples special holy spirit which pass hand from hand.  Doc'tour' Stam'pal' has dis' spirit.  Hiz’ coming special ah’vent tu’ dis peoples,” his nose twitched as he gestured.  “Tu honor Doc’tour, some even take bath.”

            Two guards came in as Major Sa’aid put on his business face.  He began to ask questions.  Dozens of questions.  Pages of questions.  Were there any Jews on board?  Had I served in American forces?  What rank?  What plane?  Any Jewish friends?  Between questions, the officer ranted vehemently about the sins of Israel, the French and English.  Israelis’, butcher babies.  Israelis’ bomb women and children.  Israelis’ make Egyptian babies sick.  Israelis’ have dollars from Americans.

            Soon, Egypt shall destroy Israel, the officer repeated after each of his intense oaths.  The very word Israel seemed to make the blood vessels on his forehead swell to the bursting point.  He also possessed an unnatural hatred for the French, and English.  They had stolen the canal.  They used Egyptian labor and stolen Egyptian money to build it, because they had all the lawyers. 

            The officer had a habit of marking each question with a symbol in Arabic, after I answered each of the questions.  The symbol was then offered for my initials’.  At first I hesitated, but after a few, I readily signed.  “I will happily sign your dick, if that’s what it takes to get out of here,” I told him under my breath. 

            “Diz' desert place where tra'val'ling',” Major Sa’aid was saying, “Is place' ov' bandit-robbers.  Libyans, ve' sus'pect, displaced by godless French devils, so what can be ex’pectooded.  And, diz' iz' desert place.  Not ov' wat'turr'.  What think tu' have for wat’turr?”  I felt myself smile agreeably. 

            Jim Beam, I thought, but I said, “I just fly the plane.”

            “Hay, yes, so yu' hav' said.  There are asps and adders in diz' desert place.  If, sum' won' should die, sum'won' iz´ree'ponse'si'bale.”

            “I just fly the plane,” I said.  “I was told the snakes are friendly.”

            “Yu’ were misinformed.  Aiz’ iz’ diz’ wone, the asps protect Egypt.  Have yu' warning ov´ winds?”

            “Winds?”

            “Yes.  Winds in diz' place com´ when sun iz´ gone from sky.”

            I lied.  “We were briefed on the bandits and winds.”

            “Then, yu' need only tu' worry about not wat'turr'.  And of course, there are rue'murrs of not-authorized military oh'par'rations.  Diz' dangerous place, for diz' Christ'tian ex'plor'ration.”

            I dug out a cigar, silencing the inquiry.  I removed the wrapper, lighted it and dragged deep before offering an inspection. 

            Major Sa’aid smiled approvingly as he inspected the cigar ring.  “Vurr'gin'yeen.”

            “Kentucky whiskey is even better,” I told him. 

            “Wisk'kee?”

            “We have been so busy,” I was serious in my apology, “I have forgot my manners.  I have brought you gifts, according to the custom of my country.  A box of the finest Marsh Wheeling dark Virginian cigars, and bottles of fine Kentucky whiskey.” I hoisted my flight bag to the table and began setting out my offerings.  Major Sa’aid smiled for the first time. 

Sa’aid said evenly, “Not tu’ warry’ with rue’murs of not-authorized military oh’par’rations.  This iz’ year of de’cez’zion.  We will liquidate, the cons’zee’quankes of ad’agresion. Akhirah!  Judgment day iz’ coming!”

            Outside, the mob-crowd roared as the main body of the student archaeologists cleared the passageway.  Nirvana Stampell and Ashley Burbank were the last ones to leave the seaplane.  “If you're asking me,” Nirvana said, “love is the most natural, Godly thing, a woman can feel.”

            “I think I love him.”

            “Be careful,” Nirvana warned.

            “Is my skirt too short?”

            Nirvana smiled, without looking back, “If you want to sell, you have to advertise.”

            They found the crowd.  “What is this?” Ashley gushed.  “I feel like a movie star.”

            Nirvana took on an air.  “This is part of my father's hype.”

            “What do we do?”

            “Just do what I do,” Nirvana said.  “Bless you,” she touched her fingertips to the out reached hands.  “Bless you.  Bless you,” she said in turn.  Ashley stayed at her elbow, following her lead.

            “Suck eggs,” Nirvana said warmly to a gnarled old man, not quite touching his twisted hand. 

            Ashley quickly took a firm hold of Nirvana's shoulder, stopping her. She lectured as if speaking to a naughty child.  “Vanna, you should not be mean, just to spite your father.”

            Nirvana paused and looked back over her shoulder. She said, “This is my father's dog and pony show, not mine.  I refuse to be a part of it.”

            Ashley looked at the people around them; some hopeful; some agonizing; most of them screaming and waving wildly.  In front of them a few-foot, a uniquely placid Reha stood with her gaze focused intently upon Nirvana.  Her lip was bleeding from Yusuf's rebuke.  She cradled a small baby in one arm and held on to Yusuf's elbow with the other.  At her feet, a small girl child, Binti, obviously crippled, had been pushed under the rail.  Ashley felt herself quicken.  She said, “Vanna, you bless that old man or we are not friends anymore.” She turned away and crossed her elbows to make her point.

            Nirvana didn’t try to hide her exasperation.  “God bless you,” she told the old man, touching his hand.  She went on without looking back, touching hands, offering a simple “God bless you.”

            She came upon the crippled girl child, Binti.  The crooked little body had been shoved underneath the steel railing.  A purple and red welt was already rising where Major Sa’aid had demonstrated his quint.  From the child’s clouded eyes, tears had washed clean tracks down the dusty cheeks.  Binti sucked an olive green rag and was shaking with fright. 

            Nirvana stopped, a strange fear rushing over her.  Quaking uncontrollably, she dropped to one knee, and placed her hands upon the head of the child, silencing the crowd.  She whispered, “Dear God, in the name of Jesus Christ, I ask your blessing upon this innocent.  For your glory, in the name of Jesus Christ, I ask that the Holy Spirit come upon her; to give her sight, cure her every ill, to make her walk, to let her speak of your glory, all the days of her life.  In the name of the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit.” She made the sign of the cross upon the head of the child and pulled her hand away, fearfully.

            Ashley helped Nirvana to her feet.  She said, “That was neat!  What's wrong?  You're white as a ghost.”

            Nirvana could hardly stand.  She said, “I think I just stepped into an old bear trap.” 

            “A bear trap?”

            Nirvana clutched Ashley’s arm, “I’ll be okay.  I just have to be careful.”

            Ashley was confused, “What are you talking about?”

            Nirvana took a couple of deep breaths, “Preaching is a trap: if you once start, the desire to proclaim the gospel is all consuming.  That’s what I meant.  I have to be careful not to start, or I could end up like Doctor.”

            Ashley said, “Well, just now, you are nearly as white as any angel I’ve ever seen.”

            Nirvana said, “I haven’t prayed in twenty years.  I guess this is what it’s like to be a hypocrite.” She hobbled ahead, weak kneed, dazed, depending on Ashley's arm for support, blessing each of the hands that were held in her path. 

            They had gone, only a few steps when behind them, a woman began to scream.  Others in the crowd joined in, and suddenly, the mob was climbing over the steel railing. 

            Ashley shrieked, dragging Nirvana, “Let's get out of here!  They know your father isn't here.  They're going to kill us!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Twelve

Beaten Tracks

 

 

 

Ortega Pinion studied the stony landscape passing a few thousand-foot below my aircraft.  “Kings and pharaohs walked those sands, and slaves by the hundreds of thousands, lived and died there, without ever seeing the next horizon.”

            “You make quite a tour guide,” I commented. 

            Ortega pointed back to the North.  “The Bible has been found to be an historically accurate account of the Exodus.  Moses led his people across this very piece of desert,” Ortega pointed.  “It took Israel three days, to travel forty-five miles, from that point out there, at the top of the gulf near, what is now Suez, to that spring there, called Ain Hawarah, by the Bedouins.  It was called Marah in old times, 'bitter water'.  It’s salty, sulfurous, undrinkable, but tradition has it that the Israelis drank it after three days of marching.”

            Nirvana Stampell was just entering the cockpit as Ortega finished his history lesson.  She nosed between us, taking in the territory below in a glance.  She quoted the Bible to Ortega, “So Moses brought Israel out into the wilderness of Shur, and when they came to Marah, they could not drink, for the waters were bitter.  They didn't drink it.  They drank at Gharandel, at the next oasis.” Nirvana crowded over Ortega for a view, “That is Waddi Gharandel: Biblical Elim.  The Israelis’ drank at Elim.”

            I banked the goose over sharply to the right, throwing Nirvana unceremoniously across Ortega's lap.  “Yeah, I see it, a refreshing oasis in the broad expanse,” I chuckled.

            Nirvana straightened herself up.  “That was the second stopping place, the final rest before the Wilderness of Sin.”

            “Wilderness of Sin,” I smiled.  “And what comes after the Wilderness of Sin?”

            Nirvana said, “They took their journey out of the Wilderness of Sin, and camped at Dophkah.”

            Ortega said, studying the landscape below, “It is now known as the Plain of El Kaa.  In the spring of nineteen-oh-four, Flinders Petrie, the Englander, a pioneer of Biblical archaeology, followed this route with a camel caravan.  He was well financed, well equipped and imaginative in interpreting the significance of his discoveries.  Petrie found the ruined temple of Ramesses II at Serabit el-Khadem, the ancient Egyptian mining center.  Computers are useless in the serious study of archeology.” Ortega said. 

            “Mines?  Diamonds or jewels?” I looked out with renewed interest.  “Look down there, at those colors.  Pink, purple and amber.  And look at those dark green streaks on that mountain.  Must be some diamonds around there.”

            “Felspar,” Nirvana advised.  “The Biblical name for that place is Dophkah.  Hebrew for smelting operations.”

            Ortega schooled, “Relentless civilizations have mined those veins.  More than once, the mines have lapsed into oblivion for centuries, only to be re-discovered at some later date.  The mountains of this region are a veritable Swiss cheese of tunnels and krugans.”

            “I've always been interested in diamond and gold mines,” I assured them.

            “It isn't the discovery of the mines that Flinders Petrie is remembered for,” Ortega continued.  “He found the first evidence of an alphabet independent from hieroglyphics and cuneiform.  His discoveries and subsequent explanations threw out all the existing theories of his time about the origin of writing in Canaan.  The famous Sinai inscriptions, the important first stage of the North Semitic alphabet, the direct ancestor of our present alphabet, was first unearthed in sands of Serabit el-Khadem by the workmen of Flinders Petrie.  Turn here,” Ortega instructed.  “That's Mount Jabal.  We camp on the beach below the Sinai massif.”

            I said agreeably, “Roger, turn at the mountain.”

            Morris Knutson crowded into the cockpit.  “Hey dudes, everybody is asking about the groceries.  What happens if the truck can't find us?”

            “We'll be just fine,” Ortega assured him.  “Mr. Yee arranged for a guide.  Have you got your marching orders down pat?”

            Morris Knutson worried, “It’s cool.  But what if the truck gets lost?”

            “Then Mr. Yee won’t pay for it,” Ortega said.

            “Cool,” Morris exited the cockpit, giving up.

            Ortega directed, “We land on the Red Sea and take our bearings off this mountain.” 

            I slowed and glided the airplane ever lower, “And so that's where Moses actually did his stuff.  And parted the old Red Sea, huh?”

            “Reed Sea,” Nirvana corrected.  “Not the Red Sea.  In the Hebrew, it was Yam Suph: Reed Sea.  Moses parted the Reed Sea.  The clay tablets found by Petrie, scripted in the early North Semitic alphabet, clearly refer to the sea as the Reed Sea.”

            Ortega lectured, “Vanna, the words can be translated either way.”

            Nirvana lectured, “In the Old Testament, prior to Jeremiah, it’s only called Reed Sea.  Only the New Testament speaks of the Red Sea.”

            “On the shores of the Red Sea, there are no reeds,” Ortega argued.  “The Reed Sea proper lay much farther North.”

            Nirvana declared, “You haven't done your homework.  The miracle of the sea took place at the Sea of Reeds, which lay south at what was once Lake Balah.  In the day of Ramesses ll, the Gulf of Suez, in the South, was connected to the Bitter Lakes, which probably connected to Lake Tamsah, the Lake of Crocodiles, the area known as the Reed Sea.”

            Ortega said briskly, “You are off the mark by a hundred miles.”

            Nirvana snapped, “Tell me, how does your theory stand up in the face of a Westerly wind?”  She tromped out of the cockpit.

            I ventured, “What does a wind have to do with it?”

            Ortega pronounced, “Science has been able to prove all of the major events, described Exodus, as perfectly natural occurrences in the normal course of things, that is, without miracles, excepting two: the death of the eldest sons and the parting of the Red Sea.”

            I marveled, “All of the events?  You mean the plagues, the locusts, the Nile turning red, the water coming from the rock, all of those things, science can prove?”

            Ortega spoke like an expert, “Yes.  The manna, the quails, the water from the rock: all of it, given the conditions known at the time, and the events as described in the Bible, are provable, by science.”

            I commented, “I'd have to see it to believe it.”

            Ortega said flatly, “And so it has been said for two thousand years.”

            I asked him, “So were they miracles?”

            Ortega preached, “As Dr. Stampell would say, ‘only by the grace of God, can you believe’.  For those of us without that grace, we endeavor to collect physical evidence, and when we have it, we shall allow the facts to speak for themselves.”

            I said, “So what does the wind have to do with it?”

            Ortega schooled, “Once again, we are reminded, we must go back to the basics.  If you don't take the time to examine circumstance thoroughly, that perceived as correct could prove inaccurate.  No single piece of information can be overlooked.  Erroneous conclusions are a phenomenon found occurring, with increasing frequency, despite improved equipment and measuring techniques.  Authoritive,  objective conclusions need to adhere closely to the facts! 

            Archeology is not a science for today’s fast paced world.  Flinders Petrie found the lost temple of Ramesses II, because he happened to be riding on a camel, once again proving that simply taking the necessary time to gain an understanding, of all the facts, is essential for a correct solution. 

            Nirvana's statement concerning the wind was based on the widely held theory that the parting of the Red Sea occurred as a result of a strong wind.  The wind in this region usually blows from West.  It would take a strong North West wind to drive the water back far enough so the Israelis could wade across.  The Bible mentions an East wind, more typical of Palestine.  A large portion of the confusion, and hence the argument, comes from the Biblical account stating that they crossed on dry ground.”

            I wondered, “So, were those miracles?”

            Ortega rarely smiled, but he said, smiling, “In this case, it’s a miracle that Doctor and I, agree on the site where we should make our first camp.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  Chapter Thirteen

New Friends

 

 

My wife told me this of the time when she first exited my airplane on landing in Egypt.  The scorching hot sand, burned right through her tennis shoes.  The sun broiled her back, and blast furnace hot air soaked into her skin on all sides.  The heat reflecting off the sand was hottest of all; a white brightness that seared her eyes shut, radiating with the intensity of steak-ready charcoal.  She couldn’t imagine living in such a heat, let alone working.  Perhaps it was her age.  At thirty-four, the prospect of spending even an hour in this place left her feeling despondent. 

            She stood behind Theodore Truddle, dreamily watching the powerful black man drive the steel tent stakes with little or no success.  They were on a small, square mesa, a flat topped bump of sand, perhaps sixty-foot across, sloping down on all sides some six or eight-foot to the surrounding sands. 

            As far as she could see, there was no sign of human activity.  The view North and South, was one of a wasteland, a land beyond time, bathed in glaring white brightness, pale, harsh, incessant, white without subtleties.  There was nothing to break the monotony, but a few spindly tamarisk brushes, sprinkled randomly amongst the low gravelly dunes. 

            Beyond a belt of soft blow sand, the dunes gave way in the West to the-foothills, and slopes of the rugged rock faced Mount Jabal.  Two hundred-foot to the East, down a slight rise, was the Red Sea.  There was no sound, and excepting the scrubby bushes, there was no life, no birds, no bugs, nothing.  It felt like a graveyard.

            Theodore Truddle spit, wiped the sweat from his brow, and swung the sledgehammer through the stifling hot air with all his might.  The four-foot steel stake he was driving hit rock again, and stopped cold, wrenching the hickory handled sledge from his grip.  He let the hammer lay, working one throbbing palm against the other.  He flicked a glance at Nirvana.  He said, “Yu' awl was here before?”

            Nirvana came back to awareness.  “Yes,” she realized she had no recollection of it.  Nothing.  They must have gone swimming.  She turned toward the Red Sea, and looked into the coiled darkness of her past.  The sun glistening off the water became a dancing campfire, on Ararat.  Daddy was petting her shoulder, telling her of the expeditions to come.  They were going to Siberia and Alaska, the next two summers, for woolly mastodons, to prove the great flood.  In between, they would winter in Mexico, at the Aztec ruins, and in three years, they would go to Egypt, in search of Pharaoh's Army.  She thought, I was nine, on Ararat.

            Jeri was fourteen.  She saw him in the campfire light of Ararat, arguing how to cut through the ice.  He was a strikingly good-looking young man, strong and tanned, un-intimidated.  Much like Doctor, Jeri’s comments were pronouncements, dogma.  Another memory came, slashing across the sparkling Red Sea waters, intruding into Nirvana’s recollection of Ararat.  It was Jeri’s face, his eyes bulging with fury, contorted with rage, highlighted in campfire light, warning her with words flung like bolts.  In half an instant, the memories had canceled one another out, leaving Nirvana with a blank face. 

            Truddle spoke without looking at her, “Dey awl' say yu' is mad at yo' daddy?”

            She saw Doctor in the television lights and spit out a bit of lingering rage.  “He is an ass.”

            “Yes, sir, dey is sum' daddies jus want no good to cum' to dey children’s.  My Daddy like dat.  Just afraid this boy might step out to a better place.  You take this trip.  I noo'ed it wouldn't be easy, but Daddy got nothin' good tu' say.  He say, 'A free trip, ha!  They want you for their man, that's all.’”

            Nirvana looked around, hoping that something would appear familiar.  They would have camped at this very spot.  She knew the terrain, at least from a map book perspective, well enough to teach it.  She remembered the Biblical references.  She remembered Arabic words.  Hello: Sa-alam.  Go with God: Ya-Allah. Chocolate:  shoko-la. God willing:  Insha’allah.  But everything else about this place was a dark blank nothing.  Nirvana said to Theodore Truddle, “And what do you think now?”

            Mr. Yee was laying out the tent stakes.  All of the others clung to the shade around the plane, which bobbed sideways at the shoreline of the Red Sea.  Theodore Truddle said, “Dey iz' in da' shade and ‘dis ol' boy is out here with da' hammer,” Truddle smiled and picked up the sledge.  Fine sand clung to the sweat on the handle and he wiped it on his pant leg.  “Dey awl' got sum part to say in what for, so I'll save da' judgment fo' a lit'l later on.”

            “Tomorrow, I'll ask you again,” Nirvana said. 

            Truddle brightened.  “Back home, dey' iz' jealous.  I was to California, to Texas and to Utah.  No other Truddle ever left the county, let alone Tennessee, and here I iz’, jus nineteen, an’ I been to awl dem’ states, jus’ cuz’ dey’ want me to play ball.  Fact, no other man, white or black, from Swelt Gully, everbeen on no T.V.  before me.  I pray, if it’s the will of the good Lord, I be playin’ ball next year and going to school on a scholarship.”

            “I think I understand,” Nirvana smiled. 

            Truddle smiled devilishly and looked sidelong to Nirvana.  “You ought not pare' your daddy 'long side no ass.”

            Nirvana said, “Oh?”

            Theodore Truddle smiled, “Yu' cast da' asper'sion on what da' Christ found some good use for,” and hilarity overcame them. 

            Two hundred-foot few away, Ortega and I studied a chart in the shade, where the wing of the airplane hung over the beach.  The others crowded under the wing, a raggedly column waiting to hear, if, we would be staying, or moving in the morning. 

      “Check out the chart,” Morris whispered to those around him.  “It is a satellite map.  What did I tell you?  C.I.A.”

            After several moments, Ortega led the group up on to the tiny mesa where Nirvana was standing, where Theodore Truddle was already pounding stakes.  Mr. Yee had already decided where to put the camp.  I followed, with a compass, and one of the flight charts.  I read the direction finder and pointed, “I'd say that is Mount Jabal.  It’s the same bearing I used coming to the shore.”

            Ortega Pinion pointed to the closest of the-foothills, “That is Pihahiroth.”

            “And the people of Israel,” Nirvana proclaimed loudly, “journeyed from Rameses to Succoth, on the route chosen by God: not through the way of the Philistines, but by way of the wilderness, to the Red Sea, against Baalzephon, they camped.  This place is Etham!” she pronounced with vigor. 

            Many of the students hoorayed.  Ashley told Nirvana, “Like wow! That was neat!  You sounded just like your father!” and Ashley ran to the plane. 

            Truddle studied Nirvana a moment, a shy smile creeping across his face.  He knew Nirvana hadn’t meant to be serious.  He cautioned her, “It comes rushing like a raging fire.”

            Nirvana told him, “I want no part of it.”

            Mr. Yee shouted from the door of the plane, “No running!  Heat is very dangerous.  Must work slow.  Tents must be set before sundown.  Yee will show which go where.  Personal gear must stay in aircraft until Yee say.” Pointing, poking, tugging at elbows, Mr. Yee organized them into crews.

            The tents were great circular affairs, light brown in color, with ceilings that touched the ground at the edges.  There were six tents: one for eating and meetings, one for foodstuffs and one for cooking, one for the equipment, and two for sleeping.  The sleep tents were set on either side of the eating tent, but angled to form a half circle.  The equipment tent was set directly opposite the eating tent, at a distance of thirty paces.  The kitchen tent lapped over the back of the eating tent. 

            I stood under the wing of the plane, watching the camp construction.  I asked Nirvana as she came into the shade “And so what do we do around here for fun?”

            Nirvana said, “Nothing.”

            I said, “Nothing?  There must be something.”

            Nirvana whined, “There’s hot rocks, snakes and wind.”

            I said, “What about those mines you pointed out?”

            Nirvana instructed, “The mines are farther then it looks.  Too far for walking.”

            I said, “Maybe, they will let us use the three wheeler.”

            Nirvana agreed, “If we have a vehicle, I’ll go with you, but I’m not hiking in this country.  A few miles may as well be a hundred, and worse, the book of Wisdom tells of twenty-three thousand Israeli deaths from snake bite in one day.”

            I said, “Maybe I'll stick close to the goose.”

            Nirvana teased, “The Israelis had their God too, only it was a golden calf.”

            I said, hinting anger, “I don't pray to the Goose.  I fly her.  And after she is unloaded, I am going to taxi her up near the camp and tie her down.”

            Nirvana asked, “You’re staying here the whole six weeks?”

            I told her, “Yeap.  I’m here on vacation.”

            We both smiled, as she told me, “Me too.”

            Something about the way she had said it pulled my gaze magnetically to her eyes.  Her calm, steely grays jolted me, mesmerizing me in less then a second.  She radiated, a playful, relaxed, very sensual energy.  She wasn’t even trying.  It was if the sun had softened her, even her hair.  “And for starters,” she was saying, “I’m going for a swim.”

            Contentedly, I watched her walk away, along the shoreline, her form, a rippling mirage like, in the radiating heat waves, disappearing into the silver glare along a slight rise.  “A swim in the right oasis could be something very special,” I said softly.

            Out of sight from the plane, Nirvana ran into the water with her clothes on.  Refreshed instantly, she noticed a dead fish.  The smell of it invaded her nostrils and she had to run.  She jogged a few hundred yards along the hard sandy beach to a place where the shore was clean. 

            She quickly shed her clothing, and as she lay her panties onto the pile, she noticed a tiny spiraled shell on sand.  It was perfectly glossed, with a wisp of pink lacing through it.  The shell was as glamorous as any pearl and perfectly empty.  She dropped it and ran into the water. 

            She swam out a short distance and turned in the water to look back to at the rugged beauty of the countryside.  Once again, she was taken aback by the lack of human activity: not a boat on the sea, not a structure on the shore, not a track.  A track?  Her breath froze in her lungs, as she realized there was set of tire marks on the ridge a quarter mile from where she was swimming. 

            There was no sign of the vehicle, but the tracks, seemed to disappear along the shoreline, near a small waddi.  She hadn't seen any tracks while she was jogging and it was troubling to her that whatever had made those marks could have come along while she was swimming out.  She decided she'd had enough swimming for one day.

            Her clothes were nearly dry by the time she swam back to the beach.  She slipped into her panties, fastened her bra and thought, thank God, six weeks of nothing, might be wonderful. 

            Two Arab men, in white tunics, with scarves across their faces, stood up from behind a weed-crested dimple of sand only a few-foot from Nirvana.  Her heart stopped, and dropped from her body, leaving her soul a bloodless, ashen gray.  She tried not to flinch, and she fought the reflex to back away, but something about-facing strange men while wearing only a bra and panties, left her weak. 

            They laughed and offered their hands, palms up, and stalked toward her with a slight flanking action.  She stepped back involuntarily, until her feet were in the water.  Her clothes were on the ground beyond them.

       “Would you mind handing me my pants?” She tried to sound friendly, unafraid.  “I charged that outfit to my father on the way over here.  He'll be furious if I misplace it the first time I wear it.”

            Still smiling, they moved to within grappling range, each taking off his scarf as if, to give her an opportunity to make a choice.  All she saw was teeth, velvet coated, brown and green, camouflaged, teeth. 

            They were close enough to her so that the odor of wet dogs and dirty sweat socks enveloped her. She burst, between them, and in an instant, was out of their grasp.  The sand near the beach was firm and smooth and in three seconds, Nirvana had covered twenty yards.  Then she started up the dune, angling in an arc back toward the plane.  A few hundred yards, a thousand strides and she would be safe. 

            The soft sand on the hill gave way under her feet and she knew she had made a dreadful mistake.  The beach would have been better. She tried to concentrate on the running and not the fear. She was scared and it was affecting her coordination.  Think of something besides the fear.  Get mad.  One the Arab men, tackled her around the feet, she went down, kicking, screaming and elbowing. 

            An instant later, a gritty hand clamped itself around her neck and jerked her bodily to her feet.  “You bastard,” she screamed, electrified with hatred and rage.  He slapped her face, a bone-jarring bolt that flung her strength away, leaving her helpless.  Too stunned to react, Nirvana watched him dumbfounded.  “You can't just do this,” she told him.  He slapped her face smartly.  She said, “I'm not even allowed to complain?”  Very deliberately, the man raised his hand, held it high a second.  Nirvana thought, if you hit me again, I going to get mad.  He slapped her.  

            Nirvana allowed her knees to buckle.  She could taste her own blood and could feel an insane rage surging up from her chest.  He jerked her to her feet the same instant the sky exploded as a jet fighter roared over them at fifty-foot level.  The Arab man glanced skyward and Nirvana ripped her knee into his groin with all of her might.  “Oh-weee,” he told her. Slack-jawed, he wavered, helplessly gripping her wrists. 

            Nirvana pounded another knee home and the man's skin whitened before her, and his eyes rolled back.  Nirvana jerked her right hand loose and hammered her hard little fist into his face.  He fell away and she was free and running.  The ridge top came into view and her legs were stretching out, feeling their rhythm.  The fear had gone.  She could see where they were preparing the camp, but nobody saw her, because they were looking at the jet that was circling around from the opposite direction. 

            The Arab jeep was suddenly in front of her. She crashed headlong into the passenger’s seat.  The driver grabbed her by the hair, and dragged her into the vehicle, and smashed her with his fist. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Fourteen

Home Sweet Home

 

 

 

My wife, Nirvana told me this, over and over, until I could feel her pain and taste her fear.  After being kidnapped, Nirvana awoke blindfolded and gagged, bound hand and-foot.  Her jaw hurt.  The ropes were tight and struggling was as painful, as it was useless.  She waited, alternating between a seething rage and uncoiled despondency. 

            A dozen odors were in the room, foreign perfume, man smell, spicy food and musty dust.  The carpet was thick and the room felt as if there were drapes hung on all the walls.  There was a sound and she sensed instantly that a man had entered the room. 

            Taking her shoulders, he rolled her onto her back.  Nirvana could smell his breath and feel his animal stare.  He lifted her bra above her breasts. 

            Reflexively, she tried to roll away.  He held something, like a short whip, and with it he whacked her sharply on the buttock.  The thin panty offered no protection and the pain was intense. 

            Quickly, it became a little game.  Each time he touched her breasts, Nirvana would jerk away.  When she did, the whip would come, slicing the stale air of the room, burning an intense lesson indelibly into her posterior.  Those times that she screamed through the gag, he would grunt his satisfaction and hit her again. 

            He enjoyed her pain, and the game went on until he tired of it.  When the game had ended, he pressed the whip under Nirvana’s nose, pinning her head to the carpet.  When she had caught her breath, the hand went disrespectfully to her breasts.  He played mean, with them. 

            After a few moments, he untied the rope that held her knees together.  The ankles remained tied.  He waited a moment to put his hand on her knee, and when he did, the whip moved away from her nose.  It coaxed her thighs apart and then he grasped her panties and he quickly pulled them down.  He grunted his approval and allowed her catch her breath. 

            A moment passed, or perhaps an hour.  Nirvana wasn't sure.  Fear had caused her lungs to quit functioning.  Her heart was pounding as if it was about to explode, and her head was so flushed, she was sure she would pass out. 

            He moved away.  A bottle expelled its cork and there came a gurgling sound accompanied by the refreshing bouquet of fruity wine.  She wished he would give her some.  Her sigh signaled him to begin again.  A hand moved up her leg toward her exposed sex.  Twice her thighs tried to close themselves, but Nirvana fought their reflex with all her strength.  The whip tapped a warning to her breasts. 

            When his fingers finally touched her, her breath came in great heaves.  The fear evaporated.  She felt far away, hidden safely behind the blindfold.  She remembered Jeri telling her, “You must wear a blindfold so they won’t know who you are.” She could not recall the game. 

            The man grunted his approval, removed her gag and blindfold.  It was dark in the room, except for a bright light that he shone in her face.  The fear came again and with it, an involuntary trembling.  The man pried open, an eye and pushed apart her lips and forced her mouth open. 

            His hands were strong and Nirvana could taste the salt on his fat fingers.  Tears began to run.  He inspected her hair.  Leave me alone, she wanted to scream, but fear held her like a vise.  She could not breathe.  Why my hair, she wanted to ask him.  God, she begged, make him stop.  At least give me back my blindfold. 

            A man’s voice called out, in the voice tone of a servant, “Ku.”

            “Maktabu.”

            The light flicked off and the gag and blindfold was replaced.  He left, and Nirvana settled into the layered carpet bed, a hopeless speck in a vacuum of sorrowful black nothing.  Jeri came to mind again, dipping his finger into a can of chocolate syrup, licking it, telling her, ‘so they won’t know who you are.’” They?  Who are they?

            She heard a faint creak as a door opened, and felt a woman's motion, accompanied by the scent of a strong perfume.  She helped Nirvana to sit up.  The gag came off and the woman whispered, “Ashaa.”  Nirvana understood dinner.   Then she said, “Zamrun, Garuisun.” The voice was old and spoke with kindness.  A strange wine touched Nirvana's lips. 

            Nirvana drank all that was offered, her exhausted brain racing to catch up.  Years ago, she spoke Arabic.  Zamrun.  Wine.  Garuisun?  Maiden?  Maid? Slave?

            Another woman came in.  “Gajuizun!  Patainun!”  The voice was young, pitiless and hateful.  The first woman quickly left.  Gajuizun.  Old woman.  The other word was an insult.  Ass? 

            “No garuisun,” the young woman said, inspecting Nirvana's face rough handedly.  She put the gag back on Nirvana and rolled her onto her stomach.  She said, “Garuziun,” again.  Garuisun.    Wife?

            A whip, like the one the man had used, pushed itself angrily against Nirvana's nose and a greedy hand removed Nirvana's ring from her finger.  Then off came the earrings and the watch.  The bra was unsnapped, but it wouldn't come off her shoulders, with the wrists tied. 

            “Gabdun,” the girl warned her. Slave.  Oh God, Nirvana felt her insides fall through her stomach.  A knee pressed against her back as the rope on Nirvana's wrists and was untied.  The bra came off and the rope was retied.  The angry young woman left. 

            An hour passed, or two hours, or fifteen minutes.  Nirvana could not tell.  The sound patterns changed after a time, and Nirvana realized, someone had opened a window.  She could hear animal sounds, dogs, goats and chickens.  A hint, of fresh air came, and with it, hope!

            Nirvana was feeling only slightly better when the man came in, again.  She remembered his whip and the tears began even before he touched her. She feared he would whip her to make her stop crying.  Jeremiah would hit me to make me stop crying, she remembered bitterly. 

            A moment later, the same young woman had returned, “Payyuhalmaliku.” She addressed him king, or some such, and was coaxing him.  The man answered with a smile in his voice.  Garuisun was one of the words he spoke.  Wife.  The young woman took him and Nirvana knew they wouldn't be back.  Time passed again. 

            The first realization Nirvana had was the pain in her fingertips.  The feeling in her hands was coming back.  The young woman hadn't tied the knot on her wrists as tightly as it had been.  Nirvana flexed her fingers until she had good feeling and then she went to work of the rope that bound her ankles.  She didn’t even try to un-tie the rope on her wrists.  The rope tying her ankles was hard and about a quarter of an inch in diameter.  It wrapped her ankles twice and the knot was in front.  Working the knot around to the back was pure agony.  The rope cut into her skin and soon was sticky wet with blood, but that was good, since the blood made the rope turn easier.  The sound of the door caused her to freeze. 

            The young woman was there again.  “Gabdun,” she kicked Nirvana.  “Gabdun kullun kullurrijaili.” Slave to men, to all men?  The woman spit and kicked Nirvana again and when she left, Nirvana worked ferociously.  The knot was hard but it came undone after a few moments and Nirvana was on her feet. 

            She moved carefully, silently, feeling her way with an out stretched-foot.  She made her way through a narrow, thickly carpeted hall, toward the sounds, the smell of the fresh air.  “Walk by faith, not by sight,” she whispered her father’s words resolutely.  She had managed only a few steps when the sounds, or perhaps the vibrations of-foot steps, told her that someone was coming along behind her in the same corridor. She goose-stepped ahead, struggling to hold the panic she felt at bay. 

            She found a window by feeling wall.  The window was waist high, but open only a few inches.  With her hands tied behind her back, Nirvana tried to lift it.  It was stiff and her tied-at-the-wrist arms refused to bend into the required motion.  The-footsteps were coming closer, and with them, panic and fear.  Nirvana clutched the window with all of her strength and lifted herself on tiptoes.  The window-crept up a few inches.  It wasn’t high enough, she knew. 

            The-footstep vibrations stopped a few-foot away.  “Hay, ahh,” a man shouted.  Jumping from a bent knee position, Nirvana managed to slap the window up an inch or so.  She spun around and hooked the bottom of the stubborn pane with side of her nose.  Rotating her neck, she raised the window a few more inches.  The-footsteps were tromping toward her. 

            The hallway felt dark, but Nirvana knew that who ever it was would trip over her in another second or two.  She twisted her neck with all her might.  Either the window would open or she would lose her nose trying. 

            The window inched upward, enough for her to squeeze her head under it.  With all of her might, she lifted it with her neck.  The-footsteps were upon her.  Nirvana dove out head first into the darkness, dragging a frail curtain with her. 

            She landed haphazardly upon a crowd of sheep and goats.  They scattered noisily, starting the dogs and chickens.  The wind was howling at hurricane strength and the blowing sand blasted her naked body like pin pricks.  Clutching the curtain behind her, Nirvana ran for dear life. 

            By cocking her head back, she could see the moon lighted sand underneath the blindfold.  She ran in a headlong panic up a steep sided creek bed.  When she tripped, she got up and ran again.  She wanted desperately to hide from the stinging sand, to stop and lie down, but she ran, venting her pain with screams into the gag.  She ran until she dropped from exhaustion, and when she had rested, she got up and ran again until the mountain became too steep for running. 

            By then, the wind had abated.  The air was silent and the moonlight was bright upon her feet.  Far away, a dog barked.  Safe for the moment, she went to work on the rope that bound her hands.  It cut quickly enough on a sharp rock and she was finally able to throw off the blindfold and the gag.  She spit and took in her desolate surroundings.  She complained to the heavens, “What a hell of a night.” She swore under her breath, “God, I pray to meet that guy again when I have the whip!”

            She wrapped the silky curtain around her waist and happily discovered the blindfold made a top.  She was apparently on one of the-foothills below Mount Jabal.  The Red Sea was visible, sparkling invitingly in the distance.  The view was quite good.  Spectacular, she thought.

            In the morning, she could find the camp.  For the moment, her feet were bleeding, she was dog-tired and the night air was cold.  She began to look for shelter and found a dog-house-sized cave under a rock out crop.  The air was warmer in the cave and the sandy floor invited a luxurious sleep.  She lay on her back, caught her breath and thought about what she would do in the morning. 

            Every fiber, of her ached.  Her only respite came from the blackness of the cave: it comforted her, offered her a shield to hide behind, like a blindfold.  In her mind, Jeri and his can of chocolate syrup came, hovering near her in the darkness, spreading a warm blanket over her. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Fifteen

Old News

 

 

 

Back in the San Diego, Fleming found Dr. Stampell in his study, growing ever more impatient with each passing hour.  “Has my passport arrived?” Stampell questioned as Fleming entered.

            Fleming said quickly, “No.  Mr. Yee expressed it from Cairo yesterday.  It will be two more days before we have it.”

            Stampell looked to the darkened fireplace.  “What is it then?”

            Fleming began carefully, “If you care to listen, I feel can explain some things about Nirvana.”

            “There is nothing to explain.  She is God's problem now, not mine.”

            Fleming braced himself up, “Do you remember the summer we first sent Jeremiah to the institution?”

            “I do,” Stampell said deliberately to the fireplace.

            “And the events that proceeded our decision?” 

            Stampell looked to Fleming.  “We were tested, but prevailed.  That summer we signed of our first multiple year television contract.”

            “We signed that contract the same day we made the decision to get Jeremiah professional help.”

            Dr. Stampell said, “What is the point all of this?”

            “We were busy that summer, you and I.  Too busy.  And, we were busy the summer before, and the summer before that, and the fall and the winter, and all the summers previously.  We, you and I, have been too busy for either of those children since the moment of her birth.  Think about it!   Nirvana was born, you went into Southern Bible Seminary and I came out here to find this place.  And ever since, we've both been too busy.  Face it, we failed the children miserably and we are guilty of the sin of omission.”

            “Guilty of omission?” Stampell was befuddled.  “Of what omission are we guilty?  The devil himself went after our son and Nirvana’s misery was self-inflicted.”

            Fleming barked, “Those events were beyond our control, yours and mine, dear Maitland, not because of the intervention of the devil, but because we were too busy with our own agendas.  We were guilty of the sin of excess.  You with your contracts, your preaching, even the healing.  And I, with my telephone, the mail, anything but the children.  They had no friends; no guidance; no father, no mother.  These grounds became their prison.  Mischief was-”

            Doctor Stampell barked, quickly, “Seal those lips!  Get behind thee Satin!”

            Fleming stated, “Satin does not speak from these lips.” He snarled, causing Doctor Stampell to recoil into his chair.  “This time, I say what I think!  God loves you and you certainly perform His work and I am blessed to be your friend, but by God, when I think of that last summer, of what we put her through.”

            Stampell countered, “Were we supposed to let her kill herself?  We couldn’t watch her twenty four hours a day.”

            Fleming said thankfully, “She doesn’t seem to remember that summer.  Perhaps, she doesn’t remember any of them.”

            Doctor Stampell said, “What do you mean, doesn’t remember?”

            Fleming taught, “She has lapses in her memory.  Whole years are gone.  And worse, the treatments apparently destroyed her life’s inventory.  This is what I have been trying to tell you: when she left here, she wasn’t sure who we were.  She didn’t understand that this was home.  You were just another doctor and these grounds, just another clinic.  Years after she had left us, it was the clicking of a typewriter that made her recall her time spent with me.  As time went on, her childhood seems to have filled in.  She remembers the tent revivals quite well, for instance.”

            Doctor Stampell became defensive, “Those treatments weren’t supposed to affect her memory.  The doctor told me that it was the equivalent of smacking the side of a television set to fix a loose connection.”

            Fleming set up and jabbed, “I remember quite well asking him how the procedure worked and I recall he had no firm explanation.”

            Doctor Stampell said huffily, “So, is this another sin you lay at my door, Pilate?”

            Fleming said, “Maitland, I haven’t tried to wash my hands of anything.  As I stated to you, at the time, I was the wrong person to ask about revolutionary medical treatments, given my experience as a youngster.”

            Doctor Stampell lectured, “Your experience was a legal aberration, not a medical procedure.”

            Fleming defended, “To answer your question, as to laying sins at your door, I remain without objectivity as regards this matter, and I hold no charge against you for trying to save her life.”

            Stampell said quickly, “Thank you.  What were you were saying about her memory?”

            Fleming hung his head, “At the time Nirvana disappeared, her only friends in the world, were the two girls who worked at the institute, Julie and Dionne.  Everything else, was confused.  She became angry with us when they were injured, because Nirvana knew we, you and I, had sent Jeremiah to be with them.  There may have been other factors, but I didn’t probe.”

            Stampell said smugly, “She had presence of mind to buy the car.”

            Fleming told the doctor, “She understood how the credit cards worked because I had taken her shopping on her return from the institute.”

            Stampell muttered, “I don’t see how I am to blame for any of this,”

            Fleming wagged his finger, “Nirvana may not remember, but I do, from the moment it all started.  She came crying to you, a very confused little girl, in terrible pain from the rape, bleeding profusely, and you handed her off to me so you could find Jeremiah, to forgive him.”

            Fleming had hit a nerve.  Stampell warned, “You have said enough.”

            Fleming indicted, “We were guilty!  Guilty, of failing, in our duties, to those children.  Guilty of excess, in our zeal, for the Lord!  The devil saw this, and went on his way, knowing full well, that our charges would find mischief, even in his absence.  The Bible says, it is an infidel who abandons his children.”

            “Seal those lips,” Dr. Stampell commanded.

            Fleming snarled, “You hear some truth!”  He snapped up Stampell's whiskey glass and poured himself a shot.  “Nirvana came here on the day that you returned from Ararat,” he shook with pent-up rage.  Fleming leaned into Stampell's face, poured and gulped again at the fiery courage he would need to finally say it.  Stampell snatched the glass, poured and drank.

            “You'll need another,” Fleming warned.  “She told me that she doesn’t pray!  She told that she dhasn’t since she left here!”

            Doctor Stampell put his fingers to his chin,  “How can that be?”

“Even more distressing, when I told her that Jeremiah was coming home, she said, ‘I feel so filthy, when I hear his name!’  Why do suppose she said that?”

            “Her mouth is vile,” Stampell said. 

            “You don't know,” Fleming hissed.  He forcefully pried the glass from Stampell's fingers and poured himself another hefty snort.  Gulping, he cleared his throat.  “It’s all clear to me now.  My depression hasn’t been clinically cured.  My memory is perfectly clear.  And what I remember is days on end, when I never left my desk.  And where were you?  Mexico?  Africa?  Egypt?  Thank God, that Nirvana has forgotten most of it.  Her entire adolescence was erased from her consciousness by those treatments.  All she has left of it is bad dreams, and, God forgive me, I told her nothing.  It’s time you faced the truth: Nirvana’s mouth is vile for the perversions that Jeremiah forced upon her.”

            Leaping to his feet, Stampell slugged Fleming with all his might, sending the thin old frame crashing into the corner.  “Stand up and I will knock you down again,” Stampell glowered.  “Its ‘your turn to hear some truth.  Before they put her under for that first treatment, I went in to see her.  I showed her the pill bottle, the suicide note, ‘God has betrayed me!’ and I begged her, ‘How could God betray a sixteen year old?’  She told me, ‘You know God so well, why don’t you ask him?’ and then she clamed up.” Stampell petered out, “As it turned out, that was the last time she ever spoke to me, until the other night.”

            Fleming rose carefully to his feet, “Even to this day, she doesn’t fully understand herself.”

            Stampell preached, “Her confusion comes from twenty years of living in sin.  She finds herself a widow without ever having had the sanctity of marriage.”

            “Widow for you is a cold, hateful word.  It is not a word you should use.  I have noticed it before.  You say the word as if the mourning woman is a criminal, sentenced to a lonely bed for some crime you assume is in evidence.  Widow comes from the Sanskrit: it means empty.  The word should invoke pity.  An emotion you are without.  That morning in Mexico, when you left Nirvana bleeding on my lap, you showed your true strip.  You ran to forgive Jeremiah, not for the sake of forgiveness, but to make sure he would be ready for the medal awards ceremony. 

            Nirvana’s charge against you the other night was precisely on target.  You are a hypocrite.  You seek the glory of men and that damned medal proves it.  You left your own child, bleeding in a tent, and went off to see that foundling bastard collect his little piece of gold plated brass for the sake of your own glory among men.  You have no pity in you, not even, for your own daughter, and without pity, you can’t have love, and without love, you are incapable of fulfilling the Lord’s greatest commandment.”

            “To think I traded my wife for that child,” Stampell complained. 

            Fleming snarled, “Take no credit where none is due,” and he hammered Stampell with a low flung, sidearm right that nearly tore his head off.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Sixteen

Workers

 

 

I staggered from my airplane, at the camp in Egypt, my head throbbing, from the excessive Jim Beam I had consumed the night before.  Moaning, I said, “Ortega, what is that stink?” I stumbled into Ortega, who was studying his charts at a fold-up card table under the wing of the seaplane.  “Some party,” I complained, my blurry eyes fighting to focus on the map. 

            Ortega warned, “Careful.  You will compromise my efforts.”

            “Sorry.  Aaahh,” I screamed, as flop-eared goat dashed between my legs pursued by a dog.  A brown skinned boy, stick in hand, pursued the dog.  I shook my head and covered my eyes, against the bright sun.  Peeking through my fingers, I took in the scene around my airplane. 

            A dozen vehicles of every description, old cars, trucks, goat carts, surrounded the airplane.  Directly in front of the airplane, a gigantic six axle, one hump bus anchored tents on three sides.  Makeshift tents connected crazily to all the vehicles, many of which appeared in various states of disrepair.  Black goats and dirty sheep were everywhere.  Dogs, chickens and children inundated the open spaces and everywhere else, swarming mists of black flies hung in the air.

            Three separate campfires supported various enterprises.  Old women stirred laundry in a great steel pot.  Others hung clothing on ropes strung from the airplane's wing.  Others were cooking.  In the shade of a tent flap, two walrus mustached men puffed a gurgling water pipe.  A cluster of Arab men worked under the hood of a truck, speaking machine-gun bursts of Arabic. 

A swarm of children with sticks, chased a heavy leather ball, swarmed over us, in a swirl of dust, and screams.  “Get lost,” I yelled.  I then asked Ortega, “How in the hell will I ever get out of here?”

            A black-eyed little boy, perhaps twelve, peered out from my airplane.  “Bonjour,” the child said cheerfully. 

            “Bonjour' my ass.  Get out of my airplane!”  I shouted.  The boy disappeared into the depths of the plane.  “Teg, where in the hell did these people come from?”

            Ortega Pinion smiled contentedly.  “They are the fellahin, workers.  They arrived this morning at sun up.  I suspect they followed the truck from Cairo.”

            The expeditions' rented truck was parked near the tents.  Nearby, the divers were busy: inflating rubber boats, preparing their scuba gear.  Others were unloading the truck. 

            A column of Egyptian army, four troops, led by an officer, marched through the center of the camp, followed by a raggedly column of Arab children.  Major Sa’aid, the officer from the Cairo airport, led his column to the seaplane.  With supreme exasperation, he said, “Cap'pee'tan Webb'burr, diz simz’ tu’bee’ sum’ question a’boot contraband Key’tuck’kee wisk’kee.”

            I was in no mood to argue.  I quickly retrieved a Jim Beam bottle from the airplane and handed it over to Major Sa’aid, saying, “I’ll keep a close eye.  If, I happen to see another bottle, I’ll make sure it’s turned in tomorrow.”

            “Diz’ wone pleased to see sum'won' iz´ree'ponse'si'bale.” Sa’aid then said, to no one in particular, “Americans, are like the British, the French and the Italians, from whence they came, but without the literacy of British, the good taste of the French or the romance of the Italians,” Smiling, Sa’aid marched his troops away, with the Jim Beam bottle in hand.”

            Ortega watched Sa’aid march off, then he handed me a cup of coffee and went back to studying his charts.  Ortega warned, “Sa’aid is attached to the Antiquities Department.  He'll make a showing every day.”

            I sat at the table.  “There anything to eat?”

            “Fruit and dry cereal.  Mr. Yee won't cook unless he has helpers.”

            I grumbled, “So what’s the plan?”

            “No serious work will be accomplished until Doctor arrives.  His passport was on-board your airplane.”

            I guessed, “So he’s stuck in the states?”

            Ortega commented, “Mr. Yee expressed it back from Cairo, but it will be a few days before Doctor Stampell arrives, I’m sure.”

            I told him, “I thought you had some ideas about where to dig?”

            “That formation,” Ortega gestured to the small mesa where we had pitched the tents, “Is inconsistent with my research.”

            “What kind of map is that?” I noted the classified stamp on one corner.  “What are those dark lines?”

            Ortega pointed with a pencil, “Roads, most of them.  This one here is the one we are camped by.  This printout is a radar survey showing the relative density of surface soils.  Roads show up as darkened lines because the soil is packed hard.”

            I requested, “Show me the problem.  Charts are one of my strong suits.”

            A girl child, veiled, ornately dressed and heavily jeweled, came to us, silently offering thin cakes on a polished bronze platter.  In the background, several women, clad in colorful, multiple layered dresses, watched intently behind their veils.  Men were watching too, from where they were working on the engine of a rusted out truck. 

            Ortega whispered, “Standup and bow.” Ortega accepted the gift.  “Merci,” he said to the child. 

            “U vellkome,” the child scurried back to her mother. 

            The cakes were date flavored and very sweet.  “Good,” I gulped another cup of coffee.  “Was that German or English the kid spoke?”

            The professor said, “I detect, a cross-fertilization of languages.  This clan represents a marked expansion of cultural horizons, expressing it self, in syncretistic trends.  Consider those men working on that truck.”

            “Yeah.” I ate another cake, and flicked a glance toward the men. 

            Ortega guessed I had missed the point.  “Their work suits are army fatigues from three different armies: English; Israeli; Egyptian, and the tools are from an American Sherman tank.”

            I said, “This piece of the world has seen a lot'ta wars.”

            Ortega was troubled, and he said, “Yes, but on other grounds, I find this tribe rather mysterious.  They are characterized, by highly unusual egalitarian life style.  Item: the first child spoke French.  This is Egypt, a former English possession.  The only French, around here, is Libya.”  

            I said, “So what?” 

            Ortega took me to school, “How did they come to be here?  Are they displaced innocents?  Political refugees?  A reasonable hypothesis would state they maybe bandits on-the-run, fleeing from the authorities.  A serpiginous political fraction? Or, perhaps, without vitiating their collective worth, are they autochthonous, in this region.  Some heuristic research, would certainly yield an interesting article or two. 

That large bus, seems to be their tribal their social anchor, but I would be remiss if I didn’t state my wonderment when observing it!  It could be an ostentatious display, but I wonder aloud, it may be something more!

Being unable to survive on minerals, and not being afflicted with entropy, it is not immoral feeding on other life forms.  Even their willingness, to share their social environs, with us, in such close proximity, marks a milestone of sorts, for cultures indigenous to this region.  Other clans, hereabouts, would consider our scantily dressed females nothing but harlots; our liquor-consuming men, infidels.”

            I said, “Infidels?”

            Ortega again schooled, “Many Arab sects consider it no sin to kill an infidel.”

            I wasn’t impressed.  “Show me the problem,” and I shifted my attention to the map. 

            Ortega saw it was a waste of time to explain the significance of the matter to a flyer.  “Very well, I’ll try to explain the chart.”  He pointed, “The white area along here is the Red Sea.  Following the shoreline, you can, perhaps, discern the edges are nearly black.  The blackness is caused from the water lapping the shoreline, making the sand denser and harder with each passing year.”

            “Ah-huh” I tried to sound agreeable. 

            Ortega shifted his pencil, “Moving to this area along here, you may agree with my observation, that the shoreline edges aren't quite as dark.”

            I said, “Yeah.”

            Ortega was in his element, “I think the lighter shoreline means it’s a newer formation.”

            I said flatly, “Huh.”

            Ortega questioned me, “Can you see this lightest line along the light shoreline?”  I mumbled my understanding.  “The black line next to the lightest line is this road, and the lightest line probably represents this ridge.  Okay.  See this dark line over here where it curves around and touches the edge of the Red Sea, here and here.”

            I grumbled, “Ah huh.”

            Ortega hammered home his point, “I suspect this dark line is an old shore line.”

            I could see the difference, “Ah-huh.”

            Ortega lectured, “Moving right along, this is the most interesting aspect of my theory: Notice the area between what I have labeled the old shore line and the road.  It’s the same shade as the top of the ridge.”

            I said, “Got it.  So what does it all mean?”

            The professor spoke, “I suspect, some unknown phenomenon raised up this area: an earthquake, perhaps.  Or possibly, it’s a heretofore un-detected event associated with the construction of the Suez Canal.  I suspect, that no one has ever found any evidence of Pharaoh's army because they were looking under the Red Sea.  I believe Pharaoh is buried here, right where we are standing.”

            I was anxious to get started, “So what's the problem?  Let's dig!”

            Ortega complained, “They all,” he motioned to the students, “are preparing to look under the water.  To dive, to play and to take core samples.  All a ludicrous waste of time with hand held equipment.” Ortega flipped his protractor to stick it’s point into the folding table.  “Rubber boats,” he said contemptuously.  “It’s, embarrassing to be here.  A serious effort would require a minimum of a 200-horse power propeller-wash and a stationary work platform of sufficient capacity to support such an operation.  Dr. Stampell, is my benefactor, but, I have to say it for the record: he is sloppy compared to other professionals; his students are invariably untrained, bottom of the barrel dimwits.  Most of them are here because someone was willing to pay Doctor to baby-sit them for the summer.”

            I said, “Didn't you tell me, that you had dug for him?”

            Ortega became defensive, “That time is gone.  At present, I would rather dig ditches, than pervert the science of archeology, under Doctor's direction.  To the point, I only came, because I thought, I might be able to prove my theory to him.”

            I said, “I see.”

            Ortega whined, “For now, I am without firm evidence to support my theory and I lack the authority to direct these students, to help me initiate an inquiry.”

            I volunteered, “I'll help you, and hey, we got these guys,” I waved to the Arabs. 

            “Right,” Ortega said dejectedly.  He didn't trust the Arabs, but he didn't feel like talking to me about it.  He told me, that he suspected, his ill feeling towards them, was based in what he perceived as their lack of authenticity.  Until he understood how they had came to be here, I knew he wouldn't be comfortable with any face they showed him. 

            I demanded, “So, why aren't we starting?”

            Ortega was a mental gymnast, “It just irritates me that I can't find this outcrop on the survey,” Ortega waved his hand at the flat-topped hillock that we had set our tents upon.  “In my experience, it is impossible, for an event such as a highly localized, uplift, to occur in the time frames we are dealing with.  And there are, other significant minutia, of fact to contend with.  The soil, in the immediate vicinity of the uplift, differs significantly, from surrounding soils.  It is course sand, versus silt.  Sand like you would expect to find beneath the old sea bed silt.”

            “Ah ha,” I checkmated.  “The rock did rise.  An earthquake.  An-uplift.  Whatever.  And the silt that was above it was blown away by the wind, leaving only the course sand.”

            Ortega said, “And now you see the final problem.  If it happened, as you have supposed, how come not a single artifact is near the surface?  The artifact level would have been above the course sand.  And finally, it ought to appear on this satellite radar chart, black as the ace of spades.”

            Theodore Truddle came to us, laughing, “Yes sir, you all' callin'.”  A large sheepdog tagged along behind Truddle.  A wide headed, dark beast of a dog, with bear-like fir and snout to match, she dog sniffed each of us, then settled down alongside Truddle. 

            To the dog, Truddle looked and sounded like his former master, the old goat-herder, the large African Negro from the Southern tribe, who had fallen dead before the loud stick.  The unemployed sheepdog followed the Arab clan, because these were his sheep. 

            I told him, “We're talking about a rock.”

            Truddle told me,  “Ain't many black rocks 'round here.  But if I see any, I'll be surr' to let you know.” He could tell by our pained expressions he was off the track.  “Well, yes sir,” he said, “I didn't come to talk ah' bout black rocks.  It was black girls that gots' my attention.”

            “Girls?” I perked up.

            “These here,” Truddle, motioned to the Arabs, “has got a black girl.  I was up real soon this mornin', my gut aching with da' heaves, n' I was watchin' all these here packing in their goods, and I see her.  Dey’ treat her like a dog.”

            Ortega said cautiously, “Our standards are foreign here.  I saw the girl, too.  How they treat her is a matter of relativity.”

            Truddle told us, “I don't think they is her relatives.  She looked at me and this old gal whipped her just for looking.”

            “Two Ton, you must be careful,” Ortega said.  “The black-girl, is a woman here.  She could be a second or third wife, and therefore subject, to discipline according to custom.  If, you even speak to another man's wife over here, you're inviting a serious problems.”

            I was doubtful, “Oh com'mon.”

            Ortega lectured, “According to the Middle Assyrian Laws, a man who kisses the wife of another has his lower lip excised with a blade.”

            “A kiss?” I paled.  “What do they cut off for nooky?”

            Truddle said,  “That ain't what I had in mind.  All I was trying to tell you was what I saw.”

            Ortega warned, “Two Ton, that woman is someone's wife, and if she isn't, you don't want her.”

            Truddle feigned some slight surprise and shifted his attention to the dog, petting and scratching him.  He said, “And so your degree makes you an expert on da’ love life, too?”

            Ortega bristled, “She's Zulu.  She wears the mark of a king’s wife.  She is most certainly here according to the custom of her people.  Believe me, if she felt like leaving, she would slit every throat in the camp and she would leave.  And she would eat you for breakfast, if she had the urge.”

Truddle rolled back the sheepdog's lip, lowered his hulk down for a closer examination.  He plucked a festered thorn from the inside of the lip and squeezed the flesh until the infectious fluid ran blood red.  Truddle said, “Well, I gots’ a feelin' these here ain't what 'dey look.” He laid the thorn on Ortega's chart and sauntered away. 

            I said, “Eating Truddle for breakfast would be a big order,”

Ortega countered, “A woman from that tribe will use a man like most people use a rented mule.  She would work him all day and screw him all night, and if he couldn't perform, she'd whip him until he could.”

            Lance came around the wing of the plane, smiling a Cheshire cat grin, twirling a wooden ring on one finger.  “Was he telling you about that black girl?” he asked.  “She gave me this.” He handed the ring to Ortega, who tested it. 

            It was two inches in diameter, pencil thin, carved from extremely hard wood.  On one side, the ring had been cut through, so that it could be opened up when forced apart with two-handed force.  The hardness of the wood was nearly unyielding and the ring sprung back to its tightly closed position even as Ortega fought it.  He handed it back to Lance.  “It’s a nose ring or a lip ring.”

            “A lip ring,” Lance gingerly touched his lip.  “It would hurt.”

            “Not after an hour or two,” Ortega explained.  “It’s worn on the high side of the mouth, here.  It would pinch off the circulation.  In a few days, you'd have a hole in your lip, like a pierced ear.”

            Lance said, “Not this dude.”

            Ortega lectured, “Traditionally, these aren't worn by choice.  For centuries, in this part of the world, they've been used to control slaves.  Put a lip ring in a man and a child can lead him around like a puppy.”

            “Well, I wonder why that Dudette flipped this to me?” Lance wandered back the way he had came.

            Swallowing hard, I turned quickly back to the charts.  “So that little mesa ought to show up black, huh?”

            Ortega added the lip ring to his mental file on the tribe.  “The satellite radar penetrates the ground to a depth of six-foot.  The mesa is solid rock three-foot down.  It ought to show up on the survey.”

            I said, “To hell with the rock.  You said the ridge, was pushed up by an earthquake.  So why not the rock?”

            Ortega was perplexed, “The ridge is at least a thousand years old.  The rock, who knows?”

            I said, ignoring the excuses, “Where do we dig?”  

            “The ridge, I guess,” Ortega said half-heartedly.  “This low area has probably received several-foot of blow sand over the years.  The ridge would be subject to opposite effects.  Sand blowing off the ridge would make any relics buried there conversely nearer the surface.”

            I stood up, thinking I was ready to begin.  “God,” I said, my hand on my forehead, “my head is going to explode.  How about we start tomorrow?”

            “Fine,” Ortega agreed.

            I said, “You seen Shortfuse?”

            Ortega said, “No.  I thought she was with you.”

            I was certain he was lying.  Nirvana was probably asleep, in his cot and now I knew why Ortega hated her: a woman so potent that she could change a man’s blood pressure with a wink, while walking off to sleep with another, was deserving of hate.  Nirvana was the stuff of fantasies, a dangerous, heart-breaking flirt.  My last woman had been the same.  Eye contact, in a bar, a shared drink, and a night of passion.  In morning, she was gone, along with my watch and cash.  Whores were cheaper and easier on the head, I had decided.

            Ashley Burbank putted by on the Honda three-wheeler, an Arab child clutching her neck for dear life, followed by a screaming horde of them.  She called, “There is so much these kids have never seen.”

            Watching Ashley putt away, I said adoringly, “Kiss me, kiss me; kiss me.”

            Ortega asked me, “I beg your pardon?”

            I teased, “Can't you hear them.  Ashley's breasts are calling me.”

            Ortega said, “That's some remnant of your adolescent hormones, you hear calling you, not Ashley's breasts.”

            “Well, then, it’s Ashley's hormones, calling to mine,” I countered.

            Ortega chuckled, “Perhaps an allergy pill will help.”

            I challenged him, “Are you some sort of a saint? Are you saying you never fool around with your students?”

            Ortega recollected a moment.  “I am what I am.  As for sampling the favors of a student half my age, the idea pleases me much in speculation, but not at all in practice.  They, women, all of them, are all deceitful bitches.”

            Flabbergasted, I searched the blue sky with upturned palms for some sign of divine assistance, but what I saw wasn’t to my liking.  “Now here's somebody else,” I moaned as two fit young men dressed in coarse white tunics emerged from the cook tent.  Mr. Yee was pointing them toward my airplane. 

            Smiling broadly, they came to me.  They carried white cloth nap sacks, containing dried fish.  The fisherman said, “Good day.  We have excellent smoked fish and we appreciate opportunity to make a trade on you.” Ortega laid down his protractor and inspected the fish.  The fisherman said, “These smoked on Tamarisk.  They are the very best,” assuring us.

            “They are good,” Ortega agreed, sampling a bit that was offered. 

“One sack for a bottle of whiskey?” I asked him.  We completed the trade quickly, shook hands and when they had gone, I turned to Ortega, and said, “That guy had hands like a woman.”

            “You better go to town,” Ortega broke a fish and watched the fisherman walk away.

            “I meant that the fisherman’s hands were soft.”

            “Unfortunately, I don’t have time for additional social studies, but I would venture this is an interesting story, with more to it than just soft hands.  I too, noticed his teeth.  Not a cavity.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Seventeen

The Insolence of Kings

 

 

 

Nirvana told me that had she awoke slowly to the friendly sound of buzzing flies.  The air was pleasantly warm.  Her first thought was to make some coffee.  Then the pain made her remember. She wasn’t at home on the veranda, Mike was dead and she was in the cave, flat on her back. 

            Her lips had chapped and split during the night.  Hundreds of flies were lapping at the blood, probing her mouth and swarming around her.  Hundreds of them were on her body, but she was too exhausted to move.  Opening her eyes required more strength then she possessed.

            She hurt everywhere.  Charley horses throbbed on her thighs where the man had whipped her. She remembered his name was Ku and she remembered her prayer to meet him again, when she had the whip.  That prayer would have to wait, but Nirvana was sure it would be answered in time.  She rested awhile and took stock.  Her feet hurt, her legs were cramped and she was hungry.  She shifted herself slightly and instantly knew something heavy and very foreign was touching her, between her tights. 

            She held herself steady for a moment, trying desperately to stay calm.  Whatever it was, she tried to convince herself, if it had meant to harm her, it would have already done so.  She took a breath and with all of her strength, she lifted her head.  A shadowy, half-light filtered in from the cave entrance.  Except for the toes of her feet, her body was in the shadows.  The only thing she could see clearly was the tips’ of her toes. 

            All she could see was the vague outline of her legs, but between them, was completely in the dark.  Maybe she had imagined it, she hoped.  The darkness around her made it all the worse. 

            Her stomach muscles finally gave out and her head fell back heavily to the ground.  She rested and for a time and tried to convince her-self it was a Rabbit, but in her heart, she knew it wasn't.  It was too heavy.  There was only one thing it could be and it was too horrible to imagine. 

            Nirvana had to know for sure.  She carefully rolled her hips to the left, raising her right hip ever so slightly.  She held her legs perfectly still.  Her legs would rotate with her hips, transferring its weight to her left leg.  Its response to her movement would probably give some clue to what it was.  Or wasn't, she hoped, inching her hip a tiny bit higher. 

            The feeling came suddenly, coursing along the tender, sensitive skin of Nirvana's inter-thighs.  There came a subtle transfer of weight, a mysterious feeling of movement without motion.  From her upper calf to her lower stomach, prickled nerves signaled their alarming report.  “A snake,” Nirvana whispered aloud. 

            She felt herself fall back uncontrollably, her buttock seemingly pounding against the soft sand.  It took all the strength she could summon to stifle the scream her lungs begged to expel.  Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, sending the blood racing though her throbbing temples.  Her dry throat contracted threateningly.  Her legs began to quiver, shaking uncontrollably, bucking.  My God, she thought, it’s going to kill me.  

            It moved and before she could help herself, she raised her head to see.  Her feet had parted, allowing light to pass between them.  The heavy bodied monster was silhouetted clearly in the rays of the early morning sun.  The scales of the snake, glistened, giving the creature a surreal, almost halo effect.

            The body of the snake lounged along her thighs, completely filling the depression between her legs.  The fat, wide head lay centered on her pelvis, with the deathly black eyes staring blankly ahead.  Black chevrons with yellow crescents marked the head and body. 

            A moment passed slowly and the massive head began to move, to raise itself a fraction of an inch.  The split-tongue flicked out, tasted, and in a heartbeat, the head rose level with Nirvana's face.  The movement was so quick there wasn't time to flinch. 

            Nirvana felt the fear flow out of her like so much basin water down the drain.  The snake possessed an absolute fearlessness, far superior to any other creature Nirvana had ever encountered.  This snake was king in its lair and it conducted itself accordingly.  Its stare inflicted a strange, deathly calm.  Nirvana wondered how many innocent creatures had died, with this vision their last.  The calmness lasted less than a second. 

            The head began to suck air, expanding the body.  The jaw opened and crooked fangs folded deliberately down from the roof of the mouth.  From their hollow points, honey clear venom began to drip, one excruciating drop at a time.  Nirvana closed her eyes.  She knew she couldn't stand to see the strike. 

            The head hissed a throaty introduction.  Puffer Adder.  A rush of blood exploded into Nirvana's brain, sending her swirling around and down, into a bottomless chasm to peaceful oblivion.  Her consciousness followed, gradually, thankfully, into darkness of the swirling pit.

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                                                   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Eighteen

Skunks

 

 

 

Theodore Truddle left Ortega and I under the wing of the plane and wandered over to the tents, the large ugly sheepdog, a pace behind him.  Ashley and Bucky were setting up a clothesline and he stopped to help them.  As he fastened the rope, the dog took one end of the rope and backed away, steadying the pole. 

            “Who's your friend,” Ashley asked.  “He's pretty smart.”

            Truddle tied off the rope.  “I guess he's his own.” He patted the dog.

            The dog responded to the pat with a determined effort to wipe off either side of his snout with his paws.  “He might be his own,” Gutshank said, coming on the scene with Lance in tow, “but he don't like your black ass smell.  He acts like he's been sprayed by a skunk.”

            “That's mean,” Ashley said.  “TT is as sweet as he can be and a perfect southern gentlemen,” she touched Truddle's arm.  “Tweren't none of you Yankees to be seen, when we ladies needed help.” Truddle glanced at her hand, her dancing, dangerous eyes, and he backed into the cook tent, dry mouthed and speechless.

            Lance winked at Ashley, saying, “See you later. . .” 

            Painted on the tent flap was a white square, lettered with black letters.  ‘In Mr. Yee’ script it read:

Break Fast 7

Lunch Noon

Dinner 6

2 helpers must Report 1 hour

Before Break Fast and Dinner

No Helpers - No Cooking

            The cook tent featured a canvas curtain that separated the kitchen area from the dining area.  The latter consisted of four long tables, set in two rows, with ample folding chairs spread along their length.  A smaller table sat across the entry flap that led to the kitchen half of the tent.  Mr. Yee sat at this table, facing the eating area.  A pace in front of him, a shiny buffet-serving table awaited use.  Baskets of fruit, boxes of corn flakes, powdered milk and pitchers of water, sat on the tables. 

            The tent was empty except for Mr. Yee.  “Morn'n',” Truddle told him.  “I aw' ways sleep good when I been drinkin'.” He sat down, eye balling a fruit basket.  “We don't git' many 'ah these down home,” he selected a mango.  “Prob'lee not the best, da' way' my gut iz' feelin.”

            Gutshank snarled as he came in, “What’s for chow?”

            Mr. Yee carefully dabbed butter onto a fresh baked biscuit, as Truddle and Gutshank eyed his prize.  His cup held coffee, but no pot was in sight.  Mr. Yee said, “Yee say one time: for break fast, someone must be helpers.  No helpers, no break fast.  Fruit-in-basket.  Eat fruit.  Cereal in box, eat cereal.”

            “Well, I gotta’ eat,” Gutshank grumbled.  He stood up, “But I don't gotta’ sit with no Darky.”

            Mr. Yee said, “You both strong men.  You make good helpers.  One hour in morning.  One hour at after lunch.  Both must work together.  No need helpers for lunch.”

            Gutshank glared malevolently at Truddle.  “I worked the chow hall up to last week with Darkies.  I don’t mind, but I ain't eattin’ with him.”

            Truddle studied Gutshank warily, “I is ready to work awl' da' time.”

            Mr. Yee told them, “Dinner at six.  Two helpers must be here one hour before.”

            Gutshank smiled at Truddle, “You ain't scaring me, and neither's your dog.”

            Truddle commented, “Dat’ dog is his own.”

Gutshank hissed “Skunks and stray dogs: they take to Darkies,”

            Truddle told him, “Stray dogs go with the poor, cause ‘cept for stray dogs, the poor make no new friends.  And, as for skunks, I don’t know ‘em as well as you peer’ to, so I trust yu’ awul’ will keep yur’ own counsel.”

            Gutshank commented, “I'm a stray by choice and skunks come with the territory, and I ain’t complaining about the skunks.  It’s you I don’t like.”

            Mr. Yee handed over a towel-covered basket, “Biscuits here.  Coffee in pot.  Fruit jam preserves, butter, here.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Nineteen

Refined

 

 

The sun crept ever higher, over the cave where Nirvana lay.  The East facing rocks around the mountainside grotto became scorching hot, heating the stale air within the den by degrees each minute. 

            The sweat boiled up on her skin, glowing little droplets, one upon another, until they became tiny rivulets, cascading off her forehead to join those building and running from her cheeks.  A living blanket of flies covered every inch of her body, undulating, probing the unseen recesses of her skin.  Her bloodied feet became hives of flies, and twin morasses of the greedy insects struggled to nourish themselves on her blood and to lap up her salty perspiration nearly as quickly as it formed.

            The awaking crept into her subconscious dream world as each distressed speck of skin passed along its own panic alarm.  The first inkling from her surface senses belied was the strange sensation of tens of thousands of little feet walking over every inch of her skin.  It was hot. 

            She dreamed, she'd fallen asleep in the sauna with Mike.  Too much wine had been consumed.  The strange itching her skin was complaining of was nothing more than his woolen Pendleton shirt.  The weight on her stomach was his loving head.  She tried to remember if they’d made love, relishing the thought.  She wanted to pet his cheek, but some subconscious alarm system warned Nirvana to keep her arms at her sides.  Even in the dream, she knew that to move meant certain death. 

            The dulled, blessed sense of it was that she didn't want to wake and it was this sixth sense that kept her suspended in the half reality between sleep and waking.  A dozen little dreams came to her, each explaining the strange sensations she was experiencing in some more palatable, perfectly normal human practice: The whir of the flies became sewing machines: she was a fashion model and the factory was hot, the fabric cheap and scratchy.  “This will never sell,” she told the supervisor, Fleming. 

            She was there and the factory foreman, me, my gun in hand, my captain’s hat and my leather jacket in spite of the heat, with my cigar butt.  She was surprised to see me in such a place.  “Only in your dreams,” I told her, spitting out my cigar.  Her flinch sent a hundred thousand wings into motion. 

            An instant later Jeri came into the gazebo, his lips wet, his eyes glazed, a can of sun warmed chocolate syrup in his hands.  Nirvana was naked on the cot.  He straddled her stomach and ordered, “Close your eyes.” He tied on the blindfold, “This is so they won’t know who you are.” He poured the chocolate syrup, warm and tingling, over her naked body. 

            The incessant buzzing of his waiting friends became ever louder as they came upon her, to finger paint the warm chocolate syrup over every inch of her.  “No one gets her until it’s all licked off,” Jeri ordered.  The ticklish licking of many tongues, the heat from the warm chocolate, the hot breathing, she wanted to scratch it off, but no movement was allowed.  “Please, its hot,” she begged.

            Jeri said, “She's getting hot you guys, she's getting hot.” They were licking from her preadolescent breasts, suckling her budded nipples, dabbing from around her mouth and nose with their tongues, swarming over her body, hundreds of tongues licking in unison, liberating her skin from the warm chocolate syrup. 

            It was Jeri's touch that her senses spotlighted.  She felt distinctively the full weight of him on her stomach.  Some taboo flagged every inch of the contact; his being radiated danger.  He always brought his snake, and even though she couldn’t see it, she could feel it was there. 

            Behind the blindfold, Nirvana shrank away, back into the dark recesses of her mind.  She crept away, unseen on hands and knees, to her secret place at the center of the rose garden.  The sky was always blue in the rose garden and when the wind rustled the bushes, the rose pedals fell upon her like soft loving kisses. 

            The dream was wrong.  Every sense of her being, concentrated on the contact area of her stomach.  Each tiny bristling nerve ending stressed an amplified, italicizing warning.  An unfamiliar, strangely dry-finger tip came to rest on her chin and the dream exploded into reality as the monster puff adder's forked tongue tasted her lips.  Its stale breath reeked of musk.  Instantly, Nirvana’s lungs ceased to function.  Shear terror froze her in place.  Her heart began to pound wildly, to the point of exploding in her chest.  A dizzying, throbbing in her temples denied her any logical thought process. 

            A full minute passed without breath.  Her lungs began to scream for air.  Her body began to quiver and buck.  My God, she thought, I don't want to die like this, by snake bite!  Her chest heaved and she began to scream in her mind with all of her might.  The snake spread its heavy coils, shifting and swaying to stay perfectly balanced on the quaking torso, the deadly head rising up, swaying from side to side, trained on Nirvana's face. 

            She imagined the snake clearly.  She counted the perfectly formed rows of scales, studied the black chevrons and noted the yellow crescents.  She calmed herself by focusing on the fearless eyes.  It wasn't until she saw a single drop drip of the poison drool from one of the fangs, scattering the flies where it fell, that she realized she was watching it and it her. 

            Her bladder emptied and the flies went crazy, stirring the humidified air of the cave into a frenzy of whirring sound.  So thick were the flies, their commotion momentarily blocked out the view of the ogre.  She begged her hips to stop their bucking, her fists to stay at her sides.  Her very being begged to crawl out from under the brute. 

            Uncontrollably, her fingertips dug into the sand, clutching, pulling.  Her heels, acting without command, gripped the sand, dug in and dragged her, an inch at a time, toward the sunlight.  The deadly pit viper sensed the unwelcome motion and announced it’s displeasure with a steam vent hiss only inches from Nirvana’s face. 

            The sand at the cave entrance was asphalt hot.  Feeling it, Nirvana’s overheated sensory alarms panicked, sending their terrified warning signals to her over wrought consciousness in a flood.  Thousands of horrified alerts all buzzed their dread into her head at once. 

            Only her heels and her fingertips seemed capable of functioning.  They executed their movements without orders, some unknown instinct drawing her out into the sunlight.  The sun fell across her troubled body with the vengeance of gasoline thrown on a raging fire.  Within seconds, she felt herself sliding into a thankfully warm abyss as her over heated, oxygen-deprived brain began to fade into unconsciousness. 

            Feeling the sun on its back, perturbed with the bucking torso, the bothersome flies, the wet heat of Nirvana’s stomach, the snake moved.  It lay out over her torso, its weight shifting as the coils slowly unwound.  Radiating a deadly danger, the head passed along Nirvana's cheek it then moved quickly for cooler reaches of the cave.

            Nirvana’s screaming lungs finally breathed.  Wailing insanely, she scampered away on her hands and knees.  The early morning sun was bright but not blinding.  The ground was merely hot: not yet scorching.  Fluttering her hands, to clear away the fly escort, she took stock.  From the hillside, she could see all around.  The Arab farmhouse she had ran away from was nowhere in sight.  In the distance, near the sea, was a silvery glint she took to be the airplane. 

            She walked deliberately, one step at a time.  She ignored the hunger and resisted the temptation to talk to herself.  The situation wasn't desperate: the campsite was within sight.  The distance was deceiving, but she was confident her stamina was up to it.  Just watch where you're putting your feet.  She was beginning to perspire profusely. 

            She thought about skiing, cold feet, the warm cabin, beer and Mike.  Two Ton Truddle, reminded her of Mike: big and huggable, apolitical.  Once the heat began, the heat came quickly and soon the rock and sand were, radiator hot.  There was no shade.  Salt burned her lips.  The brightness scorched her eyes shut.  She staggered on, blinded, dreaming of the snow, tumbling into it.  The hot sand shocked her to her feet.  Dizzily, she searched for shade, found a bush, little more than a mass of thorns, but the sand on the lee side was shaded.  She fell thankfully onto it and rested. 

            The sun didn't seem to move.  It unmercifully demanded her reverence, and silently melted her into submission.  Her life seemed like a book about someone else.  This moment was real.  The ant under the bush was real and the fly on her lip.  She tried to swallow.  Her mouth was cotton and the struggle to swallow became real.  A leather dry tongue dragged against a stucco palette, stimulating her throat to contract in a frenzied, hopeless, attempt to generate even one drop of saliva.  The fear of impending death seized her.

            Wake up, she whispered.  The sun is winning.  Wake up.  Please.  You're dying.  She begged her arms, her fingers.  Not a single muscle had the strength to respond.  They had to move or she was dead.  Long moments later, the orders filtered down to rubbery limbs.  With all of the strength she could muster, she rolled onto her side and pushed herself into a half couched position.  A pebble, she must have a pebble.  Exhausted beyond opening her eyes, her fingers searched the sand for a pebble. 

            Crumbs of hardened sand, like broken lumps of sugar, were numerous.  She wanted a solid stone, she needed one to suck on.  She struggled to keep the search from becoming too desperate.  Nothing else mattered.  Her fingers found and tested false stones by the dozen.  A real stone, full of sweet, pure water, please, she begged.  Surely, the sun would grant her this meager last request.  However long it took, she determined to win.  Finding one, she put it into her mouth and commanded her body to stand.  The sand around her rolled, she tumbled and tried again. 

            She took off her top and put it over her head.  Although the desert was generally a flat broad expanse of sand, the area before the mountain was a stony moonscape of rutted side hills and dry creek beds.  The silver glint of the airplane was no longer visible, so she steered with the mountain to her back.  The sea felt near. 

            She topped a rise and before her lay an expanse of powdery blow sand.  A band of smooth red colored rocks marked the demarcation line.  She rested, shifting her weight from one-foot to another, granting each-foot a moment’s respite from the intense heat of the stone while she built up her strength for the journey across for the blow sand barrier. 

            She staggered ahead.  The sand was stovetop hot.  A hint of a breeze touched her face, feather soft, but thankfully, strong enough to hold her upright.  Before her, lay a natural bowl.  A sand-trap.  It was no more than twenty-foot down, but it might as well be a thousand.  The width was less than two hundred-foot.  Blurry eyed, she tried to guess the shortest distance.  Her top was gone from her head, stolen by a thorn bush.  The pebble she had worked so hard to find, had abandoned her almost immediately.  It all seemed so futile, like the little shell on the beach, with perfect little pink bands. 

            The odor of sheep manure struck her with vengeance.  The farmhouse.  She collapsed and rolled down the hill.  Her blessed sixth sense took over. She dreamed of playing in the snow with her brother.  There was a snowman.  Mr. Fleming brought a carrot for the nose, but she was sweating, so it couldn't be snow.  They must be at the beach, but why Mr. Fleming?  He would never come to the beach.  Something was wrong.  Some tiny logic circuit sounded a warning and she knew she was dying.  The dream was lovely, why chase it away? 

            The manure smell came again and the dream shifted.  They were camped at the Aztec ruins in Mexico.  Jeri had found a brood of twelve stone carvings of the old gods, sealed in a small chamber.  Happiness came over her as she recalled their friendship.  They were best buds. 

            The Mexican University was going to honor him in the morning and Jeri couldn’t quit talking about it.  How he had found them.  The snake carving on the stone panel had aroused his suspicion.  How proud father was.  Towards daybreak Jeri confided, whispering to her in the darkness of the tent, “There were thirteen,” and Jeri passed into sleep, clutching the small, craved stone, green face.

            What Nirvana recalled next caused her to shiver so severely she nearly awoke from death’s door.  Within seconds, a fearful nightmare had seized Jeri.  He was fighting, striking at the air with his fists, screaming for Doctor to help him.  Nirvana leaped into the fray.  “I’m here.  I’ll help you.  I’ll wake you up.” Within a fraction of an instant, the nightmare was Jeri.

            Nirvana could hear the sound of a motorcycle.  She remembered the beach, motorcycles, and happy, cheering boys, with Jeri in frenzy, encouraging them.  She remembered awaking on the beach in the morning, with Jeri holding her, loving her, like a brother.  He was saying, “Run away, hide, don’t tell me where.  Just go.”

            Then it was warm.  She was in the cabin with Mike.  She could feel him kissing her breasts, her neck.  It was a dream, she knew.  She was dying, but she didn't care.  The kisses felt real, wet and cool.  Her burned skin cried out thankfully.  Not the ears, quit it, you know I hate it.  I'm ticklish.  That's better, she sighed.  Mike was kissing her pain away, welcoming her.  An eight-inch long tongue lolled across her face and washed her eyes open.  It wasn't Mike.  It was a goat.  Instantly wide- awake, Nirvana pushed up on her elbows. 

            The motorcycle from the dream was still driving around in her mind.  She could hear it, coming closer.  It was real, and suddenly it was there.  The Honda three-wheeler.  “Help me, “Nirvana moaned. 

            Bucky dragged from a joint of marijuana, “You want a morning hit?”  Nirvana struggled to make her lips move as Bucky lectured, “Everybody is getting burned, but you're the worse.  Have you been out here all night?”

            Nirvana's swollen tongue, had forgotten, how to form words.  With all her remaining strength, she raised her eyelids.  She moaned, a guttural whisper, up from her stomach.  “Two men on the beach, they picked me up,” she felt herself fading.

            Bucky lectured “We're not supposed to go out alone.  Especially with strange men.”

            “I woke up with an awful, dirty snake on me,” Nirvana sputtered. 

            Bucky was unfazed.  “The same thing happened to me once.  He had breath like a dog and whiskers like a pig.  I guess we all have to learn.  You better get back to camp, you don’t look so good,” and in an instant, the Honda three-wheeler was gone.

            Nirvana shook herself awake.  She crawled out of the sand trap and found her feet and stumbled ahead.  She saw sheep, tents and the airplane. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty

Some Things Never Change

 

 

Ortega and I were under the wing of the plane, sitting on lawn chairs.  Ortega shifted his lawn chair to compensate for the movement of sun, scattering the empty beer cans that had accumulated at his feet.  He popped the top on another and helped himself to a bit more of the smoked fish.  He slurred, “I went half way ‘round the world, and I’m back on the reservation again.  That Arab woman,” he gestured, “could be my aunt, washing clothes in a tin tub.  Or cooking flat bread on an open fire.” He moaned, “And me, drunk on my ass, I am my destiny fulfilled.”

            I told him, “A few beers ain’t going to kill you.”

            “Here, here,” Morris Knutson fetched a beer and fish.  “I know you don’t mind,” he told me.  “I hear you got fifty cases on board.”

            I told him, “Have a beer.”

            Ortega spit and looked again at me, “They sent my father a telegram that said I was missing in action.  It was his ticket to eternity.  He drank all they'd buy him.”

            I said, “My old man was pissed when I joined up.  First time I ever saw him blow it.  He didn't want me to get killed, which was funny, because he didn't give a shit about me.  He just wanted somebody to leave his money to.  ' Where do you think you are going?' was the last thing he ever said to me.”

            Lance came around the nose of the plane at a near run and stopped under the wing.  He announced, “I saw that tall black girl again.  She’s got the hots’ for me,” he grabbed a beer from the cooler. 

            My voice predicted a severe disaster, “You been warned about her.”

            Ortega sucked air and gritted his teeth, “One weekend with the wrong woman can destroy your whole life.” His voice was wet from the liquor and bitter with poison, “I had Nirvana out of my head.  I was fine and then she comes back, acting as if, nothing ever happened.  Ramses was right!  Trust no woman.”

            I smiled inwardly, I thought, Nirvana wasn’t with you last night.  I patted my flight jacket pockets for a cigar.  I wondered, so where was she? 

            Gutshank helped himself to another beer and a smoked fish.  “Pa always said that women and carpets are best if you shake the sand out of them once in a while.”

            Ortega said slowly, “The day will come when he will be unable to stop.”

            Gutshank told him, “I’ve had twenty of the bitches and never one that said yeah.  From that first teasin’ little slut next door, to them ones, last week, there has never been one that said come on.”

            “And what did it get you?” Morris Knutson poked a stick at the bear.

            Gutshank guzzled the beer and grabbed another can, “Seven years, so far.” He tipped his large cowboy hat to me and walked off, chuckling.  Knutson grimaced and followed a pace behind. 

            I marveled, “Where does Stampell find these people?”

            Ortega sputtered, “I am as culturally bankrupt as my father and his father before him.  Insignificant basket-weavers.  No art, no contributions to science or culture.” He said with mock courtesy, “I bow to the process of natural selection, which demands my extinction.” He held his arms expansively, “My heart isn’t in archaeology.” He leaned close to me “I am a conquistador.  I came for the gold and when I find it, I’ll build myself a monument to give future archaeologists something to ponder.” He jumped to his feet, walked a small nervous circle, stopping when he came face to face with me, “What are you looking at?” he demanded, flicking a challenging glance at Lance.  “I have discovered contentment in my apostasy.  I have made a coups d'oeil.  I have carefully considered carpe diem. But, at least now, I can say, I've set a goal for myself. 

            “Sounds like a good plan to me,” Lance said agreeably.   

            I smiled inwardly, I thought, Nirvana wasn’t with Ortega last night.  I patted my flight jacket, and I extracted a Marsh Wheeling cigar from my flight jacket pocket, peeled off the wrapper, bit off the end and spit it at Ortega’s feet.  I lighted it, inhaled deep and blew the smoke out slowly.  “Flying gives me a good perspective.  People are ants and their great works, piss-ant little anthills.  I wouldn’t trade this cigar for all the monuments in the whole gaud-damned world.  Deeds are what counts, and great thinking, in the face of adversity.”

            Ashley came running, “Vanna is back.  The Arab's found her. She's been hurt.”

 

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty-One

The Camel Trader

 

 

 

The Arab women placed Nirvana under a low, open sided tent, on a thick mat of weaved Papyrus reeds.  They swathed her sun burned flesh with an ancient formula of olive oil, butter from goats’ milk and rendered animal fat, and they covered her with an oil-dampened cloth.  They gave her a lukewarm soup of mashed chick-peas, “dukka, dukka,” the women who poured it into her called it: a salty mixture of mashed chick-peas, spiked with olive oil and laced with the juice of boiled goat fat, and heavily sweetened lemon juice.  It pioneered down her raw throat and within a few moments, she had settled into the yielding Papyrus reeds and was comfortably observing. 

            Ashley Burbank came to her, talking earnestly, rapidly, about how awful it must have been.  B ucky and the two girl divers crowded around, wide eyed, talking up details they imagined from simply seeing her.  I was the first to speak to Nirvana.  I sat on the edge of her cot and drifted into her face, “Are you okay?  I mean, okay?  I looked around for you,” I was patting her hand, “I’m glad you were kidnapped.  I thought you were with Teg.” Embarrassed, I said quickly, “I better get a cop.”

            Nirvana studied me from behind her mask of fatigue.  There was softness in her, and I felt she could see it in my eyes, that I didn’t probe or attempt to over power.  I left her a fresh bottle of Jim Beam and staggered off. 

            Gutshank watched me walk away and flicked an enraged glance at Nirvana.  He challenged the other men.  “You all heard.  There's a farmhouse around here,” he snarled from under his out-sized cowboy hat.  “It’s got to be within a few miles.  I say we find it and kick some ass.”

            “I'll come,” Truddle said, if, only to keep the peace.

            “I don't think Dr. Stampell would like this very much,” Lance warned.  “The Captain went on the three-wheeler to get the police.  We should wait.”

            “We'll take the big truck,” Gutshank said.  “You guys want to come?” he asked the divers. 

            “That depends,” Morris Knutson smiled foolishly.  “Are you a real cowboy or did you just find the hat?” 

            His laughter never cleared his throat.  Gutshank grabbed Knutson by the neck.  The rage was so sudden, so quick, the other divers cleared back fearfully.  “My name is Gutshank,” Gutshank hissed, “and if you want the worse ass kicking of your whole piss-ant life, just blink.”

            Gutshank held Knutson a few seconds and then pushed him roughly to the ground.  “You don't want to know how I came to own this hat,” he warned.  He snarled at the others, “Now, do you boys want to come kick some ass, or are you fagging out?”

            Morris Knutson tried to salvage himself and found his feet.  “Well, I mean, is this cool?  Our second day in Dodge and we're, off on a posse?”

            Gutshank pulled his hat on a little tighter, ready to fight them all,  “Either get in the truck or shut up.”

            Morris Knutson said, “Well, I mean.”

            Gutshank cut in, “I'll tell you what you mean.  All you divers are too cool.  That's fine, but don't cross me or I'll squash you all like a bugs.  Now get in the truck or get out of my way.  I got Asses to kick.”

            Tennis court cool, Morris Knutson tried to calm him.  “Okay, we're in.  No problem.”

            “I'll come,” Lance said, “but I don't think the doctor would like it.”

            Grabbing pick handles and tent stakes, the young men jumped into the back of the large rented truck van.  They were already pulling away by the time Mr. Yee got wind of the program.  He came running from his kitchen tent, calling, “Where go?  Where go?  Truck for Yee, not students.  Where go?”  They were away before he could stop them. 

            Ortega wouldn’t go willingly to Nirvana; He was, after all, still extremely angry with her.  Ortega inhaled the contents of the two gallon coffee pot I kept at the plane.  He carried the last cup of the coffee to where Nirvana was lying.  Ashley Burbank was holding her hand. 

            “Coffee?” Nirvana asked Ortega quietly. 

            Ortega offered the coffee to Nirvana, “This is the last,” he said.   

            “There might be some coffee in the cook tent,” Ashley volunteered and she jogged off. 

            The old Arab woman who had been swathing Nirvana, squared off with Ortega.  “Caf´e'?” she said.  “Caf´e?” 

            “Cafe?  Coffee!  Mer'ci,” he told her.  “Caf´e.”

            The old woman nodded a knowing smile and proceeded to arrange several elaborate implements on a rug near the cot.  She inspected each coffee bean before plunking them singly into a dull, unpolished silver-grinding tool. 

            Ashley returned with a cup of coffee, “It’s not very hot, but I found some aspirins.”

            The Americans watched in awe as the old woman moved her coffee making to the campfire two paces from the tent.  The coffee pot was pre-heated over a pot of steaming water.  After grinding, the grounds were seeped in a small amount of water and the resultant liquid sugared to a paste. 

            “Mornings must be terrible,” Ashley quipped. 

            Seeing Ortega’s smile, Nirvana told him softly, “Do you realize, that's the first time you've smiled for me.”

            Caught off guard, he snorted, “What’s to smile about?”

            In a fraction of a second, Nirvana saw a glimpse of him from the past, standing over her.  The morning sun was at his back and he raged as if an angry bull.  Her stomach quaked violently, as if a bull had stomped her, causing her to jerk in the cot.  The image vanished and a second later he was lying next to her, detailing his plans for serving God, improving the lot of his people.  In an instant, a supremely intense feeling electrified her heart, blushing her face.  I once loved you and once you loved me.  She wanted to say, ‘What happened?’ She whispered, “I used to think you were prophet.”

            Ortega felt the corpse of his heart being drawn out of his chest.  He had let his heart die off years ago, and he had it kept buried in his chest and had successfully forgotten all about it.  He had disciplined himself to live without a heart, but here was this woman, too weak to move, just like the morning in the parking lot at the Palomar clinic years ago, once again causing him insufferable pain.  Though beaten down as before, she wasn’t begging or crying.  She was bulldozing open the grave of his long buried heart, causing hot blood to surge into secret corridors long closed, with nothing more than a steady gaze.  Sadness, for the love that was lost, for the life of love that could have been, flowed with the blood, leaving him too weak to draw breath.  A trembling came over him.  With all the strength he could muster, Ortega whispered, “And I used to think you were an angel.”

            A curtain flared in the great bus, destroying the moment.  Nirvana flinched fearfully, and she dropped aspirins.  “Somebody was watching us,” she warned.

            “Not surprising,” Ortega said thankfully, shifting back to his lecture class persona.  “We are a unique phenomena, in this region.”

            “Its fun,” Ashley said, “when they watch, I mean, like wow, I feel like a movie star.”

            Nirvana asked Ortega in a fearful whisper, “Do you trust them?”

            Ortega braced himself up and scrutinized his surroundings.  “I retain, perhaps inequitably, an ingrained prejudice that finds it all but impossible to credit this clan with any degree of authenticity.  Therefore, the concerns that occasionally confront my scholarly consciousness regarding this tribe, when combined with a rather semi-envious and luxuriant imagination, momentarily stimulated with an excessive consumption of alcohol, leave this individual, with a lurking timorous suspicion that they are all a bunch of blood thirsty thieves and murderers.”

            “Are you drunk?” Nirvana asked.

            “I’m perfectly lucid,” Ortega winked.

            Ashley began to snicker as the old women poured her a portion of the thick, black liquid into a tall narrow cup.  Testing, Ashley said, “My God, this is awful.” She laughed at her predicament, giving the old woman the impression that the coffee was highly regarded and much appreciated.

            Just then, a painful, lugubrious, wailing scream came from within the great bus.  There was a one second pause and then another blood curdling scream.  “Someone is being tortured,” Nirvana said.  The old woman hurried to the great bus. 

            “He's just having his coffee,” Ashley snickered. 

            The screams continued, punctuated periodically with pain-infested moans.  After a time, the old woman came from the bus.  She carried a tiny gold box on a golden silk pillow.  Her demeanor was one of supplication.  “Pill?” she said very softly.

            Ortega looked in the tiny gold box.  It was empty.  The woman gestured to the aspirin bottle.  “Pill.”

            “Oh.” Ortega laid the bottle on the pillow, saying, “Have as you need.” The woman hurried off and the screams stopped the instant she entered the bus. 

            Nirvana warned, “Either aspirin is the world's fastest pain reliever or these guys are the world's greatest actor's.”

Within a few moments, the women came in a group from the bus, clearing the way for an elaborately dressed Arab man.  He wore a carefully wrapped red turban over a long tunic like vest, his kuftan, which sparkled with its whiteness.  A golden rope was his sash, as were the straps on his sandals.  His demeanor was one of elegance and he carried a small gold decorated leather staff, which he waved about to direct the children who flowed around him.

            Ashley hurried to Nirvana.  “A turbaned man is a sheik.”

            Nirvana whispered, “A turban simply means that the crimes of his tribe are bound on his head.  He's not a sheik.”

            “Vanna, don’t ruin everything,” Ashley protested.

            A young girl, with numerous jewels and ornately dressed, held the man’s hand.  She was about fourteen.  The man brought his entourage to Nirvana.  “Bon newee,” he said.  “Jon'Ma pell, Karoush, a' votre u'tilite.  Welkom my friend’s.” He smiled and motioned to the women.  Nirvana felt her cackles-raise a bit at the sound of his greeting.  She didn’t understand why, she was so suspicious.  Was it, she wondered, the greeting the Arabs reserved for Turks?  It was met to be an insult.  What the Arabs called the dirty Turks. 

They laid a whole, fresh killed goat, cheese, lemons, tomatoes and a bottle of wine, at Nirvana’s feet.  Karoush bowed, “Merci,” and said, “le pillule es' etonnant.” Then in Arabic he spoke quickly, a maxim. 

            Ashley bowed low enough to whisper, “Vanna, the dagger case and his slippers are real gold.” As Ashley straightened from her bow, Karoush took Ashley's hand and kissed it, and silently touched it to his cheek.  Admiration spilled out of him.  The bow made its rounds on both sides and good-days were exchanged in French.  After a minute of smiling, Karoush noticed the bottle of Jim Beam left near the cot by me.  “Vin Ameri'cain?” he said with a hint of curiosity. 

            Ortega offered the bottle, “Web will never miss it.  His plane is full of the stuff.”

            Karoush smiled broadly.  “Merci,” he said graciously as an Arab man came.  They exchanged words.  “Adieu,” Karoush said sincerely to the Americans.  He moved off with a dozen small children trailing him like a school of fish.

            “Wow!” Ashley said, “Who do you suppose he is.”

            “I don't like him,” Nirvana said with painful determination.

            “But who do you like?” Ashley moved off for another look. 

            Nirvana whispered.  “Did you see the way he looked at Ashley?”

            Ortega was non-pulsed, and said, “Arab girls don't walk around in open tops with pearl necklaces.  You should rest,” and he was gone.

            The old woman came again, with cheese, yogurt and a flatbread, which she offered in small bits, dipped first, into the strangely familiar, fruity wine.  The sun had begun to drop below the horizon, and the camp came to life.  Nirvana ate and watched. 

            The women were happy in their work.  They made bread in turtle like iron ovens, and butter in wooden churns.  He goats and dogs played chicken, and the children milked the goats without complaint.  And there were sweets, offered generously to for the swarm of little ones. 

            The bejeweled young Arab beauty appeared again, this time without Karoush.  She liked Ashley, Nirvana could tell, for she watched Ashley all the time that Nirvana watched her.  Nirvana thought, either girl would probably happily trade places with the other. 

            A junky old dual-wheel truck came into the center of things, loaded down crazily with a great mountain of straw and weeds.  Men climbed aboard and began to feed the sheep.  The goats wasted no time, and climbed onto the top of the truck, butting at the men who were trying to throw down the straw. 

            Behind the truck, was a little trailer, with a big wooden water tub on it.  An old Arab man, his crooked hands shaking uncontrollably, worked to free the wooden plug that held back the water.  When he had broke the plug free, water ran out of the tub and into a trough that was around the edge of the trailer.  With buckets and kettles, women and children, pushed between the animals. 

            The dust and commotion increased in intensity, with dogs barking and the children screaming, goats climbing atop one another, bleating, butting one another.  The women came and went, and the old man held his post, wooden plug in hand, replacing it whenever the trough became too full, and then struggling again to remove it as the water was greedily consumed. 

            The old woman spoke constantly while attending Nirvana.  She gestured to the young Arab girl.  “Neuve garuisun.  Tpyyibun ah wasixun,” she said.  “Malikatun,” hinting contempt.  Nirvana struggled to string the words together. 

            The girl was a new bride.  Tpyyibun?  Nirvana didn't recognize the word.  Ah wasixun.  And Beautiful.  Tpyyibun ah wasixun.  Ugly and beautiful.  So that was it, she thought.  And Milikatun.  Queen. 

            “I was new wife once,” Nirvana understood the old woman to say.  She was proud of the fact.  “Nothing is too good, when new wife,” the old Arab woman told her.  And then the old woman said something that gave Nirvana cause for pause.  Referring to the new wife, the old woman said, “More voracious than a camel tick.” Nirvana wasn’t sure if she interpreted the words correctly.  And, she was too tired. 

            The woman continued to talk, as to herself, while she swathed Nirvana's sunburned body and fed her.  Words spoken in long phrases were impossible.  It didn’t matter.  Trying to interpret all the old woman’s complaints didn't seem like it was worth the trouble, and besides, the fruity wine was taking effect.

            The old woman was happy to talk, happy that somebody would listen.  She told a children’s bedtime story.  “Wine merchant used to travel with monkey,” Nirvana struggled to catch the words.  “Wine merchant mix wine with water half and sold for price of wine.  The monkey signed: don't do that, so wine merchant beat monkey.  Wine merchant rode on sea with monkey and purse.  Tomorrow, monkey take purse and climb sail top.  Monkey threw one dirham to wine merchant, one to sea.  As wine merchant with monkey, one must know, tomorrow must come.” Then she said, “You must be the cat who dirt’s in the meal box” And then the old woman said, “Karoush tries to ride upon an ass who kicks, on a path too narrow.  Tormus beans are too good for him.” And, Nirvana fell off to the threshold of sleep.

            One of the Arab men came by, casting a question toward the old woman.  “Ku?” he said.

            “Bi jairiyatun yadun abayturrajuli,” the old woman said, with slight complaint.  With the girl, at the house, Nirvana understood in her sleep.

            The man laughed, saying “Kulla yawmin.” Everyday.

            “Kullalyawmi,” the old woman said.  All daylong.  Nirvana smiled in her mind and settled to a comfortable sleep.

            On the other side of the camp, the rented truck rolled to a stop behind the cook tent.  The unsuccessful posse unloaded and herded into the cook tent, where they were promptly met with a barrage of Mr. Yee’s anger.  “No take truck, no take tools!  No leave from camp without okay from Yee.” Mr. Yee was still firing when Morris Knutson stormed into the cook tent. 

            Morris Knutson shouted, “All right!” his thin Nordic face contorted with rage.  “Who put sheep shit in my boots?” he held them out for any one interested to see.

            Mr. Yee curled his nose and inspected the offering.  “Student who want sheep shit in soup, only need bring sheep shit in my tent,” he warned with a stern face.

            Morris glared at those gathering for the evening meal, “I just want to know.  Some childish dimwit owes me an apology.”

            Theodore Truddle ventured,  “Might'ah been da' sheep.”

            Morris sneered, “How could a sheep shit in my boots?”

            Theodore Truddle assured him and the laughter began, “Dat iz' wha' we iz' awl' won' da’ run’,”

            Struggling with hilarity, Gutshank tried desperately to speak.  “Did the sheep have her feet stuck in your boots?”

            Morris was angry enough to fight, “What is that supposed to mean?”

             Gutshank turned his laughter into cruelty, “I mcean was you wearing them?”  The gentle wisp of snickering laughter that had begun to ripple around the tent, slowed, and then roared into a tidal wave of hilarity. 

            Lance interceded, barely able to speak, “If you tied the sheep first, I think it’s rape.”

            Morris sneered, “You should talk.  One day, on a desert isle, and you’d be sodomizing the coconuts.”

            Mr. Yee shook his stir spoon angrily, “Student must take sheep shit out my tent.  No sheep shit in my tent.”

            Morris Knutson backed out of the tent, “You bastards.”

            “C.I.A.” Bucky called out. 

            Ashley Burbank took her meal alongside Nirvana's cot.  “Last night, Lance was making eyes at Bucky,” she explained without waking her.  “I was angry, even though I know what a tramp he is.  But I declare, I love him to death.  He's much too sophisticated for a Bucky, I'm sure as the dickens of that.”

            A tide of commotion turned Ashley’s head.  A heavily loaded Datsun pickup truck chugged into the encampment.  The truck was loaded with boxes, stacked in two tiers around a shaggy, one humped camel that rode couched in the center of the truck bed. 

            The driver, an Arab man, in white-tunic, unshaven, but reasonably groomed, emerged.  He was immediately surrounded by nosy children and sniffing dogs.  The man climbed onto the back of the truck, and within a moment was dealing with the Arab men who came at him from all sides.  He offered his cargo of fruit and vegetables with animated enthusiasm, shaking samples before the surprisingly hostile crowd.

            Disdain seemed to be the most available currency, but despite this, items were quickly exchanged.  Two whole boxes of produce were handed over for two chickens and a bottle of ketchup, without so much as a word of protest, while arguments carried on for long moments over the price of a single lemon. 

            Ka'ram, the ram, of the flock, scampered in one leap, onto the roof of the truck, to challenge the camel.  Unblinking, the camel eye balled the ram, with a fat lipped, joule expression of extreme boredom. 

            Ashley began working Nirvana's elbow, “Vanna, what are they saying?  They are poking the camel, like they expect to eat him.”

            Nirvana replied sleepily, “They probably will.”

            Ashley complained, “But he's so cute.  Tell me what they are saying.”

            Nirvana listened a moment and smiled.  “Perhaps they won’t eat him.  Allah has blessed the camel: He can find water and he has the patience of the sand.”

            “He can find water?” Ashley ran to him.

            The Arab's, while ignoring Ashley, gave her room.  “What's your name?” she patted the camel's head and scratched his stomach, as he stood.  “Like this?” She pulled playfully at his hairy coat, which hung in knots left over from the summer shedding ritual.  It was a single humped camel, with thick dark hair on the head and neck, going to a burlap-brown from the shoulder down the back.  His rump, and much of his back, was shinned black from the harness.  The hair, had long since worn off. 

            Ashley made a friend.  The camel bopped his head in time to her scratching, his attention directed only to Ashley, while twenty other hands, poked and tested its flesh with something more then friendship in mind.  “I think I'll buy you,” Ashley assured him, “and name you Clyde.”

            Like all of the Americans, Ashley kept her money in her pockets.  She dug out a ten-dollar bill and waved it at the Arab trader.  He snatched it from her hands, and showed it proudly to the others before he pocketed it, without any acknowledgement that a bargain had been made. 

            Standing in the truck, Clyde was a tall reach for Ashley.  She scratched his stomach as the Arab men carried on their bargaining all around her for several more minutes.  The camel grunted contentedly in response Ashley's belly scratching and his expression changed from boredom to one of genuine pleasure. 

            Ashley called to Vanna, “Look at this, he loves me,” and just at that moment, as if to demonstrate his amour, he rolled out his two-foot long penis and belched a foul smelling burp into Ashley's face.  Ashley backed away to clear her nostrils, flapping her hands in front of her quickly reddening face.  “I should have named you Lance,” she scolded. 

            The children who were everywhere under-foot, laughed at her. She backed into the crowd of Arab men, who were waving Egyptian money at the trader and arguing.  The merchant offered other items in turn: lemons; spinach; bottles of beer, olive oil.  He snatched an occasional bill from an out stretched hand and thus the trading went on.

            Taken with the excitement and unsure of the status of the transaction, Ashley wanted to raise her bid if necessary.  The shouting was becoming more intense and the pushing more vigorous.  It happened so quickly, there wasn’t time to react.  A man's hand thrust rudely between her legs from the back.  The fingers were under her panties and into the proximity of her moist genitals beneath the short tennis skirt in an instant.

            Shrieking, Ashley grabbed protectively at the hand, only to find her grip was aiding the intrusion.  Her sex parted as a rough finger thrust inward and upward with such a force that Ashley felt herself lifted bodily from the ground. 

            Suddenly, the hand, the whole body of the man was driven out from under her, as Theodore Truddle’s large double fists slammed the man into the sand.  An instant later, Truddle’s powerful hands grabbed Ashley’s shoulders, and she was lifted bodily, and carried several feet and set down beyond the commotion.   Truddle said, “Lady, them boys will help themselves.”  

            Flushed with fear and near panic, she hugged him and kissed him on cheek.  “You sweet darling, you rescued me,” she whispered.  “One of those guttersnipes,” she bit her lip and ran for the girl’s tent. 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty-Two

Girls Are Always Trouble

 

 

 

I rolled the Honda three-wheeler to a stop as I topped a slight rise.  Below me, a small-village, was huddled at the edge of the Red Sea.  High mud fences, stonewalls and mud colored, sugar-cube houses, lumped themselves into a beehive maze of brown and yellow hues, mirroring the setting sun.  Seemingly out of place, a white domed mosque, rose above the drab village near the center. 

            I could see no streets and no principle point of entry.  What people I could see seemed to disappear between the corrals, that surrounded the town on three sides.  Between the flocks of sheep, a few vehicles were parked in the sand, about the fringe of the town. 

            On the shore, where the village touched the Red Sea, shallow bottomed fishing boats lay in the mud, triangular affairs, with heavy triangular sails, hanging from short, stout masts. 

            From within the village came a short, repeated cry, and I remembered the prayers of the Muslims.  Three times each day, they would prostrate themselves toward Mecca.  The crier’s voice had come from the high minaret tower near the mosque.  Just like in the movies, I thought.  I fired the Honda and putted down the hill. 

            As I parked, a stout, large sheepdog, trotted over from the nearest flock, sniffed me and raised his leg to piss on the Honda.  I said, “I don’t blame you.  I’d do it myself, if I didn’t need the ride.” The dog escorted me into the town. 

             There were no directional signs, no streets in the usual sense, and no shops.  Alley width paths, paved in stone, ran every which way, between the mud plaster, and stone buildings.  At every doorway, street vendors had laid out their wares: baskets; rice; gold; dried fish; old rifles; goats; blankets; glass and more baskets. 

            Everywhere, people fresh from their prayers were haggling about prices.  No one seemed to speak any English.  I wandered along, asking “Police?” or “Policia?” to all who would meet my eyes.  Twenty attempts elicited not a single response. 

            Except for the hawkers, the people in my path seemed deliberately doe eyed, and when they occasionally looked at me, they seemed to look through me.  Here, I thought, I am truly foreign. 

            A man, thin as dry leather, deftly walked between the shoppers with a bicycle balanced on his nose.  He passed between me, and the dog, with none paying the man any more mind, then they paid to me. 

            As the bicycle passed, I noticed a woman, colorfully dressed, and wearing no veil, smiling invitingly to me from a balcony.  She wore a ring in her nose, her skin was black-laced with tattoos, but it was her tongue, which played happily with her upper lip that caught my attention.  In an instant, I felt my loins tingle. 

            The sheepdog seemed to read my body language.  He unceremoniously pushed his snout into my rear, moving me along, and canceling the option.  A few feet farther along, a man sat in the center of the lane, pounding sticks on home made drums, wailing painfully skyward, in the voice of a sick camel. 

            Ahead of me, a few foot, was a curiously marked door, that opened, and two men staggered out, holding their heads, and shielding their eyes from the light.  The carved mark on the door, crossed English and French flags, proclaimed the establishment catered to Western customers.  Probably a relic from the canal construction, I thought. 

I entered slowly; taking in all there was to see, as I moved cautiously toward the bar.  It was an odd shaped, darkened, windowless chamber, with stonewalls, and a stone floor.  Two tables sat at the center of the room.  On the right, old men played a silent, humorless game, under a yellow kerosene lamp.  On the left, a heavily clothed person slept under a table with a dog.  Yellow lamps hung about the room, casting their flickering glow upon the ancient stone.  Directly across from the entry, a long narrow hall faded into darkness with no clue of its ending. 

            A knife slashed oil painting of Egyptian President Nasser, adored the far wall, opposite a large black and white photograph of a young Caucasian stripper, taken while the girl was plying her trade, while standing on the bar.  Reflexively, I took a closer look. 

            The girl in the photograph was costumed in shear silk, and although heavily painted, she could be no older than a young teen.  She looked American, and I was sure I had seen her before.  Something about the girl in the photograph, reminded me of Nirvana.  After a moment of careful study, I sat at the bar, where a pair of mysterious black eyes beckoned me from behind a veil. 

            The barmaid considered me for a moment, adjusted her veil, and moved cautiously nearer.  I pointed at a bottle, and laid a dollar and two American quarters on the bar. She snatched the money without smiling, and moved away, to analyze it under one of the kerosene lamps.  Satisfied, she handed me the bottle and, a glass at arm's length. 

            It was a yellow, fiery booze, and I wished through glassy eyes, that I knew the Arabic word for water.  The girl watched me, rubbing the quarters with her thumb.  “Merikan?” she asked.

            “Yeah,” I smiled and nodded.  “American.”

            She left quickly and returned after a moment, offering a brownish, intricately engraved bronze platter of sweet meats, cheese, carrots and a small round loaf of dark, heavy bread.  I thanked her and ate. 

            “Egypt merikan?” she asked me. 

            “You're pretty,” I answered, smiling a small, guilty smile.  She smiled back, innocently, talking in Arabic.  I understood none of it.  “What time do you get off?”

            She said something that sounded friendly, and I pointed to another glass, and offered her some of the bottle.  She protested, but gave in, when I, faking extreme anger, ordered her. She was woozy in minutes, with one elbow on the bar, propping up her chin, her soft voice a constant chatter. She was about eighteen and it was an hour before I touched her cheek. 

            She swallowed hard, and stepped back, and for the first time, I realized she was a virgin.  I sat up on the stool, wide-awake.  “You’re way too young for me,” I surprised myself.  I thought, maybe she is Ghaz’ye, one of a tribe of prostitutes.  They are thought to be pure Bedouin.  Narcisstic!  The father’s were rumored to sell their daughters.  I wasn’t sure.

            The look on my face said all she needed to hear.  Her smile faded, the black eyes sharpened.  Coolly, she pulled away the veil, revealing perfection.  Her hair was black, and silky.  The nose was thin, the lips full, gouty, un-kissed.  I imagined kissing them.  I could feel her desire, struggling with the fear that held us apart. 

            I wanted to believe, I could settle with this woman.  Lately, I had wished for one.  Lacking the energy, or inclination for the bar scene, I slept alone.  Ortega was right about water and the empty jars. 

            I knew I couldn’t have her, not because, I couldn’t take her, but because it wasn’t right.  I wanted one kiss, just one kiss, to remember as a keepsake.  I promised her in a whisper, “I'm going to regret this.” She came to me, and I kissed her. She was putty in my hands, and I held her for several long seconds, long enough to last a lifetime.  I luxuriated in her innocence, and felt no desire to violate her.  The kiss was enough. 

            I hardly heard the door open behind me.  It wasn’t until I felt her eyes, open wide, that I had any inkling of danger.  Even so, my lips stayed with hers: I wanted the dream to last another moment.  Her soft flesh hardened, and the warm lips, were suddenly cold.  Urgency seemed to race through her.  Whoever you are, I thought, I'm not going to like you.  A tremendous scream tore the girl's lips from me. 

            I spun around in time to see a woolly faced Arab demon man, unsheathing a three-foot long scimitar.  The wooly demon spat at my feet, and raised the broadsword with a two handed grip, and advanced deliberately, a murderous glint in his eye. 

            The sword was a beautiful weapon, freshly polished, with an ivory eagle head carved on the handle.  The blade was engraved with war scenes of old, and I knew, after only a split second, that I had seen enough of it. 

            I threw my drink, the platter, and the bottle at him.  The bottle struck the Arab man squarely, and broke across his forehead.  Stiffening, the wooly demon man paused two paces from me to shake off the effects of the blow.  Blinking the liquor from his flinty, blue-black eyes, he held the scimitar high and steady.  Bits of glass that were embedded in the brown, leathery skin of his fore head were, outlined with flecks of blood. 

            I tried desperately to shake reason into my own logic circuits: the booze had left me sodden, my reactions blurred.  This man ought to be down, I thought.  Whipping out a sweat sock with the bar of Lava soap in the toe, I fling it around in the full arc of my reach, and struck the man squarely in the jaw. 

            The demon man shook off the effects of the blow and defended my next attack with a sock parting sword slice.  The soap bar sailed to the other side of the room.  Seeing his victory, the Arab emitted a shrill bloodthirsty scream and swung the sword in a deadly slash straight down onto my head.  I dropped, a fraction-of- a-second before the scimitar would split my skull down the center.  The sword crashed into bar, with such force that it cut half way through the hardened wood with a deep, steel gripping slice. 

            “You crazy sonofabitch,” I screamed.  I drove a low hooking left into the man's groin.  “All I did was kiss her!”

            Snorting off the pain with pig like grunts, the wooly demon managed to extract the sword from the bar.  He bucked himself up for another swing at me. 

            I backhanded a heavy, home made bar stool toward the Arab’s kneecaps.  Grunting from pain, the wooly demon man kicked aside the stool and raised the sword, waving it threateningly in small overhead circles as he advanced. 

            I grabbed another stool and thrust it into the wooly demon man's face.  The sword came quickly, in short, swiping slashes, whacking off the stool legs, and finally splitting what was left with a crashing blow that nearly carried to my head. 

            I threw the bits of wood toward the wooly demon while retreating along the bar.  At the end of the bar, I found a heavy handled, home made broom.  I swung it around, “Back off, “I warned. 

            The Arab responded with a short wicked slice calculated to whack off my head at the neck.  Miraculously, I got the broom handle up in time to block the slash,

            Grunting and snorting, the wooly demon man swung again and again, slashing, chopping, whacking.  Twenty blows in as many seconds, any one of them skull crushing, neck chopping, deadly.  With each heartbeat, the heavy broom handle saved my life.  “All I did was kiss her,” I begged the man. 

            Another whack from the sword and I felt my fear ignite into a dead defying rage.  “You bastard,” I screamed.  I lashed out a wicked kick into the man's groin.  As the man kneeled over, I laid the broom handle across his back, driving the giant to the stone floor. 

            A second Arab man stepped out of the shadows.  He held an ancient British Enfield rifle and he wasn’t smiling. 

            I spun on my heels and ran into the pitch-black hall.  Seventy-foot into the darkness, I spied faint light from a side door.  I tested it to see if it was locked.  Suddenly, the second Arab man appeared in the strange orange light at the end of the hall.  He fired the Enfield from his hip.  I dove for the floor as the bullet whizzed threateningly past.  The Arab worked the Enfield’s action and fired again.  This time the bullet hit into the side at an angle of the hallway, and ricocheted haphazardly down the hallway. 

            “You crazy bastard,” I screamed hoarsely.  “You can't shoot me for one kiss.” I tried to remember her ring finger, but I couldn't concentrate.  The second Arab man was working the Enfield’s sloppy old bolt action, and the sound of dry metal was loud against the-stonewalls.  I scrambled through the side door into an oil lamp lighted room, as again the old manslayer barked. 

            The room was filled with low beds and children, who began screaming on seeing me.  An old woman was waiting by the door. She held a stout, heavy handled homemade broom over her shoulders.  Swinging it, she caught me with a brutal slice across my back.  An instant later, another full arc swing slammed into me, wrenching an anguished grunt from my innards.  I crawled for the protection of one of the beds as the broom pounded me again.  The bed was too low, and I wasted several seconds trying to get under it. 

            Another murderous whack exploded across my kidneys.  I screamed in pain.  Seeing I was quite helpless, the children joined in, kicking me or hitting me with whatever was handy.  The broom came again and again.  All I could see was stars and brain sparks.  A few more blows, and I would pass out, beat to death by a little old woman and a bunch of kids. 

            “I've had enough of this,” I screamed and jumped to my feet.  I raged demon-like at the youngsters and squared off with the old woman.  She had seemed so fierce only an instant before, but put on notice of my anger, she went back to being a squat old ragamuffin.  She held her broom ready, with no fear in her eyes.  “I'm leaving,” I told her.

            There was an open window beyond the row of beds.  Stepping onto the sill, I leaped out into the darkness.  I landed cowboy style across the back of a bucking he-goat.  The goat took me once around the corral and threw me head long into the manure heap.  I had barely started up when another goat targeted me with a rib smashing charge that momentarily pinned me against the corral rails. 

            I cleared the corral fence just as the dogs winded me.  From then on it was a flat out-foot race, with more dogs joining in with every stride.  In less than two minutes, sixty dogs had joined in the chase, along with every man and boy-child in the village.

            It was dark and I was lost anyway, so the escape technique that seemed to offer the best hope of success was to jump into different windows until I found a house with nobody home.  “Lady,” I said to a woman, surprised at her hearth, “aren’t there any vacancies in this damn town?” 

            The woman screamed, grabbed her fire poker and charged.  Suddenly, dogs were vaulting through the window I had come in.  I dashed out of the room, closed the door behind me, crossed an alley and ducked into a darkened doorway.  I turned to see a surprised family rising from their table.  “I should run,” I said, and I ran through the house and jumped out a window. 

            A pack of dogs was just rounding a corner a hundred-foot down the alley.  In seconds, they would be on me.  Another pack of dogs appeared at the other end of the alley, cutting off any hope of escape.  There was no way to go but up.  I grabbed the eve of the roof and chinned myself, my back to the wall.  As my legs and feet cleared away, into an upside down vertical, the snapping dog’s jaws came within an inch from my face.  I rotated my body, and folded my legs naturally onto the roof, with shouting men charging from both directions. 

            I knew it wouldn't take them long to figure out where I had went.  I needed a diversion.  There was a low gate on the other side of the alley.  I pulled off my flight jacket and tore off my shirt.  Then I threw the shirt over the gate,.  The dogs went into a frenzy, leaping over the gate by the dozen, they tore into their prize, chasing whichever of their number who had a piece of it.  Within seconds it was impossible to tell if there was a body or not, so great was the number of the dogs.

            I lay back on the roof, caught my breath, and took stock: The moon wasn't up yet; the dogs were creating a terrible ruckus; women were screaming; men were shouting.  With such an uproar, I could dance on the rooftops and nobody would notice me. 

            I moved quickly over the closely packed structures.  The North edge of town featured a large open square that I had missed when I had entered.  The dome-topped mosque took up one whole side of the square.  At the front of the mosque, a narrow minaret’s tower jutted proudly into the night sky, near the flagpole.  Angry men were everywhere, shouting and pointing.  Clusters of children ran about with sticks and dogs.  I whispered, “And all looking for me, the famous kiss stealer.”

            I couldn't consider the consequences of being caught.  Surely, these people planned to beat me to death without a trial.  I imagined the dogs tearing into me, consuming my flesh in a mad frenzy, fighting over my bones for sport, as they had fought over my shirt.  The thought made me shiver. 

            I backed away from the roofline of the square undetected.  Traveling over the large building to the right seemed a better route, than the private houses to the left.  Twenty-foot onto the tiled roof I realized my mistake.  The clay tiles broke under my weight and too late, I realized I was in plain sight of the square.  I tried to shrivel down to nothing and crossed my fingers.  One of the dogs in the square was watching me intently. 

            An hour passed.  The commotion I had started began to die down, and many of the men in the square went to their homes.  The dog in the square, stood at dog attention, watching me, unmoving and unblinking.  I waited.  The wind would be coming soon and I felt sure I could escape in the blowing sand. 

            The argument was persuasive enough to hold my stomach at bay for another half an hour.  It was then that I noticed the moon rising along the Eastern horizon.  In the square below, several men with rifles and swords were milling about, and the faithful sheepdog still hadn't moved. 

            The deadly bright, moonlight, began to crawl down the-foothills toward me.  In minutes, the roof would become a well-lighted shooting gallery.  I had to do something quick.  There was no place to go, but down.  I carefully worked a few of the clay roof tiles loose. 

            Under the tiles, the roof was sheeted with narrow saplings that ran side ways, about a-foot apart.  The saplings were in turn, were supported by timber poles.  I blew the faithful dog a good-bye kiss, and slipped inside.  The building was empty, but the doors were open to the square, so I made my way by crawling from timber to timber.  The smaller, rear door of the great hall, led to a narrow, high walled pathway.  Its width would barely accommodate a large man.  Moonlight reflected off the white walls, and brightened the sandy path, so that even bugs could be observed quite clearly. 

            I moved without a sound, my pace quickening as the perimeter of the village beckoned ever nearer.  The alley turned, and then darkened as shadows intercepted the changing alignment.  Suddenly, a nude woman thrust herself out from an open window, only half a pace in front of me.  She pressed her arms against the opposite wall of the passageway and greeted me with a gentle murmur.  It was a full moment before I realized that, her eyes were closed, before I noticed that her lover’s hands held her trunk.  I silently crawled under the bodice obstruction without looking back. 

            One hundred-foot farther, the alley ended at a plain wooden door.  Very carefully, I opened it a crack.  The aroma of livestock manure greeted my nostrils, and some creature, sensing my presence, grumbled a gentle, throat-clearing hello.  I eased the door open and slipped through. 

            I found my-self in the back corner of an open sided stable.  Sheep and goats milled about in the moon lighted corral.  Cattle kept to themselves in one corner, camels in the other.  Chickens roosted everywhere.  A single Arab stallion, a shinny white beauty, with graying-mane and tail, was tethered with a stout rein only one-foot from the door.  The horse whispered a second, grumbling hello.

            I untied the stallion’s tether from its steel ring, and swung up just as a group of armed men happened upon the scene.  Their shouts and instantaneous charge sent my, and the stallion’s adrenaline racing.  The horse reared and whinnied a proud announcement to all those who cared to hear.  “He-yaa,” I yelled, clapping my heels on the stallion’s sides. 

            The stallion cleared the corral gate and within seconds, we were out of rifle range.  My celebration lasted only a moment, until I realized the stallion had its own ideas about which way we were to travel.  The Stallion was strong necked, and the jury-rigged reins, sans bit, offered no real control.  Hanging on required all of my strength.  I watched helplessly and horrified, as the stallion made a broad turn at a full gallop, and ran back toward the village. 

            Near the village, two-dozen men awaited us, waving weapons and shouting.  Dogs, children, and other men, were filing out of the village, to join in the reception.  A group of other men, rode out from the stable, on camels, intent on giving chase. 

            I fought desperately to turn the racing stallion’s iron-head.  The sticks, the guns and swords, the dogs, leered before me, but the stallion galloped on, toward them, unconcerned.  He didn’t care about me: his only purpose was to run and to show off, to demonstrate how fast he was, my health be damned!

            There was no turning the stallion.  Coming upon the receptive crowd at a full gallop, I screamed as a death crazed banshee, and gave the stallion its head.  The Arabs scattered to either side, as the stallion charged through their company, and into the village at a full gallop. 

            The stallion raced down a narrow, shadow-darkened corridor, at break neck speed.  The camel riders swarmed in pursuit, with the dogs, children and men, close on their heels.  Breaking into the open, at the edge of the large square, the stallion flattened out his gallop in a beeline for the flagpole, which stood alone in the farthest, darkened corner of the square. 

            Racing around the flagpole, the stallion retraced his steps, back the way he had just came, right into the path of the hundred in pursuit.  Camels, dogs and men, split their ranks when faced with the charging stallion. 

            All I wanted was off.  I imagined that I would eventually be thrown from the horse, or dragged off.  When it happened, I knew it would probably be the dogs that would get to me first.  The thought terrified me.  Any sort of death would be better then the one I imagined.

            Twenty-five-foot from the opposite corner of the square, the stallion abruptly turned to the left, around an imaginary race marker.  Angry men, dogs and children were all around us, but the horse picked his way through these obstructions, and charged for the next corner of the square.  Reaching the goal safely, the stallion again turned at an imaginary corner marker, and straightened its course in a beeline for the flagpole. 

            The flagpole stood in a darkened corner of the square.  I summoned all of my courage, and prayed for luck.  This would be my only chance, and as slim as it was, I had to take it.  As the stallion came upon the flagpole, and slowed to make the sharp turn, I hooked an arm around the pole and hung on.  The horse completed his turn and bee-lined for the next corner of the square, leaving me hanging on the pole. 

            The camel jockeys, had been following an abbreviated course, and shifted their direction in response to each of the stallion’s turns.  No one was near and my maneuver passed without notice. 

            I shimmied up the flagpole, and into the darkness.  When I reached the top, I wrapped myself in the flag and waited.  The stallion completed two more full circuits of the square before disappearing down one of the darkened alleys, with the camel jockeys, dogs, men and boys in pursuit.  Safe on my perch, I rested. 

            The respite lasted only a moment.  The desert wind announced its debut with a fierce gust that whipped the flagpole over at a precarious angle.  I screamed involuntarily, as I felt myself nearly cast into oblivion.  I hung on with all of my strength as the pole whipped back to the vertical a second later. 

            In less then a second, the wind walloped me again, bashing the pole over with a vengeance.  The pole resisted the wind between the gusts, which tended to create a whipping action, with me committed to hanging onto the tip.  With each bluster, the pole bent over a little farther, and the danger of its snapping off became more acute. 

            My grip on the pole became more precarious with each passing second.  My legs were wrapped around the pole, exposing my groin to the torture of the hammering pole.  Repeatedly, my agonizing screams punctuated the night air, only to blown away in the wind.  My strength was nearly expended, after only a moment.  Frantically, I began to search for a way off the pole.  Relentlessly, the wind, was bucking, and snorting, against me, whipping the pole, over ever, more dangerously, with each rush. 

            A particularly hard knock broke my leg wrap loose, and I was flung into space.  Too late, I tried to slide down the pole.  It whipped away from me and sprung from my hands.  Flaying wildly, I managed to grab a hold of the flag.  Even more, precarious then before, I hung on with all my being.  The wind blasted a fierce, angry snort, sending the pole reeling over.  Then, just as suddenly, the wind shifted directions, flinging me around like a stone in a sling. 

            My arms, were being torn out of their sockets and my fingertips, felt as if the bones would push through the flesh, so intense was my grip.  The flag began to tear away from the pole as the lanyard ropes stretched to the breaking point.  Something was about to break, I knew: either the pole, or the rope, or my grip. 

            The wind cuffed me a slashing blow, cracking the lanyard ropes with a snap, and suddenly I felt everything was giving way at once.  The roof of the tiny minaret tower loomed in the darkness.  The structure was little larger then a telephone booth: with a slanted roof of slick ceramic tile, and worse of all, it was pointed.  A perfect landing could very well leave me impaled on the pinnacle, but I had no other choice.  I released my grip as the gale force wind slugged me with one final blast.  I crashed in a heap across the tiled roof of the turret, an exhausted, quivering, helpless, mass, unable to even draw breath. 

            My leather-flying jacket had snagged on the metal point of the spiral.  There were no other grips on the smooth tiled roof, and without a hold, there was no way to reach the open portals directly beneath me.  I had to move: the moonlight virtually spotlighted me.  Thinking fast, I stripped to my shorts and tied a Levis’ pant leg around the metal spiral point.  I chained the other pant leg to the flying jacket sleeve and I eased my legs off the edge of the sloping spiral roof.  Very carefully, I slid my hips over the edge of the tower on the side most shaded from the moonlight. 

            A nickel slipped from my pant’s pocket.  I lunged at it and pinned it with flesh of my forearm.  Other coins trickled out of the pocket, each sliding down the smooth tile to lodge against my forearm.  What if they fell?  For the first time, I looked down. 

            My gaze, was met, instantly, by an Arab man, who stood alone, in the square, directly beneath the tower.  The black turbaned cleric, stared uncertainly toward me, and backed away.  He stepped to the side, and after a moment. he trotted into the building. 

            I quickly hoisted myself onto the roof, allowing the wayward coins fall away.  A moment later, an inquisitive forearm appeared at the edge of the turret roof.  The hand patted the tiles, disappeared and reappeared a 1/8th section away.  Moving from portal to portal, the Arab man felt his way around the circular roof, as I shifted myself to avoid detection.  At the last section, the fingertips came within an inch of a coin that had somehow managed to lodge itself, against a nearly imperceptible lip on one of the tiles.  A breathless moment later, the hand disappeared.

            I quickly lowered myself over the edge of the rooftop, down, into the turret.  I was untying my flight jacket sleeve, from the lost-to-the-cause pant leg when once again, I noticed the Arab man in the square below.  This time, the cleric's attention was focused upon the moon lighted stone pavement, where several American coins lay gleaming. 

            I scurried down the circular stair.  At the bottom, I halted, sensing a presence.  From the shadows, overriding the quiet murmuring of the faithful, in the mosque, came the whispered breath of the turbaned Arab man.  He spoke from only a-foot away.  “Aga?”

            “Alla-who Ack-bar,” I faked the only Arabic I knew.

            “Aiee, zaydubnu muhammadin?” the man stepped into the light.

            I hammered him with a full force right and the dragged man into the alcove at the bottom of the stairs.  I helped myself to the man’s white, pajama like clothing and black turban, which left him completely nude since he wore no under garments.

            A monstrous candle crystal chandelier illuminated the foyer of the building.  The floors were exquisitely carpeted and the walls were lined with large mirrors, gilded with gold and silver.  Candlelight shimmered through the various chambers, reflecting off the numerous mirrored surfaces, dazzling the eye.  Opposing mirrored walls reproduced my image forever with a mesmerizing effect.  Overcoming the temptation to admire my surroundings, I ran for the exit.

            Keeping to the shadows, I made my way to the small windowless building that attached itself to the perimeter wall of the square.  I opened its door opened silently, to a brightly lighted room.  Hundreds of burning candles were set on narrow benches about the room in no particular order.  To the left, an old man was reverently snuffing out candles, totally engrossed in his enterprise.  Without disturbing him, I moved silently toward the far door.  A step from it, the man spoke a salutation, “Faqhat yek sa’ge bozork mitooneh yek shotoro bekoneh.”

            I turned and whispered, as best as I could, “Fak’hat yeak sa’gy bow’zork mitoohnay yek show hoot or wo bee-co-nay.” The man came to me and repeated the salutation.  Again and again, we exchanged the same words, “Faqhat yek sa’ge bozork mitooneh yek shotoro bekoneh.”

            “I'll never forget it,” I promised him.  I quickly exited through the far door, and found myself outside the walls of the town, alongside a telephone booth.  I took a few deep breaths and peeked back inside.  The old man was lighting the candles he had been snuffing.  I whispered, “Faqhat yek sa’ge bozork mitooneh yek shotoro bekoneh,” and I ran for Honda. 

 

 

 

 

 Chapter Twenty-Three

Lovers and Other Strangers

 

 

Wearing only a shear negligee, Ashley tiptoed to the entry flap of the lantern lighted cook tent.  Spotting Lance, she slapped the fabric and spun on her heal. 

            “I better see what her prob is,” Lance extricated himself from Bucky's arms. 

            Bucky complained, “What about me?”

            “I'll be right back,” he winked.  He caught up to Ashley just outside the tent.  Seething with anger, she turned on him and slapped his face smartly.

            “Hey, Dudette, it ain't my fault,” he rubbed off the sting.  “Bucky wanted to talk to me.”

             Ashley fumed, “I declare, it looked like you were just talking.”

            “Right on, like as if, we were doing something else in there with everybody watching.  You wanna’ know what we were doing, I'll tell you what we were doing.  Bucky likes me because I remind her of her brother. She's lonely.  This is the first time she's been away from home.  So she asked if she could just talk to me, like brother and sister.”

            Ashley was incredulous, “Do you really expect me to believe that?”

            Lance said defensively, “Hey, do you really think I'm so dumb that I think I could just spend the whole night with Bucky, while you're waiting for me, without you even catching on?  Get real.”

            Ashley pursed her lips, “Well, Lover,” she challenged in a haughty tone, “are you two siblings done talking, or are you going to talk all night?”

Lance studied her a moment, and thought about the still smarting cheek.  He said cooly, “Dudette, we are done talking.  Turn on your radio, nice and low, and hold your breath.  The love of your life will be starting with your toes and kissing his way to Paris in just five minutes.” 

            Ashley probably wondered, he was telling her these things, but there was no commitment in his eyes.  He couldn’t be lying though.  It probably occurred to her, what else could he do, in five minutes.  She probably thought, I will wait six minutes and if, he hasn’t come, I will find him and cut out his heart.  She smiled, her tongue lolling, “See ya.”

            Lance watched her a moment, and hissed “See ya,” and he turned quickly and went back into the cook tent. 

            Bucky's inviting smile awaited him.  He gave her a peck, “Why don't you discreetly find us a blanket and I'll get some beer,” he whispered.  “We'll take a walk.  See you behind the tent in a minute.” When she had left, Lance sauntered over to Theodore Truddle.  He smiled devilishly, “Hey, Theodore Dude, somebody too shy to talk to you, asked me to give you a message.”

 

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty-Four

Business as Usual

 

 

 

 

El Centro, California, one hundred yards North of the Mexicalli, Mexico border crossing.  El Centro Police Officer Banty, moved from beside his partner, and around behind the citizen, so he could yawn, unobserved.  It wasn't that the bad guys were so much smarter, he thought.  It was that the citizens were so clueless.  And this citizen, with a head as wide as a Hereford bulls, a head covered with a curly hide of uncombed, Hereford-red hair and matching beard, typical to the breed, was as clueless as they came. 

            The Hereford man spoke,  “He waved me down.  It was dark and real late.  He didn't even have a coat, just a blue work shirt.  What could I do?  I had to help him.”

            “And you didn't see the signs?”  You stupid lump, Patrolman Garcia pained to say.  “The ones that warned Prison.  Do not pick up hitch hikers.”

            The Hereford man told the officer, “I was just watchin' for the ones that said California.  I watch my driving.”

            Patrolman Garcia inquired, “Didn't you think it was a little unusual, this guy, out there in the middle of nowhere, with no car, nothing?”

            “He told me, black people,” his big red face flushed, and then he continued, “stole, his car.  He real was mad.  He said real bad things about black people.  And he said bad things about Mexican people, too.”

Officer Banty lolled his tongue from behind the Hereford man’s shoulder.  He said, “What did he say about Mexicans?  Did he call them greasers?  Beaners?  What?”

            Patrolman Garcia gritted his teeth.  He spoke to the Hereford man citizen, “When he told you that his car was stolen by a group of Negroes, didn't you think that was a little bit unusual?  I mean, how many ethnic gangs, did you see out there, in the middle of nowhere?  “

            “Ah,” the Hereford man scratched his chin.  “I never been here before, you know.  I don't have no ‘usual’ to compare to.  It was late and dark, so I couldn't ah’ couldn’t have seen em’, but it wouldn't ah' mattered.  Paw says, I always should look for the good side of people.”

            “Ah huh,” Officer Banty commented.  “Too dark to see Negroes,” he put his pen to his pad.

            The Hereford man said, “He, ah, he was a pretty nice guy, though.  We talked a lot.  I told him all about my trip and everything.  He was real interested in Egypt.  Paw always says, a person who is interested in you, wants to be your friend.   Anyways, he bought me supper, and he bought me gas.  He was kind of like me, you know, big guy, with a big heart, and even kind dah’ looked like me.  I still like him.  Them Mexican people we had the fight with, might 'ah kidnapped him, when they stole my truck.  Has anybody checked?”

            Officer Banty volunteered, “I'll check to see if, any ransom demands have been called in.”

            Patrolman Garcia turned the page on his pad, “Do you remember where you stopped?”

            The Hereford man said, “In Phoenix, at a nice little place on a side street.”

            Patrolman Garcia asked, “Did you see him pay?”

            “Ah, lem' me,” the Hereford man rubbed the expansive forehead and scratched the curly red hair, “See, ah, naw, I guess not.  I don’t think, I seen him, pull any money out.”

            Patrolman Garcia said, “You guess not?  Did he pay, or didn't he?”

            The Hereford man added,  “He asked me to warm-up the truck.”

            Officer Banty said, “I'll call it in.”

            The Hereford man remembered, “He bought me gas twice.  Once, in Phoenix, and once, in El Centro,” the Hereford man said.  “And he bought a bottle.”

            Patrolman Garcia said,  “What happened next?”

            The citizen said, “Ah, lem'e see, ah, we parked and done some drinking and we decided to see Mexico.  And then a fight started and I woke up in the Mexicalli jail.”

            Patrolman Garcia said, “And your truck was gone, along with the stranger?”

            The Hereford man said, “Yeah.”

            Officer Banty said, “You said you were a student?”

            The Hereford man volunteered, “Yeah.  I play-football for Oklahoma.”

            Officer Banty thought, and, in the mean time, taxpayers put you through college,  “Where are you headed?”

            “Home, I guess.  I was going to San Diego, to go on a trip, to Egypt, with Doctor Stampell, the guy on T.V.  You see, the school was paying for the trip, so I could get the credits.  I was supposed to get ah’ A for going on that trip.  It would help my grade point average, but I guess, they already left on that trip, to Egypt.  I was in jail for five days.”

            “What name did the hitchhiker give you?” stupid lump.

            “He told me, his name was Gutshank.”

            “Gutshank,” Patrolman Garcia noted his pad. 

            “Gutshank,” Officer Banty returned from the squad car.  “Descriptions match exactly.  Mean as a snake.  He robbed the cafe, raped the waitress and he robbed both gas stations, where they stopped for gas.  He left both attendants unconscious.  When he raped that waitress,” Officer Banty gritted his teeth,  “she didn't resist and he beat her anyway.”

            “Gezz,” the Hereford man rubbed his bearded chin.

            Officer Banty said, “Gutshank probably went on that expedition to Egypt, with Dr. Stampell.  Maybe he’ll get religion, or he’ll die trying.  Where are you from?”  Officer Banty asked, his pad at the ready.

            The Hereford man answered, “A one horse town, out in Nebraska, name ah’, Highway Junction.”

            “Sign here, Mr. Stenson,” Officer Banty directed, “Is that Highway Junction, in Nebraska, where that guy taught a chicken too type?”

 

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty-Five

It’s all the Same

 

 

 

Red eyed, the mid-morning sun at their backs, the divers came into the cook tent with Morris Knutson at their head.  Paper cups, wine bottles, beer cans, littered the premises.  The tent was empty, except for Mr. Yee, and Theodore Truddle, who sat with his back to the door.  Truddle held his Bible pressed tightly to his cheek and the bear like dog, was at his feet. 

            “No breakfast again?” Morris expounded to Mr. Yee and to the empty buffet cart.  “Just what are you paid for?” he asked sarcastically. 

            Mr. Yee sat at his post, white-hated and aproned, his dark complexion giving him the appearance of health and vitality.  Two fresh biscuits were on his plate.  A butter-dish, a jar of honey and his coffee cup were set neatly around his table.  Mr. Yee said, “Yee cook when Yee have helpers.  No helpers, no cook.  Not matter today anyway.”

            “What does that mean?” Morris was suddenly a cross-examining lawyer on the attack.  “How does it 'Not matter today anyway'?” he gestured with his hands, as if, making a significant point.  “Is this a day off for the cook?”

            “Expedition has rules,” Mr. Yee told him.  “You have paper with rules.  Read paper.”

            Morris threw up his hands, “What a cop out!”

            Mr. Yee warned, “Don't complain to Yee.  Yee is to cook, not father confessing.  Students drunk all night, must sleep too late for break fast.  Fruit in-basket.  Eat fruit.  Cereal in-box.  Eat cereal.”

            Moving his six-foot two-inch frame threateningly around behind the diminutive Mr. Yee.   Morris said, “You got a big mouth, do you know that, little man?  You are supposed to cook, not hand out crap.”

            “Move from here,” Mr. Yee said.  “Only for cook and helper here.”

            “I'm having some coffee,” Morris took Mr. Yee's chair back to shift him out of the way.

            Mr. Yee's elbow fired back, a horizontal piston ripping into Morris' solar plexus.  Morris buckled over and Mr. Yee reached back with one hand and seized an ear.  He twisted Morris into a kowtow.  “Student not to touch Yee.  Kitchen for Yee, and helpers.  Not for student.” He pushed Morris to the ground and turned back to his biscuit & coffee. 

            Morris leaped to his feet, clasping his ear.  “You little bastard,” he howled, “get up.” 

            Mr. Yee, biscuit in hand, glanced over his shoulder.  “Yee not receive orders from student.  Yee eat biscuit now.  When Yee finish biscuit, Yee get up.  Student move now, Yee have no hard feelings.  Student who must have coffee, should ask with respect.” Morris glared at Mr. Yee, for a moment, swearing under his breath, as Mr. Yee went back to his biscuit. 

            Gutshank stomped into the tent, slapping the tent flap out of the way as if it were an enemy.  “No damn breakfast again?” he snarled, directing a sideways scowl towards Mr. Yee.

            “No helpers, no cook,” Mr. Yee split open a fresh biscuit with his thumbs.  He dabbed a pat of butter into the warm crevasse.  “Fruit in-basket.  Eat fruit.  Cereal in-box.  Eat cereal.  Lunch not so long, Yee make lunch.  Students want dinner, Yee need helpers.” Mr. Yee, nibbled at the biscuit.

            Instantly angry, Gutshank snarled at all who would meet his gaze, his attention coming to rest upon Theodore Truddle.  He spit his words at Truddle's back, “And, we gotta’ get this black ass bastard, his own john.  He stinks up the place.  I couldn't hardly, breathe in there.”

            Truddle sucked wind, and stood to face Gutshank.  The softness, normally visible in his brown eyes, darkened.  Gutshank brought up his fists.  “Take your shot,” he taunted.  Truddle inhaled a great breath, lay his Bible on the table and he pushed his way past Gutshank, followed by his snickers.  “He's a chicken shit,” Gutshank grinned victoriously.

            Mr. Yee said, “Eat fruit, or put on apron.”

            “I just might try fruit,” Gutshank sat down.  “I don't like working for a chink all that much.”

            Mr. Yee said, “For six weeks, you eat what pass my hand.  You speak with respect, or you get out my tent.”

            Morris whined, “This is really a screwed up deal, you know it.  He hit me, when I wasn't ready.  A karate chop.  Probably a C.I.A., plant” he sneered.

            Truddle charged into the tent.  He had a stick, which apparently, had been dipped into the toilet pit.  He grabbed Gutshank, by the hair of the head, and threw him over backwards to the ground.  He shoved the dripping stick into Gutshank's face.  “This here is shit, white boy, black shit and white shit.  You show me the difference, or don't yu' never talk to me no more.”

            Gutshank whined, “You gaud-damned son-of-a-bitch!  Don't you touch me with that thing!”

            Truddle's control over Gutshank was complete.  He held him a full minute, with the dripping stick only inches from Gutshank's face.  Rage made Gutshank’s whole-being pulse spasmodically. 

Theodore Truddle said evenly, “You remember what I said, and if you wan'na fight me, I'm at the water, washing you, off a’ me.” Truddle let go of Gutshank and walked out.

            Mr. Yee told Gutshank, “You smell shit.  You swim now.  Not wait.  Get out my tent.”

 

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty-Six

Old Friends

 

 

 

The sudden whoosh of a high-speed vehicle and the sting of gravel flying against my cheeks jolted me awake.  I leaped to my feet in time to see a pair of closely coupled vehicles disappear in a cloud of dust.  Standing in a narrow gulch alongside the road, I remembered, I had pulled off the road to sleep. 

            Ten minutes later, I putted into the camp on the Honda three-wheeler.  The camp was an ant hill of Arab activity.  Children, dogs, chickens and goats everywhere, even on top of the airplane.  Goats were jumping up onto the tail wings and wings, and then onto the fuselage of the airplane.  From there, the goats had the run of it, playing goat-king of the airplane.  Butting one another off, they would fall, hit with a bleep, and climb again.  I parked the three-wheeler and chased the goats away.  I changed from the Arab clothing and went to check in with the others. 

            The Arab men had found an abandoned odd make car in the desert.  Several of them were clustered happily around it, but their smiles faded as I approached.  I wouldn't have minded a look, but I could wait.  In a day or so, they wouldn't be so protective.  The front right fender was banged in, the windshield and the driver’s side window were broken, but otherwise it was in good shape.  I felt happy for them. 

            Several of the students lounged about the camp, absorbing the gentle morning sun.  In the cook tent, party leftovers were scattered about.  Mr. Yee saw me and handed me a cup of coffee.  “No helpers today,” he said with stern face.  “Mister Doctor Stampell be mad like hell, when he come.”

            I thanked him for the coffee and moved on to the men’s tent.  Gutshank and Theodore Truddle were changing out of wet clothes.  I exchanged good-morning’s with them and sat at the small table at the center of the tent.  I sipped my coffee and contemplated Lance, who was sitting on his bunk, with both eyes blackened, and his face swollen. 

            Gutshank laughed a cruel laugh at Lance, “We found him behind the tent.”

            Lance tested his jaw.  “I was just walking,” he told Truddle.  “I didn't do anything wrong.”

            Morris Knutson hurried through in a self-important rush.  He said, “We're ready to dive,” as if, he expected applause.  He snatched up the tube of white diaper ointment from its place on the locker at the-foot of Truddle's bunk.  He dabbed it on his lips and spread a layer over his nose.  “I know you don't mind,” he told Truddle.

            Theodore Truddle told him,  “I don't mind.  But I guess it’s a good policy to ask about another’s stuff, before you get into it.”

            Morris Knutson said, “Well, I knew you wouldn't mind.”

            “I don't,” Truddle said agreeably, “long as yu' don't.”

            Gutshank waited until Morris had left, “You mind if I try some of that white shit?  I get sun burned too.”

            Truddle told him, “Yu' don't wan'ah use it.”

            Gutshank wanted to know, “How come?”  

            Truddle explained, “I use dat' tube where da' sun don't shine.  I gots dah' hem' ah’ roids.  Dah' weird food, is hard on da' portal.  Playing ball, round' da' county, I done' learned diz' white salve works good, on the portal.  I just put the tube in close every morning and every night, and it keeps the facility operating without complaint.” Gutshank began to chuckle.  Theodore Truddle preached, “Playin’ ball, we awl’ say, ah’ healthy portal is points on the scoreboard.”

            Nirvana Stampell strolled in, calling, “Lady in the tent.” Her hair was pinned up and back, exposing a thin, white neck.  She looked fresh and rested.  “Anybody seen Ashley?”  She helped herself to an aspirin bottle from the table at the center of the tent. 

            Truddle said defensively, “I wouldn't be see in' Miss Ashley.   She'd have nothin’ to do with me.”

            “Don't look at me,” Lance protested.  “I was with Bucky.  Ask her.  If Ashley, wants to run off, into the night, that's no concern of mine.”

            Nirvana said, “I didn't say ‘she ran off into the night.’  She wasn't in her cot and I’m worried, that’s all.”

            I tested, “Teg isn’t around.  Maybe she is with Teg.”

            Nirvana didn’t smile, “No, she isn’t.  Teg is on his ridge, playing archeologist.”

            I followed her out and watched her walk off.  After, a moment, I meandered over to where Ortega was scanning the sand with his metal detector. String lines were pegged out, marking off perfect little one-meter squares.  A shovel lay near a sand screen that had been set up on two steel stakes, at an angle.  At the center of things he had set a little red peg.  I told him, “Faqhat yek sa’ge bozork mitooneh yek shotoro bekoneh.”

            Ortega grinned, “And good morning to you.  Did you lose your way?”

            I said, “Not exactly, but I couldn't find a cop, either.”

            Ortega said, “It may be just as well.  Vanna may have been hallucinating.  Gutshank took out a posse, of sorts, drove ten miles along the beach.  He saw no side roads, no Arabs and no farm houses.” He gestured, “If Vanna wants to report it, she can talk to the Major.”

            A high-powered speedboat came into view and slowed and beached near the encampment.  Six uniformed Egyptian army men scampered ashore and deployed into a line.  Each of the men carried a short-barreled machine gun.  Major Sa’aid deployed with four of his men, marching behind him.  The other two stayed with the boat, their weapons presented.  I considered them a moment, and said to Ortega, “What can you tell with a metal detector?  I thought we were looking for bones and dead horses.”

            Ortega told me, “The Egyptians used bronze spear points and metal over leather on their helmets.  Given what we know about this site, relics, if, there are any, could be near the surface, shallow enough for this to work.” He grinned excitedly, “I saw a flash flood once, near Yuma.  It doesn’t look threatening.  The water comes tumbling like bubbling soapsuds spilling from an overfilled washing machine.  I have this vision of Pharaoh’s army, crossing the seabed on dry ground, just like the Biblical account.  And, suddenly, they were just overwhelmed with this friendly, bubbling water.  Wearing heavy bronze and leather armor, they would just drown in their tracks.”

            I said, “I'll help you later, but right now I have to get some sleep.” Dead tired, I staggered on rubbery legs back to the Goose, stripped to my shorts, adjusted the fly netting around my bunk and settled in.  A wonderful sleep came quickly and lasted only seven minutes.

              Cary Stewart was in my sleep, saying, “Wake up, you raggedly asshole!”

            Through blood shot eyes, that I had to pry open with my fingers, I stared into the face of bill collector Cary Stewart.  The Hawaiian print shirt, the green silk sport coat, the brick orange trousers, confirmed it.  “Stewart?” I mumbled. 

              Cary Stewart had a gun pointed, right between my eyes.  “I ought to beat the shit out of you,” he smashed my skull brutally with the pistol butt. 

            I moaned, “This is Egypt.”

              Cary Stewart said, “This is my airplane, anyplace in the world.  You be thankful, I'm traveling with that cop out there.” He slugged me hard in the face.  “I'm taking my coils, off of my engines and then I'm going into town with my friend, Detective Goldman.  Then, I'm hiring some local help and I'm hauling in my airplane the hell out of here.  And, if you cause me any trouble, I'll break both your legs.” He rapped me soundly, again, on the head with the gun barrel.  “Understand?”

            I was dazed.  “Yeah,” I managed.

              Cary Stewart warned, “Your shit, better be off, my airplane, by the time I get back from town, understand?”

            I said, “Yeah, sure.”

            And then Cary Stewart threatened, “And when Goldman leaves for the states, I'm really gonna’ beat the shit out of you.” He started toward the exit, and then halted, and he snarled back, “My chink had my clothes out on the line and I'm real pissed off.”

            I staggered to my feet, to the onboard toilet.  I ran water into the basin and splashed my face.  It was perhaps ten minutes before I could see clearly.  Finally awake, I moved with due stealth toward the cockpit.  Movement, under, one of the canvas engine covers told me of Cary Stewart's location.  I switched on that engine’s ignition, sending 80,000 volts through the coil.  Within a blink, Cary Stewart was screaming for help, hanging, half in, half out of, the engine cowling.  In pain, but smiling broadly, I walked out to meet the day. 

            The wooden crate Cary Stewart had been standing on had been kicked away in his distress.  He was unable to release his hold on the high voltage coil and his legs were flaying wildly.  Under the engine cowling, his muffled squeals attracted minimal attention.

            Nirvana sat handcuffed in the back of a Volkswagen van.  She looked scared.  She shot a nervous glance in my direction and then looked away.  The pin was gone from her hair and her loose fitting blouse was twisted half around.  Only her jutting chin belied her spirit.

            A tweed coated American paced a sentry’s march, near the front of the van, watching Cary Stewart's peculiar dance with interest.  Seeing my approach, he presented his identification.  “Lieutenant Goldman, University of California Police,” the man said.  His other hand rested on the butt of a pistol, tucked into his waistband.  “I deduce you are the pilot of the airplane, Captain Webber,” he said.

            I said, “That's right.” My hand pressed tightly into the fast rising bump on my forehead. 

            Detective Goldman asked, “What has happened to Mr.  Stewart?”

            I suggested, “Finger stuck, maybe.”

            Detective Goldman agreed, “I see.  Mr. Stewart mentioned to me, some incident that occurred when your plane took off from San Diego.  Did you really dump a whole load of rancid sewerage, right on his house?”

            I said, “Must have been a coincidence.  Mind if I say good-bye to your prisoner?”

            Detective Goldman appraised me carefully, “This is a dangerous, sick woman, responsible for the death of an innocent Rabbi.  She kicked me, really hard, right in the raisin bag, when I arrested her.  In fact, I needed Mr. Stewart's help, to hold her, while I handcuffed her.  Further, I suspect her family deals marijuana on an international scale.  You may speak to her, at your own risk, but, if you attempt any funny business, you'll answer to me.”

            I said, “Just good-bye, that's all.”

            Goldman ordered, “Go ahead.  Say good-bye to her.”

            I opened the side door of the mini-van, “You can't feel any worse than I do,” I said.

            She kept her clear blue-grey eyes focused stubbornly on some object in the distance.  “I don't need your sympathy.”

            I said quietly, “Once or twice, I've thought about kissing you.”

            She said, “Right now, it wouldn’t be appropriate.”

            I explained to her, “I see passion in your eyes, Shortfuse, not wide-eyed, little girl passion, but something more.  You are the first woman I have met -”

            She cut me off, “This isn't the time,” she said stubbornly.

            I said, “I think I know how you can get out of this.”  Nirvana stared stubbornly ahead.  Anger retched out of my throat, “That cop over there, told me he was going, to get a little for his trouble.  

Nirvana said, “Then why in the hell don't you ride with us?  You can handle me when I'm handcuffed.”

I was instantly sorry that my mouth was faster than my brain.  I slammed the side of the van with a sideways fist, causing Detective Goldman to cackle from his post.  I shook off the pain, “Why are we talking like this?  We're the same, you and me: we were rich kids, screwed up rich kids.  Even to this day, when my mother comes to see me, I can't talk to her.  I know it’s not her fault, but I can't forgive her.  I know it’s not my place to judge, but I've mistreated her for thirty years.  I can’t seem to shake it.  You are carrying around the same kind of baggage, I am.  If you, and I, can't get along with one another, we can't get along, with anybody.”

            Nirvana looked me straight in the eye.  “You said, ‘you knew how I could get out of this’.”

            A crowd of curious children, dogs and goats, gathered under the wing plane, to watch the spectacle of Cary Stewart.  He was screaming, his body writhing, dangling half out of the engine cowling.  Of these watchers, one stood out from the others.  This was not the face of a mystified child, a playful dog or a curious sheep.  The hard eyes of Ka'ram, ram of the flock, focused with an inherent hatred of everything and everyone.  With a special vengeance, he glared upon this strange, attention-grabbing, interloper in his territory. 

            Ka’ram was largest of the rams, and so ferocious, that even the dogs gave him way.   Ka'ram tossed his horns from side to side, and aligned him-self with the targeted stomach.  He pawed the earth, snorted and twisted his goat face into a rage.  The charge was brutally quick, scattering children, dogs and sheep.  The bone-crunching impact blasted Stewart out of the engine cowling. 

            Winded and struggling for breath, it was several minutes before Cary Stewart could stagger crookedly to his feet.  The wide eyes of those before him warned, something was about to happen from the rear.  Cary Stewart spun around just in time to collect Ka'ram’s second charge in the breadbasket.  Cary Stewart was thrown violently to ground.  The children howled in delight, and the dogs, and lesser rams swarmed over him, to nip or butt the wounded giant.

            Detective Goldman called to Cary Stewart, “They love you, Cary.”

            On his hands and knees, Cary Stewart waved off his attackers.  Finding his feet, he had begun to stand when he remembered the big ram.  Seeing the ram lining up for another charge, Cary Stewart, thought better of it, and crawled, on his hands, and knees to Detective Goldman.  Standing safely near Detective Goldman, he held two of the coils from the Goose.  “That's my asshole,” Cary Stewart pointed me out to Detective Goldman.

            “Lighten up, would you?” I stepped away from the van.  “We can work this out.”

              Cary Stewart snapped, “There's nothing to work out.  I'm selling your piece of crap in Cairo.  It’s worth more over here.”

            I said, “Hey, the plane needs a pilot.  You let me fly the Goose out of here, and you can eat steak tonight, in Cairo.”

              Cary Stewart snapped, “Go to hell.”

            “Cary,” Detective Goldman butted in, “he's not being unreasonable.”

              Cary Stewart snarled, “He's lucky I leave him his jockey shorts.”

            I tried to sound like I was giving up, “Heading into town for a bite?” I asked Detective Goldman, smiling.

            Detective Goldman said, “That's right.”

            I smiled, “There's a great little place in that village just down the road.”

            The van had been gone only a moment when Major Sa’aid led his column to the Goose, and halted a pace from me, “Cap'pee'tan Webb'burr, diz’ wone have trust yu’ have not failed in yu’ search for contraband Ken’tuk’kee Wisk'kee.”

            I said, “Yes, of course, I have found another contraband bottle.” I quickly retrieved a bottle from the plane and handed it over to the obviously pleased Major. 

            Sa’aid said, “Cap'pee'tan Webb'burr, diz simz’ tu’ bee’ sum’ question a’boot missing Christ'tian girl.”

            I said, “No missing girls.”

            “Diz wone haz´all ah'thor´ra´ty for diz' Christ'tian arc'heal'log'gee'cal  x'plor'ration.  If, Christ'tian girl gone from ex'plor'ray'chon, terms of vee´saah, are in vi'oh'lay´shon.  Yu' are in co' man.  Yu' are ree'ponse'si'bale, under law of Egypt.”

            I said very seriously, “If I am to be shot, will you promise to sell my plane and sent the money to my mother?  She is a poor widow.”

            Sa’aid cocked his long forehead back and looked down his nose.  He smiled imperceptibly, and marched his troops away, with the Jim Beam bottle in hand.

            A moment later, a wail-full, painful scream alerted me and I retrieved my .357 from it’s hiding place just in case.  I tucked the pistol into my belt and pulled my shirt over it.  Bucky was screaming hysterically, “She's dead.  She's dead.  She's dead,” by the time I got to the tent.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Lunch With the Locals

 

 

 

On the slope above the small town, Detective Goldman stopped the Volkswagen van, as an uneasy feeling settled over his stomach.  “I'm not that hungry,” he said.

              Cary Stewart told him, “Well, I am, and I ought' ta’ stop and see if I can hire some local help, to move that airplane.”

            “Yes, of course,” Detective Goldman agreed.  He shifted the Volkswagen and rolled down the hill, parking near the junky green truck, that I had told him about.  The garden styled entry gate was nearby, just as I had said.  The restaurant would be on the left, with carved English and French flags on the door.  “You may eat with us, Miss Stampell, but I want your promise, that you won’t run.”

            “I promise I won't run,” Nirvana told him, seriously.

            They found everything, just as I had described it.  Entering, Nirvana picked a table near the center.  Nirvana told them, “Eating here, makes us one of their family.  It’s their custom.”

            “I'm not here to adopt anyone,” Cary Stewart leaned over to Detective Goldman.  “Look at that picture on the wall.  A little-girl stripper.  She can't be more than twelve or thirteen.”

            Detective Goldman agreed, “Yes, a mere child.”

              Cary Stewart said, “And these assholes turn their noses up at us.”

            A pretty black-eyed girl came to them, and stood smiling innocently, at their table.  “Xaidimun,” Nirvana called her servant to attract attention. 

            Surprised, the youthful waitress snapped something with a haughty sound to it.  Nirvana quickly stood.  “I'm sorry,” she said.  She faked it, “Blaasheep, bla mauss, blaasheep.”

            “What the hell are you telling her?” Cary Stewart demanded.  “She could be pulling a fast one,” he warned Detective Goldman.

            Nirvana was caught flatfooted.  She struggled, “Ah, Blaasheep, bla mauss, blaasheep, aah, it doesn’t translate very well.  It means, ‘I hope’, ah, ‘my hope is that your sheep will have more sheep’, ah, baby sheep.” 

            Stewart took on a superior air, “I sort’ ta’ picked that up, but I just wanted to be sure.”

            Nirvana seized the moment.  “Please, stand up, gentlemen.  We've insulted her.  Being here, we are her family.  We have to greet her properly.” When Detective Goldman and Cary Stewart had stood, Nirvana said, “We have to kiss her.” Nirvana leaned over the table and kissed the girl, full on the mouth, then quickly handed the surprised girl's cheeks to Detective Goldman.  Goldman plucked her and handed the girl off to Cary Stewart, who quickly followed suit.  From the shadows, there was a throaty scream, and the accompanying sounds of furniture sliding on the stone floor.  Nirvana held her breath, and waited for the charge.

              Cary Stewart swiveled his head around to glare at the men who had stood.  “What the hell is their problem?”  he snarled.

            Fear seized Nirvana.  It wasn’t happening, as I had promised.  She had to think fast.  “Ah, they think you have insulted their sister,” Nirvana told them seriously.  “By giving her, only a peck, and not a decent kiss, you imply she is ugly and undesirable.”

              Cary Stewart snarled, “What a dumb-ass custom.”

            “Now hold on a second,” Detective Goldman said.  “I always say, when in Rome, do as the Romans do.”

              Cary Stewart smiled at the girl, who looked quite bewildered, and said,  “I'm sorry.  I think you're plenty cute enough to kiss.”  He removed her veil and pressed his lips to hers. 

            An Arab wooly-faced demon, bellowed a bloodcurdling scream, and drew out his thick curved scimitar.  Other men joined him, and they charged, with blood in their eyes. 

            Nirvana ducked under the table, as the commotion passed, then she snatched the Volkswagen keys from the table, stood and walked out.  She had promised, after all, not to run. 

            Outside, she paused, to catch her breath and to allow her eyes to adjust to the light.  Her back, against the stone-wall, she slid down to her haunches as a fire hose full of memories splashed over her.  The feel of the street, the sounds of the fighting coming from the bar, the stone-wall at her back, the door with the crossed French and English flags, craved into the wood, combined to unlatch a long closed trapdoor in her mind. 

            In a heartbeat, she remembered, I was here.  The men weren’t fighting.  They were cheering.  Jeri was laughing, fiendishly, clapping his hands, and collecting the money.  There was a long dark hall inside that bar, and the thought of it, made her shutter. 

 

 

 

 

 Chapter Twenty-Eight

The Devils Within

 

 

Truddle staggered out of the cook tent and fell, infant-like into a heap on the quickly warming morning sand.  He cast his eyes skyward, as his heavy heaves gradually became uncontrollable sobs.  Tears streamed down his cheeks.  Agonizing, he cried, and prayed, and moaned.

            Inside the tent, Ashley's body was laid out on one of the folding tables.  Dressed in a lime green negligee, she appeared to sleep peacefully.  The firm, young flesh of her breasts, pushed innocently, moist against the shear silken fabric of the negligee.  “Beautiful,” I said quietly.  Only the grains of sand, at the edge of her mouth, belied her death. 

            A tremendous commotion surrounded her on all sides.  The American girls wailed in unison.  Curious Arab children, remarkable in their innocence, shrieked and pushed for an opportunity to poke the still moist flesh.  The black-eyed Arab women, all dressed in face covering, body-length chadors, talked incessantly.  Behind them, little Arab boys, stood wide-eyed on the tables behind all the others.  In less then two minutes, the chaos subsided.  The last of the Arab women took their turn to view the body, contemplative in her studious inspection of the white skin, the blond body hair.  She then hurried the children out of the tent, leaving only the Americans and their grief. 

            Mr. Yee, ever the stern face, came from behind the kitchen divider curtains, a white bed sheet in hand.  He laid it over Ashley's body and then paused to study her face a moment.  He brushed away the sand grains from her lips and covered her face and walked back into his kitchen. 

            Bucky broke loose from the frenzied covey of girls, who were holding one another and tore into Lance.  “You bastard, you bastard, you bastard,” she beat his face with her fists, screaming and sobbing.  “It was you.  Somehow, it was you.”

            Theodore Truddle clamped a hand on my shoulder.  The tears had been wiped away and he belied no further anguish.  He said, “I saw ah' snake, Captain Webber, Ah' big old snake.” 

            I said, “Oh, for crying out loud, Two Ton.  We've had a terrible tragedy here.  Forget the snake,” I pleaded.

            Theodore Truddle said, “You still got that gun you had, when we took off in Sandy' Eggo?” 

            I said, “Yes, I still have my gun.”

            Theodore Truddle said, “Ah' snake, like the one I saw, needs a gun to kill it.”

            I said, “I don't want to shoot no damn snake.  Why not just kill it with a shovel?”

            Truddle said, “I needs a gun to kill it.”

            I gave up.  “Show me.  If we can't kill it with a shovel, I'll shoot it.”

            Truddle said, “I saw the snake.  I's the one that gets to kill it.” 

            I defended, “I don't feel comfortable handing over my weapon.  I've got snakes of my own this morning.”

            “Nuf' said,” Truddle grumbled.  “I kill this snake some other way.” He tromped into the kitchen half of the tent.  The large sheepdog, the one Truddle called Skunk, was waiting for Truddle, when he emerged a moment later.  “You stay the hell away,” Theodore Truddle snarled at the dog. 

            Mr. Yee caught up to him on the ridge a short distance from the camp.  Truddle had the dull side of the butcher knife blade on his wrist and was practicing the stroke that would end his life.  Truddle sawed, first, with one hand and then the other. Skunk the sheepdog, stood attentively at his feet.

            Mr. Yee commanded, “Student helper, must not take Yee’s knife.”

            Two Ton implored, “They wouldn’t let me bring a knife.  I got' ta’ use your knife.”

            Mr. Yee said, “Student want knife, student must buy own knife.  Yee, knife for cooking,” 

            Truddle begged, “This life is in da' shiter.  I told 'em I was guilty.  I told da' judge so.  I most killed three white boys over piss'n rights.  The devil has me, in his clutch.  I beat 'em and beat 'em and dey Sheriff called it mayhem, I beats 'em so bad.  Da' judge said, ‘go on, with ol' Doc Stampell.  Give it a rest. I pray that I don’t see you again!  Things will be different.’  Well, things ain't different.  I noo’d lovin’ on her was a sin, but I did it anyways.” Theodore Truddle turned the razor sharp blade and pressed it against the sweat-wet skin, and watched dispassionately, as a thin red line of blood formed on either side of the blade. 

            Mr.  Yee said, “Yee not, for father confessing.  Much work for student, now.  Student Ashley need strong friend to guard her dignity.” Still holding the knife, Theodore Truddle looked expressionlessly to Mr. Yee.  Mr. Yee implored, lectured even, “Student not have devil.  Dog can tell these things.”

Skunk, the sheep dog licked, Theodore Truddle across has face, and slobbered away the guilt and washed the death mask from the great, black mug. 

            Twenty minutes later, I walked somberly into the cook tent.  “Okay, everybody, I got through on a radio-telephone link.  Doctor Stampell wants everybody to come home.   Mr. Fleming is arranging for a bus, to come from Cairo, right now.  He says it will take three or four hours, at the most.  It’s ten-thirty now.  That means you guys have until, about, one-thirty or two-thirty, to have your personal gear ready to load.”

            Morris Knutson demanded, “So we get a bus?  Then what?”

            I said, coolly, “Tickets will be waiting at the airport in Cairo.  You will be heading for the U.S.A., by sundown.”

            Morris moaned, “Hey, this is just wonderful.  We trash can two months of our lives, getting ready for this deal, and we're leaving after two days?”

            Mr. Yee said loudly, “Student’s have heard what to do.  No time wasting!  When bus come, must be ready to go!”  The student’s scattered. 

Mr. Yee came to me, with Theodore Truddle and Gutshank in tow, “What Mr. Fleming say for Yee?”

            I said,  “He told me, to ask you to escort Miss Ashley home, to Atlanta.  He said, he’d arrange to have an ambulance come here for the body.  And then, travel arrangements will be waiting for you in Cairo, for the flight home.”

            Mr. Yee said, “Student helpers shall ride with Yee.  Must bring body of student Ashley home with dignity.”

            Gutshank said agreeably, “I wouldn’t mind goin’ to Atlanta.”

            I said, “I’m supposed to fly the expedition gear home at my own convenience.” I was too exhausted to consider my problem with Cary Stewart.

            Ortega told me, “I'll fly home with you.”

            Mr. Yee squared himself with me presenting a stern face.  “Food and fuel, should give to these,” he motioned the Arabs and he disappeared into the kitchen half of the tent.

            “Is there a problem?” Ortega queried, seeing the perplexed look on my face.

            I told him, “  Cary Stewart slugged me when I was asleep, then stole two of my engine coils.”

            Ortega queried, “Any solutions in mind?”

            I said, “I can buy coils anywhere.  It’s getting the Goose to the beach, before Stewart gets back, that presents the problem.  Once I’m on the water, she can boat it on three engines.  After Stewart gives up, I can come back and get you and the gear.”

            Ortega said firmly, “Excellent.  I would prefer to remain a week or two, at least, or longer, if you are willing.”

            I looked around, “I figure these Arabs will do anything for a buck.”

            Ortega agreed, “That is how they survive.”

            I said, “Then, as soon as our people are out of the way, I’ll pay these Arabs to help me move the Goose down to the water.”

            Ortega told me, “Sounds like an workable plan.  If you need me, I'll be on the ridge.”

            The activity around the camp, at first furious, was decidedly somber by the time the bus arrived.  The students loaded themselves, their personal gear, and with mournful looks, the bus cleared away. 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“Tea?”

 

 

 

I called upon the reclusive sheik immediately.  Using hand signals and offering money, I explained, that I needed the Arab’s to move part of their camp.  By flexing my arm muscles, and faking a pulling motion, I explained to Karoush, that I wanted help moving the airplane.  Karoush, told me, with hand signs, that it was a minor problem.  It would be done when the day cooled. 

            In the peaceful aftermath that followed, Gutshank, Truddle and I, sat on folding lawn chairs under a beach umbrella in front of the cook tent, wet with sweat and silent in our thoughts.  I sipped a beer, my head throbbing from the heat, the lack of sleep, and the lumps and bruises.  Gutshank drank one beer after another, his eyes flickering a certain level of meanness that I had come to respect.  Theodore Truddle read his Bible, the large sheepdog at his feet.  Ortega was on the ridge, digging.  Mr. Yee was in his kitchen, packing.

            About mid-afternoon, one of the Arab children brought us a large platter of food.  Goat meat, prepared in three different fashions: pepper roasted; heavily spiced and sweet; with sliced lemons, spinach, carrots, olives, a few died figs and dates, and chewy flat bread.  I thanked the child as sincerely as I could, and we ate heartily. 

            Truddle, deep in his Bible, didn't seem to notice the food, which was just fine with me.  Gutshank studied the platter, his eye twitching nervously.  He turned away, popped the top on another beer and gulped half of it.  Since the bus had left, he hadn't spoken a word and I began to hope for the ambulance's coming. 

            When Mr. Yee was done packing, he sat with us.  Mr. Yee inspected the meat platter, and then, helped himself.  “You pissed with Yee,” he asked Gutshank. 

            Gutshank snarled, “Ashley was sweet on me.”

            Mr. Yee said, “Very sad, for this child to die.  Yee have beer.” Gutshank opened the cooler and handed over a cool one.  Mr. Yee asked Gutshank, “How come, Gutshank here?”

            “Filling in for a friend,” Gutshank chugged his beer.  Then Gutshank asked, “Two Ton, what the hell is pissing rights?”

            Theodore Truddle closed his Bible, and signed mightily.  “Dey' ain't got but one colored pisser in Har'r'son City.  One dat' da' gals and da' boys, mus' share.  It’s in, da´ alley, behind da´ Paramont.  I prob’ly tol’ yu’ awl, my Daddy iz’ always haulin’ in the table crops from Swelt Gulley, n’ when' air he got da' high water, he got tu' truck round tu' da' colored pisser.”

Truddle whispered, his voice coarse, guttural, and venomous, “I seen my daddy in pain.”

Within a blink, he was smiling, his brown eyes flashing, “Most times, my Daddy call me ‘Black Chalk’, but he proud, when he say, 'Black Chalk, piss where he wan'na piss.’”

Sadness came over him and Theodore Truddle bit his tongue, and hung his head.  With his big hands trembling, he whispered, “Yes sir, I can't say why I got such pride, in pissin' rights.”

            Ten minutes and two beers later, Gutshank poked Truddle's shoulder.  “You talk up God, all the time, but can you tell me, why would God let her die?  Can you?”

            Theodore Truddle looked at each of us, and then said evenly, “The old folks say 'for the Lord was pleased with dat’ soul, so the Lord hasted to take that soul from among the wicked.’  But if you ask Theodore Truddle, I say, God don't take, He give.  When the good die young, it just proves the truth of His book.” Truddle offered his Bible to Gutshank, “For His book say, 'Death comes like thief in the night'.  And dat’ death,” he motioned toward the tent, “iz’ ah' lesson to dem’ dat’ is left with da’ pain, and for dat’ child, she knows no more pain, for today, she is in paradise.”

            Gutshank blushed, his eye taking a nervous twitch.  “I don’t believe that crap,” he grumbled.

            Theodore Truddle preached, “Yu’ say that now, but I pray, when your hour cum, God’s grace will settle on yu’, with ‘nuff grace, as God thinks yu’ need.  And make an act of con-trit-shun.”

            Gutshank took an offensive posture, “Make a what?”

            Theodore Truddle said, “You remember, what I said, and when you’re alone, just say ‘I is sorry, Lord, forgive me for all my sins’ and cross yourself like this.” And Truddle crossed himself. 

            Gutshank laughed, “I’d fit in heaven, just about as good, as I fit in here.”  He took on a preachers air, quoting, “And so the Lord made hell, deep and dark, so all the ornery sons of bitches, would have a place to go to.  Gutshank, book one, saying one.”

            Theodore Truddle told all of us evenly, “Paradise is full of sinners, from the erudite, to the low down sons of bitches.”

            I started to speak, but paused, when I saw in Truddle’s eyes that they just had sealed a bargain.  No one else had noticed it.  I asked, “Why do the young die?  I asked that same question a thousand times, in Vietnam.  Until, I finally got sick of asking.” I looked at Truddle, “No good comes from death.  Not one iota,” and I chugged another beer.

            Truddle took on something more pronounced than his usual dialect.  “The good may still come.  That child has died, and here, we is, contemplating the here' after.”

            I grumbled, “Well, if, seeing the young die young, makes a person religious, I should be the pope.”

            Truddle preached, “That best be left up to da' Lord,” He warned, “Fo´ only He is da´ One with da´ knowin´ of da´ morrow, cept, sometimes, I suspect, da´ evil one knows it tu’, for he's up on things, tu’.”

            I wanted to smile, but I didn’t.  I said, “Two Ton, do you believe in the devil?”

            Theodore Truddle said evenly, “If you believe one page in da´ book, then you gots’ to believe it all.  I gots’ da´ evil on me, cause I believe.  The evil one got no use to temp them that don't believe.  It’s when yu´ start believing´, that da´ devil starts his work.”

            I said, “I feel sorry for God, and for His whole damn crew,” and I walked from the encampment. 

            I found Ortega on the ridge.  Ortega had dug a shallow trench, about three-foot wide and ten-foot long.  Truddle and Gutshank joined us, a moment later.  Ortega was brushing sand away, from the bottom of the trench.  Near, the center of the depression, a perfectly, preserved, solid, bronze spear point, jutted defiantly into the late afternoon sun.  “You still leaving?” Ortega asked without missing a stroke. 

            I told Ortega, “When it cools, the Arab's will help me move the Goose.” I explained to Gutshank and Theodore Truddle about Cary Stewart and the engine coils.  I said, “Stewart is threatening to bring reinforcements take the plane.”

            Gutshank smiled glassy eyed.  “Cary Stewart ain't gon'na get your airplane.  I’m going to kill him, first.”

            I remembered: at sixteen, I drove a new Ford convertible.  I had stuffed two by four wooden blocks, into the coil springs: riding high and everybody knew that I was a pilot looking for a kill.  I read every air combat story and studied every dogfight picture.  I wanted to shoot somebody down, to kill.  But it didn't work out the way I had hoped.  Korea was just wrapping up by the time I got my wings and I was too old for combat when Vietnam started.  Someplace along the line, I had changed.  I said quietly, “Cary Stewart ain't worth killing.”

            Lance staggered onto the scene, his shirt soaked with sweat, his nose and lip bloodied.  “Bucky just wouldn't shut up,” he whined.  “She told everybody, that I had something, to do with Ashley's death, when she knows that's crazy, better then anyone else.  I was with her.”

            “What happened?” I asked.

            “That Morris Dude,” he animated, “beat me up and threw me off the bus.”

            Gutshank wanted an excuse to hit him.  “Why would Bucky say you had something to do with Ashley's death, if, she was with you?  She said it was you, in the tent.”

            Lance cowered. “It wasn't me.”

            Ortega straightened himself up.  He was soaked with sweat, panting, red faced and supremely satisfied.  At his feet, jutting up out of the sand was the top-most portion of a staff.  Ortega said, “Its a gold-wire braided whip.  See the eyelet on the end?  That’s where leather thongs were tied.”

            I said, “We're going stir crazy” I took a plastic scoop in hand and began flinging sand out from around the whip.

            “Careful,” Ortega warned.  “There is a whole chariot under there.  The spear point was still on the shaft.  We may have mummified remains.  Stay away from the center.  Dig down from the edges and widen out the hole.”

            I dug like a wild man.  My anger and frustration over Cary Stewart, finally directed toward something physical, boiled out of me.  In five minutes, three-foot of the whip had been exposed.  It was made of braided gold wire and flexed ever so slightly as Ortega carefully brushed the silt from around it. 

            “Take a break, Boss,” Gutshank shoved me out of the way.  He gave way to Truddle five minutes later, who was replaced in turn, by Lance.  The digging slowed quickly as the hole deepened.  The top of the excavation had to be constantly widened to account for the sloping sand.  Soon, the sand we had flung away only minutes before, was trickling back in, filling, the hole even as we dug. 

            The Arab children took an interest, and soon brought their parents.  The men had shovels, and cloth sacks, and they pitched in.  And the women offered tea and date cakes. 

            I offered the only Arab salutation that I knew, “Faqhat yek sa’ge bozork mitooneh yek shotoro bekoneh.”  I told them, “It’s the only Arabic I know,” I bowed, “So ah, Faqhat yek sa’ge bozork mitooneh yek shotoro bekoneh.”

            “Faqhat yek sa’ge bozork mitooneh yek shotoro bekoneh,” one of the men repeated.  They all laughed heartily, smiling, and they bent their backs to the work. 

            In half an hour, with Arabs and Americans working side-by-side, the hole went down another three-foot.  With Ortega directing the digging, the hole was dug around the chariot, with the chariot at the center still covered with sand.  In the center part, Ortega swept away the sand with a soft paintbrush.

            Two-foot from the whip and four-foot below its top, Ortega carefully swept away the last of the dry silt from the top of an ancient battle helmet.  “Gold over leather,” he said, brushing it clean with delicate strokes of a fine brush. 

            The gold sheeting on the helmet was perfectly preserved and ornately grooved.  On the forehead of the helmet was a small Cobra, carved of gold, and poised to strike.  Ortega mumbled, “This could be Pharaoh's own chariot.” Ortega had told us, Pharaoh traveled with jewels, to pay for horses and food for his army.  My hands began to tremble as I realized, I was looking at a dream come true.

            Truddle said.  “Yes sir, this ol' rig must' ta’ been mighty heavy.  Ev'r thing all done up with gold.”

            Ortega was saying, “The photographs alone will be priceless.”

            “It must' ta took a'six' up of horses to pull it,” Truddle said.  Then he whispered, “I feel like reminding you` awl, about my feelings about them `awl.”

            I laughed, and said, “Well, if, there's any trouble, we'll drunk 'em up with Jim Beam and leave 'em layin' in the desert so hung over, they will wish they were dead,” 

            “Hope dat’ ain't your plan,” Theodore Truddle said.  “People, been killed for ten Yankee dollars in Harrison City.”

            “I just wonder what this baby is worth,” Gutshank commented.

            Truddle told him, “First Kings ten say, 'a chariot cum' up out `Egypt fo' six hundred shekels ah' silver.”

            “His price is accurate,” Ortega beamed.  “Egyptian craftsmen were noted for making the best chariots in the world.” ‘

            Gutshank asked, “So, what's a shekel worth.  Are we talking a buck?” 

            Truddle explained, “Kings ten say it be four horses for one chariot.”

            Gutshank studied him a moment, a slight smile working on his jaw.  He was positive that he was being been conned.  Gutshank said, “Would that be plow horses or riding horses?”

            The mummified remains of two dead men stood silently in the chariot.  It was apparent they had died very quickly: their fossilized hands still gripped firmly on the gold rail at the front of the chariot and the gold decorated battle armor still hung perfectly in place.  The remains of several javelins, a bow and quiver of arrows came into view as the sand fell away from the front of the chariot.  “These are priceless,” Ortega brushed them carefully. 

            With so many hands working to haul the sand away, the excavation was quickly twelve-foot deep.  The sand was slightly cooler and shaded, as the angle of the sun shifted low on the horizon.  The men drank tea passed down from women who were standing along the West rim of the excavation, to shade the work area with their bodies.  Even the children helped, casting down cloth sacks on ropes, pulling them up and dragging them off to dump.  I climbed out of the hole for a breath of fresh air. 

            Wadjet, the youngest of Karoush’s wives’, stood nearby with her husband.  They stood back to back, on the side of the excavation that was nearest the sea.  Karoush stood looking to the sea and Wadjet toward the excavation.  It was her look that struck me: She thought she was above the rest and she was the one person wearing an honest face.  To her, I thought, this was business.  Nobody else seemed to notice, but I knew instantly, something was wrong. 

            The Arab men kept at it steadily.  But the smiles had long since died away, and none of them seemed interested in meeting my eyes.  I felt myself shiver, so perverse was the feeling of the air.  Why had the Arab's started digging without asking what they would be paid?  These were men who argued over the price of a lemon.  I doubted they would work for free, unless they considered themselves partners. 

            I thought again of Ashley and remembered none of the men had come to see her.  Why?  Was it out of respect, or had one of them killed her?  I tried to weight my thoughts logically: Was I imagining it?  Perhaps, Ashley's death had put me on edge.  An Arab woman poured me another cup of tea.  She was efficient, but there was no hint of friendship in her eyes. 

            Trying desperately to find some solace, I counseled myself: I had been scared in that little town.  It has probably affected my feelings toward these people.  The fear was breeding distrust.  These Arabs were honorable, I tried to convince myself.  They had come to work.  Given the chance, they worked.  They were guilty of nothing.  Wadjet's stuck up expression wasn't a crime. 

            I was set to go back to work, when the wrecked car came to mind.  Logic, I reminded myself.  I remembered that the Arab men had blocked my line of sight with their bodies as I had approached the car.  If, they had found the car, they would have been proud of it.  But, if they had stolen the car, they would have been secretive. 

            And then it struck me. I remembered the car was clean.  I had saw that much.  No dust meant that the accident had to have just happened.  Otherwise, there would have been dust.  How could they claim a car that was just in an accident?  If, they would steal a car, they would steal anything.  I flushed.  Maybe I had imagined it.  The Arabs were all working.  There would be no better time to take a look, than now. 

            I mentally counted the odds.  There were thirteen of them, and the Sheik.  Against Mo and T.T.  Ortega and Lance, and me.  And, Mr. Yee.  Six against fourteen.  T.T. and Gutshank could handle two or three apiece.  And Ortega.  It was hard to tell about Ortega, but I felt that if you got him mad, he could be very formidable.  And then, there was Mr. Yee.  He could handle himself.  And then, I felt my .357, under my shirt.  I thought, there is nothing to worry about.

            Ortega was busily directing the excavation.  The wide bronze chariot wheels could be seen.  The wheel spokes and the sides of the chariot were already coming into view.  Everything was decorated gold.  If the Arabs were bandits, what would they do to get all this gold?  I decided I needed to look at the car immediately.  I nearly ran.

            Goldman's Volkswagen van was near the plane, but neither Detective Goldman, nor Nirvana, nor Cary Stewart, were in sight.  I forgot about the car.  Racing like a man possessed, I retrieved the engine coils, from the back of the Volkswagen van, and replaced them in the Goose. 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Thirty

Party Time

 

 

 

“Everybody out!” Ortega ordered, waving his arms, shooing Arabs and Americans alike.  “Vanna,” he called, as she appeared on the rim of the excavation, “tell them party.  A celebration.  Take them to the tents.  Mr. Yee has two cases of champagne.  Give it to them.  I need to clear everyone away from here so I can take some pictures.”

            Nirvana spoke in Arabic, gesturing wildly to the Arabs.  Within a moment or two, she was leading them toward the cook tent.

            Theodore Truddle warned, “Dem' pic'turs be awl' yu' git,' if' I'm right 'bout these here.”

            Ortega countered, “Major Sa'aid will be here in the morning.”

            Truddle said, “I be prayin' the da' sun come up real soon.”

            Ortega assured him, “The sun will be on time, you, can sure.  But for now, I want everyone away from here.  People make dust.  Dust ruins pictures.  We only have a little sun left.  Go and remember to save me some champagne.  And give some alcohol to these natives.  They'll cause us no trouble, if, we can get them drunk.” Ortega watched Truddle walk away, and took a moment to catch his breath, which was coming in quick, nervous jerks.  Alone, he worked very quickly, to empty the contents out of the expedition camera kit.  And then, he leaped down into the excavation, with the empty kit pack in hand.

            The Arabs clamored around the American cook tent: the children, the men, and the screeching women.  It was a commotion of happiness over flowing, and anticipation and wonderment filled the air.  The Americans had carried the tables outside, upon which they heaped them with foodstuffs, jams, bread, condiments, canned meats, and poured all manner of drinks into the glasses that were presented. 

            Inside the tent, Nirvana staggered on wobbly knees, to the body of Ashley.  Gently, she lifted the sheet off the body, as Gutshank and Truddle poured on the last of the ice.  “How?” Nirvana to managed say, replacing the sheet. 

            Theodore Truddle told her “She was in da' water,” he said, sucking a great breath.  “They found her, just as you’ awl was hauled off, this mornin'.”

            Mr. Yee said,  “Miss Nirvana Stampell.  Miss Bucky put you purse here.”

            Nirvana, her head nodding a gentle, disbelieving side ways motion, found her purse and a tissue.  A note had been slipped into her purse.  Dabbing her eyes, trumpeting a feminine toot, and she read:

     Vanna, Lance is mean.  He inflicted bestiality upon me.  I know in my heart, he had something to do with Ashley's death.   Bucky

            Numb, Nirvana pulled back the sheet from Ashley a second time.  She said, “Bruises.”

            Gutshank leaped to his feet.  He shoved Nirvana aside and grabbed Ashley by the shoulders.  He inspected her body, and seeing the note in Nirvana’s hand, he grabbed it.  He read it, crumpled it a rage and in a heartbeat, he was out of the tent, and back inside, dragging Lance by the neck.  He inflicted a severe beating on Lance in a few seconds.  “What does this mean?” he shoved Bucky’s note into Lance’s face.  “Read it!  Tell me what it says.  Read it, right now, or I'll kill you.”

            Lance struggled for breath.  His nose was bleeding profusely.  He whimpered, “Bucky wanted to try it.  It hurt her and she went raspberries.  Some girls like it.”

            Gutshank snarled.  “Then what did you do to Ashley?”

            Lance screamed.  “What's with you, Dude?  I didn't hurt Ashley.  I wasn't even with her. She drown Dude, she drown.  I was with Bucky.”

            “You are a liar,” Gutshank jerked him to his feet and kneed him in the groin, jolting the color from Lance's bloodied face.  He drew back to punch, murder in his eyes.

            Suddenly, Mr. Yee was there, to block away the punch.  Mr. Yee said, “Tent not for fighting.  Helper have work outside.”

            Lance whispered, “It was Two Ton.  He was with Ashley.  Not me.  He even admitted it.  He said the devil is in him.”

            Throwing Lance down, Gutshank brushed Mr. Yee aside.  “Black Chalk,” he screamed, “get your black ass in here.”

            Truddle and I came into the tent together.  Theodore Truddle said, “I iz' sorry.”

            Gutshank clobbered Truddle with a haymaker right, a left, then another right, with no more effect than punches into a sack of flour.

            Truddle told him again “I said I iz' sorry.”

            Gutshank cried “You black ass bastard, why did you kill her?”

            Theodore Truddle said, “I was with her, but I didn't kill that girl.”

            “I'll kill you,” Gutshank said with hateful intensity. 

            Lance leaped to his feet pointing,  “Truddle killed her, and he tried to kill me.  He ambushed me behind the tent.”

            “Back off,” I warned.  “I'm the one Major Sa'aid will be after, not you.”

            Truddle was barely able to speak.  “Her cot was in da' corner.  The tent was fixed so you could just slip in.  Da' curtain was all around.  Da' radio was on and she was waitin' for me, just like Lance told me.”

            Lance hissed, “Don’t blame me for this.”

            Truddle said evenly, “You done talked enough.  She was waiting in the dark,” Theodore Truddle hung his head, “Waitin’ for me to kiss on her feet, just like Lance told me.” Truddle’s voice choked and the tears tracked down his cheeks.  He looked pathetically to Gutshank, then fell to his knees, and seized Gutshank and hung against him, crying like a baby.  Dumbfounded, Gutshank held Truddle’s head.  Theodore Truddle whispered, “You see, she'd been ah' drinkin' and I’d been ah' drinkin'.” His tears came in a flood.  He sobbed, “I loved on her and she loved me back.  And then she saw it was me, and we both knew, it was a mistake.  She ran and ‘ah I ran, but I didn't follow her, n´ I didn't hurt her,” Truddle cried woefully.

            Nirvana covered Ashley and then she turned to us, saying, “Her finger nail is broken.  And two other nails have skin under them.  Ashley fought for her life, and who ever killed her, has scratches.” Nirvana settled heavily into a chair, weeping. 

            Lance wiped the blood from his face, “Well don't look at me, with oh' macho dude Morris and Mister cop-dude Gutshank, I've got more than scratches.”

            I growled, “Leave this to me.  Everybody out.  We still have guests.  Get out there, Gutshank.  We're not the cops.  Move it,” I scooted Gutshank out of the tent.  

            Mr. Yee took Lance by the arm and helped him back into the kitchen, for first aid. 

            I returned to the party, with something else on my mind.  The car nagged on me.  I discreetly walked down to the Goose, and when I was sure no one was looking, I lifted the canvas cover on the far side of the car.  A bullet hole in the dash and blood on the front seat, confirmed my worst fears.  Staggered, I walked back to the others. 

            Arabs inundated the area in front of the cook tent.  Mr. Yee, Gutshank and Theodore Truddle were pouring punch made from my Jim Beam whiskey, soda pop, and champagne.  Fresh fruit and other goodies were being passed out, and everyone looked innocent and happy. 

            I wasn't sure which of the Arabs had found the car.  Maybe, they weren't all bandits.  It was even possible that other Arabs had shot up the car and these Arabs had only found it.  I cursed my bad luck the night before.  It would have been so much simpler if I would-have gone to see a cop in the town, instead of kissing that girl at the bar.  Nirvana stood behind the others, a plaster statue, out of place at the party.  I demanded of her, “Did Detective Goldman come back with you?”

            Nirvana said, “No, of course not.”

            I cut her off, “Where's Teg?”

            Bewildered, she said, “He's taking pictures.  What's going on?”

            I said, “Never mind,” and I started off.

            Nirvana grabbed my arm.  “Fine,” she told me, “but just stick it, you dig?  I’m not having my best day either.” She walked back into the tent.

            Just then, Ortega came around the tent, cameras in hand. 

            “Where camera-bag?” Mr. Yee challenged him.

            I seized Mr. Yee and Ortega by the arms.  I told them, “Very serious problem.  Keep smiling as I tell you this.  But, I just looked in that car the Arab’s found.  Smile, like I'm telling you a joke.  That's better.  There's blood on the seat and a bullet hole in the dash.  I think these guys killed, whoever was driving that car.  And when I put two and two together, it was these Arabs who kidnapped Vanna.  Our guys couldn't find the farmhouse, because she was in that big bus, which was already parked, right here before our guys went looking for the farmhouse.  These guys are a bunch of murderers.”

            “What do?” Mr. Yee asked.  “Make party?  Wait for Mister Major Sa'aid with machine gun?”

            “Plan A,” I agreed.  I called to Gutshank, “Just pour and smile.”

 

 

 

 

Chapter Thirty-One

Some things, you have no choice about

 

 

 

 

Nirvana Stampell came screaming out of the cook tent.  “Her necklace is gone!  Lance didn't kill her and Two Ton wouldn't hurt a fly.  Ashley was murdered by one of these bastards!”

            I intercepted her, smiling like an idiot, “Shortfuse, not now.”

            “What in the hell are you doing?” she shouted.  “One of these bastards murdered Ashley.”

            I smiled, between my clenched teeth.  “We know, what the hell we're doing, but what in the hell are you doing?  Trying to get us all killed?” The Arabs, to a man, were looking at Nirvana.  She blanched white and clutched me, “That short fuse of yours is dangerous,” I said. 

            Nirvana whispered, “They killed Ashley.”

            I hoarsely whispered, “We know.  The idea is to get them drunk.”

            “This is awful,” Nirvana said, “clinking champagne glasses with Ashley's murderer right in front of her death bed.  What a terrible, in-appropriate threnody.”

            I said, between my gritted teeth, “Vanna, they are still watching you: don't blow it again.”

            “I can't stand this,” she admitted, “I am going to explode.” Pushing away, she shook her fist, at the sky, her voice booming, her wrath directed at the heavens.  “You duped me, O lord.  You were too strong and you triumphed.  I cry out, my message is violence and outrage! I say, I will not mention Your name!  I will speak of You no more!  But then, it comes rushing like a raging fire, burning in my lungs and I grow weary holding it in!” Nirvana caved in upon herself, a quivering mass of tears and grief. 

            Theodore Truddle caught her and allowed her to cry into his expansive chest.  He cast his eyes skyward, “O Lord' ah' hosts, yu' test da' just.”

            Nirvana sobbed into Truddle’s chest, “I have no strength for crosses to bare.”

            Theodore Truddle consoled her, “Yu' ought ta' flow wit' da' will ov' da' Lord, woman.  It’s when yu´ cross Iz' path dat', yu' make you' self ah' cross tu' bare.  Yu' fightin' what yu’ can’t change.  Yo' name wuz' in da' book, ba' fore yu' wuz' born.”

            Nirvana said, fearfully, “What I’m seeing, is a old jaw trap, opening up to seize me, and it scares the shit out of me.”

            Truddle quoted the Bible, “Be confident dat' He who has started a good work in yu’, will carry it to da' day of Jesus Christ.”

            I announced aloud, taking up a bottle of Jim Beam, “Plan A is still operational.”

            “Yee make party,” Mr. Yee announced, throwing back the tent entry flap.  Smiling broadly, he had a gallon of ice cream and began dabbing scoops onto paper plates.  He signaled the Arab children to seat themselves, on the extra chairs, handing each of them plastic spoons and chocolate chip cookies as they entered. 

            I told him, “A stroke of genius.  You've got them smiling again.”

            Lance queried, “But how long can this go on?”

            Gutshank smiled “You just shut up and pour.”

            I asked, “You all right, Teg?”

            Ortega smiled painfully “Just a little nervous.”

            Wadjet drifted into the crowd, looking satisfied with herself.  She accepted a water glass full of champagne from Nirvana.  She was a gorgeous creature, with a thin nose and almond eyes, framed in noble high cheekbones.  In some respects, Nirvana admired Wadjet: she had discovered what power this life had granted her, and she had learned how to wield it.  There was no shame in her pride.  No apology for her beauty and no quarter for those beneath her. 

            In the United States, Wadjet would probably be entering ninth grade, but here, she was at the pinnacle of her power.  And she could handle it.  Wadjet was toying absentmindedly, with something in her front, tucked into the crossing fold of her top.  She sipped her champagne and absentmindedly, cat-licked a scratch on the back of her hand. 

Nirvana knew instantly, it was Wadjet who had killed Ashley.  Gutshank and Truddle were near Nirvana, who was quivering with rage.  Nirvana said, “That little bitch over there, has Ashley's pearls.  I'm going to take them back to her, and while I’m at it, I’m going to smash her nose like an over ripe tomato, but I’m not doing with anger.  It just needs to be done, and I feel like I am the one, that needs to do it.”

            Truddle growled, “What's gon'na happen, if you bust up thee' sheiks favorite wife?”

            “Two Ton,” Nirvana said, “some-things you just have no choice about.  Those pearls are going home on Ashley's neck.”

            Theodore Truddle said, “Yes sir, I guess that's so.  But don't du' wit' anger, fo' it has no place `n da' service of da' Lord.”

            Gutshank said, “Go for it.”

Nirvana tromped deliberately to Wadjet.  “Wadjet,” she said, “goddess of night, let me see.” The party stopped, smiles frozen, words half spoken.  Nirvana twisted the thin wrist until the hand and it’s contents were in the open.  Nirvana glared victoriously into the hard, hateful, black eyes of the young Arab beauty and she hammered her fist, into the center of the pretty face, with all her might, exploding the nose. 

            Wadjet grunted and dropped heavily to the ground.  An Arab woman screamed her alarm, stopping the happy laughter of the children.  The Arab, men were frozen in place, as Nirvana turned to show them.  Nirvana still held Wadjet's hand, and the hand held the pearls.  “These belong to Ashley.” Nirvana took the pearls to Ashley, and then put them around her neck. 

            Wadjet staggered to her feet, crying like the spoiled child she was.  She ran off in the direction of the Red Sea, her nose bleeding profusely. 

            It was a strange moment.  Something impossible to measure had begun, yet no one had moved.  The ambulance, ordered from Cairo by Fleming, came into view and chugged innocently up the hill.  Equipped with dual rear wheels, it negotiated the sand surprisingly well and stopped a few-foot from the tent.  I handed a surprised Arab a bottle of Jim Beam and I told him, “No matter what happens, Ashley ought to be put in that ambulance.”

            The Arab men watched at arms-length, as the dead girl was loaded into the back of the old French-make station wagon.  As the body slid into place, one of the Arab men walked over, and boldly slammed the door shut.  He ordered the driver to leave, which he did hurriedly.

            “Let's have some champagne,” Nirvana said.  She offered Gutshank and Theodore Truddle plastic cups. 

            The Arab men were standing on the other side of the folding tables.  They sipped nervously, handing the bottles of Jim Beam among themselves.  No one said a word, but Nirvana's wallop had changed one thing: the Arabs had lost their aversion to looking us Americans directly in the eye.  Fearlessly, the black eyes were focused, the sweaty heads cocked, the whiskered chins jutted. 

            “It'll be dark in a few minutes,” I said.  “Let's just mosey over to the Goose and get the hell out of here.  We move a couple of trucks, cut a couple of tent ropes.  We can be in the air ten minutes.”

            “Yes sir, Cap'n Webber,” Truddle said, “Dat' sounds like a good plan to me.”

            Gutshank said contemptuously, “I don't like running from a fight.”

            “We could take the truck,” Ortega said.  “It’s closer and less trouble.”

            I nodded, and announced to Yee, “We're leaving in the truck.”

            Mr. Yee called, “Yee will stay.  These not bother with Yee.”

            We began to move as a group, causing the Arab men to block our path, the smiles gone and bottles thrown angrily to the sand. 

            Nirvana pushed her way between Truddle and Gutshank.  “I started this,” she said.  “Let me.  Twenty years of karate lessons and I've only hit one little girl in the nose.” She smiled to the biggest Arab, who had centered himself across our path.  “This is going to hurt,” she said.  “When I kick him, you guys be ready to move.”

            “Yes sir, the three on this side are mine,” Truddle smiled to the men, taking Nirvana's lead. 

            “I get this side,” Gutshank greedily looked over those he would have the pleasure of beating. 

            “On your flank,” Ortega said.  “Web, you go with Two Ton's side and Lance, you make sure anybody we get down, stays down.  Use a bottle, as a club, if you have to.”

            I told the big Arab, “Faqhat yeh sa’ge bozork mitooneh yek shotoro bekoneh.” 

            The big Arab laughed a mean, condescending little laugh and Nirvana kicked him in the groin.  In the same motion, she back knuckled his partner, surprising and blinding him for a second.  The first man kneeled over, his pained expression proclaiming her accuracy and Nirvana launched her other-foot into the groin of target number two.  The kick bent him over and she grabbed his hair and kneed him in face, dropping him.  The double attack had lasted precisely three seconds and two of the biggest Arabs were down. 

            No one else had moved.  Nirvana squared off on her third target and as she stepped into range, he backed away.  “We've got them,” she said.  “Move now!”

            Gutshank and Truddle charged their respective enemies and the fight was on.  The fight was one of shoves and barehanded grabs.  The Arabs backed away from the Americans and tried to flank us.  Ortega and I kept to the sides as Gutshank and Two Ton pressed the attack forward, generally following Nirvana's lead toward the truck. 

            None of the Arabs wanted to fight Nirvana: they would back away, rather than fight her, and so the center of their line was constantly yielding because of this.  Gutshank and Truddle stayed with her, shoving men out of the way that they could just as easily have knocked out had their goal been something other then forward progress.

            Lance, who wasn’t much of a fighter, was bringing up the rear.  He had made only a few strides when Tufre, the tall black woman clothes-lined him, with an arm around the neck.  Grabbing his hair, she dragged him, screaming fearfully, to a tent. 

            The fight for the American men ended only a second’s dash from the truck, when Nirvana out paced her escort.  Her target, a sniveling cowardly sort, who refused to fight, backed away so quickly that she had to run after him.  Isolated, an Arab blindsided Nirvana from behind and from then on, it was a wrestling match. 

            Gutshank and Truddle ran to the rescue and were drawn into it as other Arabs piled onto them.  As Ortega and I joined in, we in turn were tackled and forward progress came to a halt, twenty-foot from the truck. 

            A gunshot froze the fighting men in place.  The old Arab, who tended the water- trailer, was standing near us, shakily holding an antique, double-barreled shotgun.  The men trailer, was standing near us, shakily holding an antique, double-barreled shotgun.  The men began to disentangled themselves, the smiling Arabs, holding the stiff faced Americans at arms reach.

            “Your breath stinks,” Gutshank, said to an Arab, offering a hand to help the man standup.  Glassy eyed and bleeding about the face, the Arab accepted Gutshank's help.

            “They won't kill us,” Nirvana said.  “They probably think Ortega can find them more gold.  And they know, Webber can fly the plane.”

            Truddle glared at the shotgun, “Well, what about us?”

            Nirvana suggested, “Ransom, slavery, who knows?”

            “This could be a good thing,” I said quietly.  “At least we're on our feet.  Mr. Yee,” I called out, “stay, in the tent.  They may forget about you.”

            Gutshank was the only American who wasn't being held.  He squared his cowboy hat, “We whipped 'em,” he said, “and, they just want us to leave.”

            The old Arab man looked like a grandfather, in the red glow of the setting sun, his hands shaking uncontrollably.  His watery eyes, squinted to narrow slits, as he leveled the wobbling shotgun barrel with the slow deliberate pace of a butcher.  His expression betrayed no ill will, when he pulled the rusty trigger.  The gun belched a hand-loaded, foul smelling black powder explosion of smoke and fire, sending an underpowered load of gravel and nuts into the center of Gutshank's chest. 

            Gutshank staggered back, struggling desperately to stay on his feet.  Disbelieving, he inspected the wound.  His thumb easily disappeared into the raggedly three-inch diameter hole.  He looked to Truddle and saw the fear in Truddle’s big brown eyes, and he knew he was dying. 

            Truddle screamed, “Cross yu' self, boy, cross yu' self and look to da' Lord, for your time is now!” Gutshank looked to the others, his mouth agape, as he fought to steady himself, as if, by standing, he could resist death.  His eyes settled on Truddle.  “Don't look to me,” Truddle screamed.  “I iz’ black chalk.  You need tu’ look tu’ da' Lord.  Look to da' Lord now, or we iz’ friends no more.  I beg ya’, cross yu’ self, n’ today, you’ll see me in paradise.”

            Gutshank blinked, tried to swallow and ever so slowly, his eyes rolled heavenward.  “Do it,” Truddle was screaming.  Gutshank’s powerful right hand slowly came to his forehead.  He dabbed the points of a cross on his forehead with his bloody thumb and he fell back dead.

            “Gawd Damn it!” I screamed and.  I wrenched myself loose from the men who were holding me, and I pulled out my .357, and shot the old man dead.  Two Arabs tackled me, and pounded me unmercifully into submission.  Nirvana was pinned. 

            Only Theodore Truddle could move to fight.  He shook off the men who were holding him, and stood, tall and proud, taking in the scene.  He said quietly, “No' buddy' wus’ supposed tu’ git' killed.”

            A young man appeared, dressed elegantly, like the sheik.  He was about sixteen years old and carried a pearl-handled .25 caliber automatic pistol.  He eyed Truddle warily as he approached, aiming the pistol with two hands.  He fired at a distance of five-foot, striking Truddle high in the stomach. 

            Theodore Truddle grabbed a shovel and whipped it around overhead, and caught the boy-man behind the knees.  The boy tumbled ahead and Truddle grabbed him by the neck.  There was an auditable crunching sound as Truddle crushed the man-boy’s wind -pipe.  Truddle snarled, “You tell God wha' ya' dunn'.”

            The sheik came on the scene just it time, to see his son die, and he screamed a mournful wail as the child fell dead.  Two Arab men tackled Theodore Truddle and managed to drag the wounded giant down.  Oblivious to their punching, he tucked the head of one attacker under his left arm where he could hammer the face of the other man with his right fist.

            Between the grunts and slaps, Truddle caught a hold of the second man's wrist.  He jerked the man into range, and bopped him in the face with a solid right.  The Arab collapsed, and Truddle took a two-handed grip on his first prize, hair of the head in one hand, the chin in the-another hand.  Using the hair-chin grip, he rotated the man's neck, snapped it and let him drop dead. 

            The other man awoke in time to see his friend die.  Flaying his arms wildly, he managed to plant his curved Jambiyya dagger into Truddle's chest.  The pain forced Truddle to suck air, extracting a woeful, “God, fo' give 'us, Sir',” from his lips.  He grabbed the second man by the neck and squeezed, collapsing the wind, pipe like he was testing the firmness of a rotten apple.

            The black-eyed little boy, the one who liked my airplane, appeared.  He gave a short, black Uzi to his father and grabbed up the .25caliber automatic his brother had dropped.  There was nothing I could do.  Two men held me.  Ortega had been knocked out with the shovel.  “No!” I shouted, spewing blood from my mouth.  My scream was answered with an avalanche of fists. 

            Truddle wavered, his eyes glassy, and he settled to his knees.  Skunk, the sheepdog came to his side and licked his face and licked the knife wound.  Truddle put his hand on the dog’s head.

            The Sheik worked the action of the weapon and leveled it at Truddle's back.  Screaming in Arabic, he shot into the air to announce his intention.  Skunk, yelped, and cowered away from the sound of the gun, his sharp bear like eyes, set intently on the sheik.  The second bullet struck Truddle in the back.  Theodore Truddle coughed once and the sheik fired away.  A machinegun.

            Looking out from the tent, Mr. Yee stood dazed at the suddenness and voracity of the violence.  Turning back to the children, the ice cream and scoop in hand, he was surprised to find the black eyed little boy, the one who liked my airplane, standing a step behind him.  The child held the chrome plated twenty-five-caliber automatic, and had it pointed steadily at Mr. Yee's stomach.  “Bonjoir,” the child said and he began pulling the trigger.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Thirty-Two

Dance?

 

 

 

 

 

Two hours later, inside the great bus, the old woman untied Nirvana's wrists.  She offered the same fruity wine from Nirvana’s last visit, and washed Nirvana with a cloth from a basin of perfumed water.  Her movements were abbreviated, urgent.  She helped Nirvana out of her soiled clothing and bathed her completely, carefully washing her most private parts, as a mother would wash her child.  In Arabic, she whispered incessantly, “Kill him.”

            Our first waking impressions were of pain.  Our heads throbbed, as if they had been split.  We were trussed up tightly, in one of the Arab tents.  Our arms were tied at the elbow, behind our heads and our legs were tied at the ankles.  The elbows were bent up over our necks, and fastened, behind our backs, which was connected to the rope that tied the ankles.  There was no gag.  No blindfold.  A strange calmness settled over us.  The Arabs were having a party.  A great campfire lit up the night and the shadows on the tent told us all that was happening.  We struggled and tried to remember.  Ashley was dead.  The fight.  A gunshot?   We had been knocked out.  “God,” Ortega whispered, “what has happened?”

            I lay next to Ortega, tied in the same, elbows over the back of the neck, fashion.  “They killed Mo and Two Ton,” I managed to whisper.  “I think they got Lance and Vanna alive.”

            Ortega said softly, “It’s not their fault.  These are orphans, in a world of families.  These people are the by-product of two world wars.  They are the bastard children, of the industrial revolution, without culture, with out laws, without traditions.  This clan maybe collectively suffering the physiological stress of the new order.  Perhaps, we are witnessing an atavistic throwback to their past generations.”

            I barked, “Are you nuts?  They're killers.  It’s got nothing to do with wars, nothing to do with progress.”

            Ortega schooled, “You don't understand.”

            I  moaned, “You're pissing me off!  Would you just shut up?”

            Ortega schooled, “You don't take adversity very well, do you?”

            I reflectively jerked at my bounds: it was useless.  I thought a moment, “They raided my booze.  We got a chance to get out of this, if you are interested.”

            Ortega agreed, “You’re right: they have no capacity for alcohol.”

            I said, “The sand has already blown.  I've only, heard, men’s voices.  The women are all asleep.  We'll probably never get a better chance than now.”

            Ortega took in the surroundings.  “We’ve been moved.  The sand here is coarse: not the smooth silt of the seabed.  We rolled over, so we could see one another.  Ortega said, “I am surprised you can even speak.”

            I told him, “Well then, you do the chewing.” And I rolled over and presented my tied elbows to Ortega. 

            From outside the tent came an uproarious sound of laughter and shouting.  A moment later, two of the bandits came into the tent, and dragged Ortega and I outside.  The ropes that connected elbows to ankles were cut and we were set up right on a rolled up carpet. 

            Nirvana was dressed in see-through silk dancing costume and was dancing meretriciously around the campfire to snake-charmer music, which was coming from an eight-track tape, which was powered from the great bus.  She was meretriciously teasing the bandits with suggestive movements, bumps and grinds.  They were cheering her happily, and grabbing at her when she came with in range.  Karoush, the bandit sheik, was there, his lust erect for Nirvana.  A short distance away, a great cast iron pot smoldered an unusual odor over a second campfire. 

            Nirvana was dancing to a tune that was curiously familiar to her, she said afterwards.  She wondered, where did I remember that tune from?  She was anticipating each note, even before she, heard, it.  She wondered how? 

            Wadjet came into the light, her eyes blackened and her nose three times its prior size.  She touched Karoush on the arm only to be waved off.  Crestfallen, she backed into another man, who shoved her angrily aside. 

            “Why are we alive?” I whispered.

            Ortega whispered, “I'm not sure.  They may think they can sell us with your airplane.”

            I asked, “You're serious?”

            “They may have other plans,” Ortega gestured to the second campfire.

Nirvana, who held two bottles of my Jim Beam, as she danced and circled the around fire, was pouring a little into each bandit’s mouth.  They shouted their approval, and encouraged one another to squeeze and fondle her, and they drank and squeezed her in turn. 

            Nirvana spent the most time with the sheik.  She petted his head and poured whisky into his mouth while allowing him to fondle her buttocks.  When he tried to suckle her breasts, she gave him the bottle instead.  It went on for two hours.  She would come in close, and then twirl away, around the fire and then come back to him, pouring generous portions of Jim Beam into all the gaping mouths along the way.

            Nirvana waited until there were a dozen empties on the ground before making her move.  Dancing suggestively, erotically, holding her breasts, offering them, shaking her sex toward each, glassy eyed man, in turn, she came around to the sheik.  She sang out, “This dance is about to get serious!  There won’t be a better opportunity than now!”  She helped Karoush, drink a full quarter of a bottle, before allowing him to kiss her.  Then she grabbed him by the hair and forced his lips to her breast in frenzy. 

            Ortega whispered, “God, is he drunk.”

            I said, with a hint of excitement in my eyes, “Yeah, but how 'bout Vanna?”

            Nirvana bent the sheik back and over and stepped over his neck.  She shoved his face forcefully into her sex.  Karoush had a hold of Nirvana's buttocks, squeezing and stroking.  The Arab men went wild, screaming their delight.  Nirvana bucked and rubbed herself on him in a wild display of carnal pleasure, all the while pouring Jim Beam into his face. 

            As the bottle neared empty, she gripped his ears in her fists and drew him tightly into the depths of her crotch.  She held his head tightly between her thighs, locked her legs around his neck, and poured the last cup of whiskey into the trap.  In an instant, his stroking became a grappling, and then a wild bucking, as he fought to break away, his lungs screaming for breath.  His men cheered their pleasure, unaware of his predicament, of his impending death. 

            Karoush tried to stand and they fell together, with Nirvana gripping him more tightly then ever.  His last gasps came within a second and from the perimeter of the fire light, the old Arab woman smiled and silently moved away.  Nirvana lay with the sheik until she was sure he was dead.

            Two bandit men came from the darkness near the back of the great bus, carrying smashed pieces of gold from the chariot.  One of them wore the ancient charioteer's battle helmet.  The men lowered the pieces of gold into the giant pot and requisitioned themselves a couple of bottles of Jim Beam from my case.  They walked away, into the darkness, behind the bus, to finish what they had started. 

            Horrified, Ortega exclaimed, “They must have pulled the chariot from the excavation!  Oh damn!  The sounds we heard, were those men smashing it up!  If only I could move.” Ortega struggled against the ropes, as I appeared, to him, to be in a state of shock.  My puffy eyed stare was fixed intently on the ground between us, affixed steadily, with a strange, dead-quiet sharpness.

            Ortega instantly sensed the danger. Something inside him clicked, a mental note, that only a certain kind fear, could make a man like I, radiant, this kind of horror.  The snake that held my attention was an Asp, an Egyptian Cobra.  It was plain brown, about forty inches long, and death to anything it kissed.  The delicate head was raised slightly, flickering its tongue, in the inches wide space between our legs.

            Ortega stole a glance around the campfire.  The Arab men hadn't noticed it.  Ortega whispered, “If we bide our time, he's an asset.”

            I moaned, “If he kills us, what then?”  

            Ortega ordered, “Look away.  Watch Vanna, not the snake!”

            I was fearful, that even breathing, might be all the movement necessary to earn a deadly strike.  Very carefully I moved my eyeball until I could see Ortega.  I whispered, “How long does it take?”

            “It won’t hurt.” The Cobra didn't scare Ortega.  There were numerous rattlesnakes, on the reservation on Palomar.  Ortega found them predicable.  Once, while sitting in the pre-dawn darkness, of an early season deer hunt, one had coiled itself between his-feet, for warmth.  Simple creatures, whose existence was a constant search for food and warmth, Ortega wiggled his feet into the sand and under the snake.  The Cobra felt the movement, and predictably chose to enjoy the new warmth rather then protest.  It coiled itself contentedly on upon Ortega’s feet. 

            Nirvana danced with renewed vigor around the fire amid the cheers of the bandits.  Swirling and spinning, she stopped abruptly before a slurry eyed-man and offered herself to him.  When he moved to grab her, she backed her derriére deliberately into the face of another bandit. She allowed the second man to spin her around and suckle her breast for a brief instant.

            The first man pulled her silk clad body away from the other and quickly drew out his dagger, the liquor twisting his face into a jealous rage.  In an instant, they were fighting one another on the ground.  She spun away and took stock.  There were nine men: two salvaging gold, two wrestling on the ground, four too drunk to get up.  One other, glassy eyed and horny, but sober enough to be dangerous.  Nirvana decided the best time to act would be now.  “This dance is about to get serious,” she sang out again.