Dracula’s Ghost [And other peculiar stories]
Dracula’s Ghost
[And other peculiar stories]
By Dennis L. Siluk
Copyright© Dennis L. Siluk, 2003,
“Dracula’s Guest”
For
Mr. Joseph Dudley, who likes a good suspense
Novel [or story]; and my lovely, encouraging sidekick, and wife, Rosa
٭
Books by D.L. Siluk; check at your local books stores, and at:
www.amazon.com and www.bn.com
Out of Print
The Other Door:
Poetic Exhortations Volume I [l980]
Two Modern Short Stories of Immigrant life [l984]
The Tale of Willie the Humpback Whale [l981]
The Safe Child/the Unsafe Child [l985]
◊
Presently In Print
The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon
Angelic Renegades & Rephaim Giants
Tiamat, Mother of Demon I
Gwyllion, Daughter of the Tiamat II
Revenge of the Tiamat III
Mantic ore: Day of the Beast
Everyday’s an Adventure
[Short Stories]
Chasing the Sun
[Travels of D.L Siluk]
Islam, In Search of Satan’s Rib
The Rape of Angelina of Glastonbury 1099 AD
[The Green Knight]
A Path to Sobriety,
The Inside Passage
Volume One
A Path to Relapse Prevention
The Inside Passage
Volume Two
A Romance in Augsburg
[Volume I of III]
Romancing San Francisco
[Volume II of III]
Where the Birds Don’t Sing
[Volume III of III]
Death on Demand
[Seven Suspenseful Short Stories]
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Dracula’s Ghost
[And other peculiar stories]
The Mumbler
[Murder by the Second Self]
The Fruit Cake
[A Romantic Comedy-Tragedy]
Curse of the Viper Family
[The Abyss Worm Virus]
٭
The Mystery of Death
Oh, the mysteries of death, unfolds,
One by one—Until, I am told
Time no longer exist;
Then the soul finds it character—
Reminiscent of battle scares
Left behind of an existence
Now gone, awaiting
Judgment time…
Dlsiluk 7/03
Introduction [About the book]: In “Dracula’s Ghost”, Siluk’s second book of suspenseful short stories captures at least one strenuous element in each story if not more, be it an emotion, adventure or a character, all will torment the reader, if not leaving one spellbound by its expressiveness. In “Shadows in the Wild,” the mysterious shadow of a stranger conjurors up an untapped emotion, ‘the unknown.’ In “Sjorfaa! Sjorfaa!” you become enmeshed in an Arctic adventure. In “Death in the Dust,” you end up at a bullfight, with a character unforgettable. In “The Plane from Iquitos;” an adventure in the Amazon, emotions crawl; and in “The Diamond Caddo Estate,” dreams do come true, but often time’s emotions can dissolve them. In the “Feathered Serpent,” a quest is sought, and in “The Quiet of Quiahuiztlan,” the quiet is short lived. In “Dracula’s Ghost,” you find the legend has more than fictitious elements on the mind of certain a person with a pronounced inherited trait, and is haunted by the Ghost of Dracula, and its creator; a most ghastly unwavering affair.
Overture:
The Turtle’s
Sleeping on Heaven
Said the Geologist, to the King:
Buried under a thousand tones of Gold
Rests a turtle--, and
Under the Turtle,
Resides a thousand pound diamond--, and
Under the Diamond
Sleeps God!
So says the King, to the Geologist:
Leave everything set where it be…
Least we seal our fate, and
Awake—an Earthquake; --
And Release a thousand-year
Regime…
9/29/03 dlsiluk
Index:
1) Shadows in the Wild [*Minnesota]
2) Sjorfaa! Sjorfaa! [*The Arctic]
3) Death in the Dust [*Mexico, City]
4) The Quiet of Quiahuiztlan [*Gulf of Mexico/Veracruz]
Interlude: notes and a poem: “At the Old-folks Farm.”
5) The Plane from Iquitos [*Peru, Amazon area, part one of two]
6) The Diamond Caddo Estate [*San Francisco]
7) The Feathered Serpent [*Strait of Gibraltar]
8) The Seventh Born Son [Dracula’s Ghost]
An Afterward: in Poetic Form, “Death’s Cocoon”
* Chapter excerpt from the book: “Through the City and Into the Woods”,
‘Remembering Vietnam’
Poems throughout the book:
1—Death’s Cocoon
2—At the Old Folks Home
3—The Rainy Place
4—Shadows in the Wild
5—The Traveler
6—The Mystery of Death
7—The Turtle’s Sleeping
on Heaven
*Note: The author has been most all locations he has written stories about.
The Traveler
The world was his city—
So he said, in many of:
Books, statements and alike; --
And was asked:
“Then where else is there to go
Within this city
[Knowing he had seen it all twice]?”
Then he looked up, in reply,
Saying, “More roads are coming,
Just a matter of time!”
Dlsiluk 9/03
≈ ◊ ≈
1
Shadows in the Wild
A Suspense Drama in the Shadows of Minnesota
In the Great Lakes Area
Shadows in the Wild
In fall by a forest,
He stands alone
Against Lake Superior; --
And trees of stone.
At the hour,--Midnight,
[His shadow aglow]: links
Land, Lake an’ road—
He sees his foe…
They
Also see him,
As they drive on by: --
A living force,
They can’t deny….
Dlsiluk
Shadows in the Wild
November, l988
It is the hour before midnight; on this harsh, gray flat asphalt road along side the banks of one of the Great Lakes called Superior, in Minnesota. A truck is racing down this dark and shadowy road; the moon glowing behind a small house appears. The truck swiftly goes on by, passing the small house, the dim lights from the truck, disappear into the hazy night: --the moon’s light is penetrating through the fog also, onto the truck and house, where a man is standing by the road, not on the road, but by it, for the most part, he is more a shadow than a physical being at this point, a shadow in the fog as the truck races by, as time erodes this foggy man, this shadow will become more noticeable [somewhat]; --music is heard coming from the truck, Rock & Roll, as this stranger continues to stand by the road, this man in a red plaid shirt, who stands erect, as if he was Paul Bunion; standing in-between the road and the small house; the house is green as if it grew amongst the trees and woods and alongside its inhabits. Even its roofing is green. It has a window for each side of the house a small brick chimney. The truck races by, only showing the shadows with the moon’s light, it seems to stretch to all three elements, man, truck, and house.
Now, it is an hour past midnight, and the truck is far beyond the small green house, --the soupy sky is blocking more of the light from the moon [that is, what little light there was, is less now] yet still it is bright enough, bright enough for the shadows to look like shadows; to emanate amounts of light as so to seep through the branches of the trees; and to follow the stranger as they could, and at times it light got lost some place, in saying this, I can not, or dare not say more. By and by, it created a supernatural era of spiritedly, on one hand, and lifelessness on the other, making the man figure a little more clear, intermittently, but not too clear, to see his real self, his face in particular [you never see his face clearly, yet you know he is handsome], only his height is quite obvious; -- his broad and thick shoulders are noticeable, his solid stance is terrorizing if not magnetic; as he still stands between the lake, house and road. Yes, oh yes, he is still there, and yet the, the truck is far down the road. He stands as if he knows something ahead of time, as if time was not part of the equation to what deception may be ahead, far ahead.
The music, that once was, is no longer heard, only the sounds from the waves of the Great Lakes are audible now, slapping against the bank, but try as they may to reach the little house, they can not, and continue to slap harder the banks, and harder, as if a storm was on the horizon, or could be. The big man doesn’t turn at the sound of the waves, it doesn’t bother him, or the reflections of the moon through he branches of the trees, nor did he even move a muscle [so it seemed] when the truck first drove by. Now the truck again, the very same one that went by before is going by again, but this time slowly, very slowly, almost to a stop, you can hear the engine, it’s an old engine, it is a l952-Ford truck, green, yes green as the house and the trees, it fits into the environment quite well.
A huge rat runs across the street, grinding his teeth, small eyes, fat body, long tail, in-between the wheels he darts, dodging death by the skin of his soiled feet; the truck goes over a bump, you can hear the thump, it hit the rodent, the ten pound rat, --it squeals, screeches, cries of pain [kee, ahhh caw…], it has no language, it has no real sounds that make any kind of rhythm, just throat sounds that surely their ancestors used a million years ago; there is no message other than pain; someone in the front seat of the truck, passenger side, looks back to see what that annoying sound is, where it is coming from, what did they hit [?] The rat stares at the looker [the passenger in the truck], for a second, just a blink of an eye, the passenger saw the dark eyes of the creature, as if it was hypnotically placed into his memory bank; almost humanistic that is, a reflection of the dark eyes of the beast penetrate the back window of the truck, as if the eyeballs themselves followed them going down the road slowly, slowly, the rat eyeballs that is, --stuck, laminated onto the glass of the truck, that is what it seemed like for the passenger. With pain, the rat hisses, its back is crushed, and he is pulling himself off the road with his front limbs. The Ford-truck was a spotless antique, and clean as a whistle, that is, it was before the rat put his blood on its wheels.
The dark figure, shadow if you will, continues standing, staring by the street onto, and down the highway, he is noticed by the two men in the front seat of the truck, they stare back, but keep going. They are not sure at the moment, why they didn’t stop: --a pretense that they didn’t see the man, yet they did.
[The Stranger] Trees are blowing to his right and left, the waves of the Great Lake Superior, is making a humming sound, still slapping the banks, still trying to suck up out the little house from its foundations, sweep it into the deep of the lake; a pounding sound as the giant waves hit the shores can be heard far up the road into the quiet compartment of the truck; the pandemonium, is as if --you were in the middle of a hurricane [or at least the makings of one].
The stranger stands erect yet, never much moving. He sees the eyes of the passenger in the Ford-truck, a small figure of a man, a man of about forty, he figures [the second time around], the driver calls him Skip, and he hears that. The taller man at the wheel, his arms are solid, and frozen to the wheel, is called Amery, for some reason you know the stranger knows that. He, the stranger in the shadows knows his name.
Skip:
“Yes, yes, I saw him! D’ did you? He was by the trees, or was it in front of the house…? No, by the road; gee, maybe it was both; he seemed to be in both locations at once. A shadow effect I suppose.” [He talks with unsteadiness].
The moon is almost covered now with the fog and darkness of the empty sky, and night has completely taken over the north area of Minnesota. The birds in the trees, and there are only a few, can be heard, most have gone south as there is a little time left to build a home without freezing to death in this pre-winter season, for there is snow here and there. The fall leaves are all about, lying in all directions, with their beautiful fall colors, all over with their many flags-of designs, shapes and gradations. If one was to walk across the road into the woods you would spot a few deer making a bed for the evening within the confines of the woods all around them, within a nest of leaves, as the little green house, and the man shadow stand along side by side in the still of the night.
The rat now is laying on its side across the street as if this dark-gap [period of time] existed just for him to move [position himself] for the truck driver, yet he is dying, and reeking with sounds of pain still; none the less, he is compelled to accomplish some kind of mission, and remains there. You can hear him twisting about in the leaves. A deer in the woods is awaken and runs deeper into the wooded area behind the rat; as if nature was about to have an abruption; birth pains, the deer goes deeper into the woods yet. The few birds that were close by the house, in the wooded area, leave the branches; they also know something is wrong.
Amery:
“You’d think that man, that man, the one by the house back south…” [He doesn’t finish his thinking]. He stutters a bit and is silent as he slows down the truck to ten miles per hour. Amery hands a knife to Skip, who puts it next to his groin area, underneath his left thigh. The truck stops, they both are thinking, --looking at one another, their eyes are not blinking, you can see the hairs of their eyebrows as if the eye is attached to it, the lower lip of the eyelid is almost stuck to the eyebrow from staring, --they’re listening to the waves, for that is the only sound now that is optional, except the humming of the truck motor [which can be barely heard], the waves of the, the Great Lake Superior seem to be upon them [Amery is thinking out loud, talking to himself,
‘I d…d… don’t like it, get me out of here’.
Skip sees the thickness of the woods next to him, as the headlights reflect the fog-lit moon, with all its glaring shadows creeping every-which way. In front of him there are hundreds of frogs crossing the road [gooey and slippery looking], driftwood had reached all the way from the lake up to the road, and, is laying all about also, as if the big lake threw up its insides --it is strange they both think [but say very little, talking seems to stress them out now, or at least for the time being], and thus, they now are thinking more with their body expressions, their faces, eyebrows, the way they look at each other; --they turn their heads sharp as if they sensed Lake Superior was right next to them because of the pounding sounds of the waves which are becoming louder, and louder… but they know the lake is really some two hundred yards to the side of them, or at least that is where it is supposed to be—where it was last time they could see the water, where the road was, yet all this driftwood laying about, and frogs, and some fish, just scattered about like a drunken party took place-- they seem to be fixed on this moment, as if they were on a levee that was ready to sink, in a state of horror.
Amery puts the weight of his head on his hand as if to support it, --not sure of what to do next, and then he puts his hand flat on top of his head: -- as if he is fed up with it all. Skip gives a headshake as if to say no, but says nothing. He turns his head from side to side. Then out of nowhere he puts his hand along side of his face as if to slap it, giving stupid looks!
Skip: “That house--you know, that one we passed by, for some reason I’m interested in that house, as if I don’t have enough mystery in my life—like I got to know something I don’t want to know, --and that man—that shadow of a man, and d’do-oo, you-u-u [stuttering-helplessly] think we should go back and …” he leaves it an open statement-question, instead of a question.
“M-m-m-m,” said Amery [with a query looking face as if to request for clarity], his cunning look, staring eyes, -- staring at the frogs. Adding,
“We can circle around and go back south to the stranger’s house, if that is what you want, if that is what you are thinking about? I like the house idea for some reason; yes I do, but… it just… [He puts his fingers both hands on his forehead simultaneously, one above each eye, and puts pressure on them as if to say, this is crazy], it’s just bothering for some reason, the house, the house, that damn house, that—that man.” [He is kind of feeling at this point, possible this is an unlucky thing to do, as if there might be no escape once done, and so is unclear with his mood. And pauses to answer, or ask.]
‘…Foolish of me to think like that [ill-fated if he goes back]’ he tells himself. Skip does not say a word but with the tips of his finger and thumb in the center of his forehead he pinches himself to see if he is crazy himself, still alive,
“Weird…” he mumbles.
[Back to the House]
Slowly they drive a little further up the road, find an area along the roadside, they can do a U-turn with the truck: --cliffs being on one side and an embankment on the other that leads down to the lake itself, but they’ve found a good spot to do just that. As they make their turn slowly, the driver pushes on the accelerator like a mad man, straightens out the wheels, and the tires start to squeal as he pulls out of the turn, going as fast as the truck will take them down the road pressing on to the stranger’s house.
As they drive Southbound to find the house, innately Amery’s solid arms are becoming tighter, his muscles can be seen gripped and sweating on the drivers wheel, along with the sweat on his brow; his face showing stress, eyebrows are rapidly being raised and lowered as if to say ‘no, no, no’, being annoyed with himself and Skip for turning the truck around [wanting to do it but not sure why]. His whole body is becoming agitated.
Skip:
“You need a drink, Amery? [A pause] …pull yourself together; you look like you’re under some acute anxiety attack.” Pulling a bottle of wine from under his seat, he opens the bottle and takes a good size drink from it, right out of the spout, then hands it to Amery. The tall lean Amery, drinks it down like soda, and then puts his hand through his flattop hairstyle, knocking his hat off his head as he does it.
Along the roadside you can see the shades of dark-green and black shadows sowed up into the grass, and the crossing of shadows along the forwarding black asphalt road, as the Ford-truck glides along.
The truck now becomes more manageable, as Amery takes a second swallow from the wine bottle [staring ahead, out the glass windshield, on the verge of a tear]. Although his body is starting to loosen up --he pulls on his eyelid somewhat, as if he is more alert, or he thinks it will make him more alert, or is trying to be.
Skip:
“See? That was all you needed, a good swig.” Skip has a pair of small framed glasses on, reminiscent of Ben Franklin, --as he speaks he looks over the top of his glasses at Amery. He notices Amery is more settled now [with brows high], and therefore, allows he to lean back more into his seat, lowering his guard, and brow for a moment to rest.
“We should be getting closer to the house, slow the car down,” says Skip.
Amery: “You mean truck.”
Skip: “Whatever, -- but slow it down…!”
He now takes a look about the area, it is not the house, it is the top of trees by the lake; --the shadows are forming the likes of a house. They can scarcely see in front of them; --as he catches his breath, they speed up, continuing forward, down the long curvy asphalt road, with the towering sandy cliffs to their right.
Everything is quiet outside of the truck now, or so it seems, yet some Rock and Roll music can still be heard from within the car, but it is being kept real low as if they want to understand immediately of any changes in the situation, environment, sounds, if need be, when need be [they are both showing impressions on their faces of, ‘why are we going back here; what for?’].
Again they slow down, and then stop, look about, they hear the water slapping the banks of the Great Lake again, but cannot see it. The breeze from the lake is picking up along with a chillness to it, as the window is rolled down they can feel the breeze as it slaps their faces, there is a chill in their breathing, their breath is releasing fog to the fog, so they roll back up the window, a little, just a little. Trees are swaying.
Amery:
“I can’t see a damn thing out there, and it’s getting cold…!”
Skip shakes his head [as if to say, I’ve got to do everything] and opens the door to see where they are at [in particular, if the house is visible], he does not want to pass it up so he looks in both directions, north and south, as he steps out, completely out of the truck; -- stepping down onto the road, he steps on several frogs, “…god…birchen frogs every place!” He jumps back into his truck [utterly disgusted].
“Damn things are all around; I hate swarms of things like that.” Amery simply looks at Skip, not saying a word, a flat affect.
Skip and Amery start to make funny faces as a putrid smell fills their nostrils.
Amery: “What on gods-earth is that stink…?”
Skip: “Not sure, --maybe a skunk, dead frogs, the water smells sometimes; maybe shit, who knows up here, could be a combination … [he hesitates] let’s shut our windows—completely.”
As another mile goes by it starts to get a little fogger looking out the windows, shadows seem to be everywhere. Amery raises his head, he sees the house, and pulls the truck over to the side of the road. The house is across the street, now to their left, or East. The big man, the stranger with the red-plaid-flannel shirt, is standing by the porch of the little green house --just standing there. Skip rolls down the window, gets a bit of fresh air, and notices the frogs are gone.
Skip: “Hay Amery, the damn frogs are gone, gone, gone, yippee!”
Amery: “I just got thinking, what are we doing back here, this is the third time.”
Skip: “What do you mean?” Skip stops to think what Amery said, “Yaw, you’re right, the first one was by necessity, the second by curiosity, and now the third, oh well, maybe by something symbolic, that man, yaw, that man, we need a good fresh mystery in our lives like we need a hole in the head, but we’re here none the less—are we not? I suppose no real reason to this otherwise; --can’t think of one anyway, I actually think this clown moved a little; must have gotten tired standing like a fool.”
Skip looks over Amery’s shoulder out his window, toward the house; he is somewhat leaning on the steering wheel.
Amery: “He’s just standing by the porch.”
Skip: “Yaw, I can see that, let me yell at him: --‘Hay stupid, yaw you, what you doing…! -?”’ Amery looks at Skip as if that might not be the smartest thing to have done.
Skip: “Something on your mind, Amery.”
Amery: “I would like to go, get rid of this cargo, and have breakfast.”
In the back of the truck the sound of a gunny-sack [as if it is full of potatoes] is rolling back and forth…
“Let’s pass this up Skip, I don’t necessary like this.”
Skip: “Morning will not be for a few more hours, we got time to fool around, and then get back to business.”
Very quickly Skip opens the truck door—his heart hammering against his chest—as he steps down from the truck onto the side of the road, the asphalt solid and firm on his feet. There is still a chill in the air, --he coughs, buttons his sweater up a bit, tries to focus his little round eyes, position his little fat neck, adjusts his glasses on his nose.
He is 5’4” inches tall, about 160 pounds, so he is having a hard time seeing over the hood of the truck, he starts to walk to the front of the truck, close by the front tire, hugging the fender a bit with his left leg, so he can feel the truck, he cannot see well in the fog, the dark, and the head lights of the truck are only visible for several ahead, the side of the truck is dark, he leans a bit on the hood. Spying about, he is now trying to see in the forest, he hears something, a squeak, looks down, and there is that rat, that dark-eyed big, full-size very husky rodent is, viciously looking up at him, the size of a medium dog; --the rat is a foot from him, and with what strength the rat has in his crushed and mangled spine, he uses his back feet to dig into the asphalt, and jerks his body forward, and up, as a result, bites through Skip’s pants with his saber-teeth like fangs, taking a good gash out of Skip’s leg. Skip now falls back, then turning a 45-degrees angle, he quickly jumps up on the side of the truck [hand through the window, feet on the floorboard], almost backwards he forces himself to fall through the open door back into the truck; the door swings as he positions himself, then he grabs it in panic locking the door. You can’t make out what he is saying but he is yelling and swearing as he feels his leg touching it, trying to investigate the damage, survey the injury, at the same time blood is bucketing out of his wound, reminiscent of a boxer who just got his nose broken, and split open. He pulls out a scarf from under the back of the seat of the truck, and ties it lightly around his leg whereas a tourniquet is created for the moment. He is fuming, very angry, as he balances his focus toward the man standing in the fog, and thinking about the rodent that has just bitten him; --his face gets rage in it as if it was the stranger’s fault, as everything is the stranger’s fault for the moment: why he is back there, the rat, everything. He tightens his teeth, grinding his teeth as if his jaw is going to crack any moment from the tightness.
Skip:
“I’m bit, the rat, that shit-ass rat…it tried to kill me…I hate rats, I really hate them.” Amery backs the truck up, then goes forward running the rat over, and does it two more times for good measure, to assure his friend the rat is history. But now the truck is stuck in the side of the road, a hole for some odd reason appeared out of nowhere, or so it seemed [the whole evening seems to hold a combination of coincidences they are both starting to figure out, or better put, sense]; --his front right wheel is in mud with a sheet of light ice, he tries for a few minutes to rock the truck out of the mud-hole, but it is not working, it will have to be pushed out, while the other remains in the truck rocking it with the clutch and accelerator—otherwise it will be impossible to get out of the hole.
Amery: “I told you Skip, this was not good, and we should go, go when we had a chance, now look, we can’t go anywhere?”
Skip: “I got to get to a hospital.”
Amery: “What about the cargo?”
Skip: “Get the gun, go in that damn house and kill that sun-of a bitch-en stranger and we can bury the body there, and get a doctor out here”
Amery: “I don’t think it’s going to be that easy.” Amery then pulls a gun out of the glove compartment, a Three Fifty Seven revolver. He checks to see if it is loaded, knowing it should be, and it is. Putting it in his right jacket pocket, he grabs the wine and gives it to Skip to drink. Skip drinks half the bottle down, leaving only one forth left. He is borderline drunk now.
Amery: “I hear another car coming, funny isn’t it; way up here in no man’s land, by the great Lake Superior, did you know that people can see this lake from outer space?” He hesitates, looks at Skip, “Maybe we can go to that lighthouse, you know, the one we saw on the way up here, I’m not sure, but it’s about a hundred, or is it fifty miles from here.” Then he looks around, “Where is that car…must be hearing things also.”
Skip: “It’s too far, why not stay here?”
Amery: “This guy is more creeper than you and I are. That’s why.”
Skip: “Now listen [Amery being with a lack of credulity], we don’t need to be put off by this guy, we just kill him like we’re going to do with the girl … you know, that girl in the gunny-sack in the back of the truck. The one we rape, and rapped, and, and she tried to get away, so we cut her hands off, feet off so she couldn’t, and we rapped her again. She’s most likely dead by now.”
Amery: “I hear a boat whistle [a long pause]… I heard that gunny-sack rolling back and forth before, when the truck was stopped, she’s still alive.”
Skip: “These are The Great Lakes, what do you expect, ships go back and forth all the time. You’ve lived too long in North Dakota. But if we do not get me a shot of something to counter this rat poison, I’m going to die; this fucken rat most likely has rabies, disease, everything under the sun. I don’t want to die like this, not with a rat bite.”
[The Deck]
On the deck of the porch the stranger with the red flannel shirt is standing looking at the truck. Amery and Skip get out of the truck, Skip getting out the same side by Amery, not trusting his side, thinking as he looks back, ‘is that damn rat still alive.’ Amery is holding his gun is his pocket tight, and Skip is limping about six inches to the right of his shoulders. They see the stranger, and he continues to stand there, there remains a chill in the air.
Skip: “That damn fool, he never moves much, I’ll move him with a bullet up his ass.”
As they get closer to the stranger, his sleeves are rolled up, his jacket is off and his tattoos are showing on both his right and left arms, along with several scars. Skip is a little tight, not quite drunk. He has a knife in his pocket; he is fondling it as he is walking. Now they are twenty feet in front of the stranger. The man is about six foot six, two hundred and fifty pounds.
The Stranger: “It’s a horrible death to die with a rat bite,” he comments to Skip, as they stand frozen in the dirt. Adding,
“The booze will not help you. You best get to a hospital, and make peace with your Maker.”
Amery: “Who are you, some damn preacher, or the devil himself?”
The Stranger: “I come for the girl.”
Skip: “What do you mean, you come for the girl, you got it all wrong, we are the ones who came back, yaw, just for you. Or do you think we came all this way just to give you her. And just how do you know we have a girl anyhow? Amery, you got the gun I hope, he knows too much, odd [shaking his head] we’ll have to kill him now.”
The Stranger: “I don’t like waiting too long; the girl will die if you leave her as she is. Let her stay here and you can leave;” Amery looking at Skip now, shaking his head ‘no’.
Amery: “I never liked coming back here. I told you so, and I don’t like this creepy guy…” --Skip looking indigent and nervously moving his knife in his pocket.
Amery now is looking at the stranger out of the side of his eyes, as he checks out Skip’s leg.
Amery: “It doesn’t look good, you’re going to need help soon?”
The Stranger: “I want the girl.”
Skip: “I want the girl too, is that all you can say, ‘I want the girl, I want the girl,’ fuck youuuuuuuu…shoot the crazy bastard, get rid of his big ass, we can bury him here [hesitation] Amery, are you sleeping.”
The water from the Great Lakes start to drift up to their feet, both Amery and Skip look, as it does, ---the waves are sounding louder, and the fog is getting thicker, almost hard to breath. The man now was not as near as he was before to them; he’s farther to the east, toward the water [but he’d have to be in the water if that was so, thought Skip]. As Amery looked back, after checking both the water and Skip’s wound, and Skip putting his eyes back to where the house was [a little to his right], they both were surprised to see the house was no longer there, plus now the stranger was three times farther away [both thinking the house must be by the stranger, but how did it get away, drift away, what’s going on]; both show signs of confusion now [he would have to be farther in the water if this was the case thought Skip].
The Tide
Amery [almost in tears]: “What’ll we do, the house is gone?” But the stranger was now even more to the East than a moment ago, so they both walked another fifty feet [both feeling they were somehow lost in the sky, not knowing up from down, or here from there]. The sounds of the waves got louder, and the light of the moon is starting to open up just a little, reflecting on the waves, showing a portion of all three of the men. Again you can hear the sounds of a boat in the distance—far off; the waves now sounded –this time, as if you were right next to them.
Furthermore, the pain of the rat bite now is starting to annoy Skip to the point of it taking his focus off the situation, draining his strength, and he is profusely sweating. His face is deeply sinking into its bone area; there is also loss of color to his face, almost a pink-white paleness, with reddish spots. As he starts to speak [Skip seems to be ageing quickly with illness] the sounds of the waves drown his voice out, they are so loud he has to hold his hand over his ears, Amery has to hold on to him as the wind picks up and pushes them to and fro. They both look forward, a long glance and a huge wave hits them in the face, drags them like a rat into the water. Matter-of-fact, the wave looks like a rat. They hadn’t realized it but they were actually in the water waiting for the current to come back to them. A wave of some twenty feet high grabbed them, and another pulled them under, --both went under into the deep waters, --from underneath their feet, they never touched land again. The only thing you can hear is the sounds of the waves, with intermittent bug-sounds of: ‘h...e.lgggg...p’, sounds from their voices, no language, no rhythm to it, just ancient throat sounds; the wind carries their echoes to the woods and through the dark shadows of the forest, as the deer and birds started to return back to where they were originally, awhile ago; they seemed [the birds] cheerful upon their return with their, ‘coo-coo’s and caw-caw’s,’ a happy song of returning.
[The next Day]
[Sergeant Thompson Police Department]:
“Good morning, Gloria, funny seeing you way up here so early, what you doing by this truck?” In the front seat is a young girl with her feet and hands cut off, still alive. Gloria points to the front seat of the truck, Thompson looks, eyebrows down,
“What’s up Gloria?”
Gloria [Detective for another police department, out of her jurisdiction.]:
”I wish I knew, in any event, I called the hospital, you will not believe what happened. I found this girl, not sure how to start this, again, I found this girl, she’s in shock in the front seat as you can see, hands and feet cut off [they both look toward the truck they can only see the top of the girl’s head, she has a black hat on]; --looks like she’d been rapped off and on throughout her captivity, --unbelievable. She evidently was with two guys – I, I think two guys, the, the ones from the Twin Cities, you know, the ones that kidnapped a girl a week ago or so, but I can’t find anything of those two guys. Not sure what happened to them. For some odd reason they stopped here, walked over to the lake, some of their cloths are there, I found a gun lying on the beach, a knife, and some cloths. I got them all in plastic bags in my car I’ll give them to you. Crazy as it sounds, I dare not try to put the puzzle together until I talk to the girl, she’s in shock, but ok, I mean, doing as best one can do in such a situation; but I found nothing else. Not sure what made them abandon the truck; it looks like they would have gotten away with the crime had they not come back from wherever they were going. They must have had a reason. The truck is half full of gas, their intentions were surely to continue up…possible to the Boundary Waters, kill the girl, and bury her there. They have some wine under the passenger’s side of the seat. The girl keeps saying something about a house and a stranger, but I couldn’t find the stranger, and you and I know there are no houses within twenty-five miles of here.”
The Sergeant goes and looks at the girl. She’s about fifteen years old, bright red hair creamy white completion, pretty, about 5’2”.
The Sergeant: “What a shame. Not sure if I should even say this, but the waves were pretty high last night, do you think for some dumb reason, they got drunk, walked down to da lake, went swimming, yaw-know, and got pulled out with dhe tide? Yaw knows, dumber things hav happened?”
Gloria, [With an ironical grin, looking at the Sergeant]: “Sergeant, maybe that’s the best we’re going to get, I’ll buy that; unless she can tell us otherwise, if she lives to tell us that is.”
Then as they finish their last words, the ambulance pulls up, takes the young girl out of the front seat of the truck.
The Sergeant: “Funny, the girl smiled when she saw that nice looking big guy bring her to the back of the ambulance [the medic], I wonder why [?] She acted as if she knew him.”
Gloria: “Yaw, one of them angel things, haw! Anyway, he reminds me of Paul Bunion,” [The mighty ax man of the north]. But then, this is his country, right, Paul Bunion country…Sergeant [trying to get his attention].” The Sergeant smiles but tries not to make too much of it, for a serious crime had been committed, yet it seems fate may have caught up with the assailants. The ambulance then pulls away with the young girl, and so does Gloria in her car and the Sergeant in his.
2
The Long Solitary Journey of Tipi and Ursus arctos:
The Great Tibetan Grizzly
Sjorfaa! Sjorfaa!
Œ
Every time I kill a bear I mourn, I don’t’ really count the days, but no more than two, sometimes one, it is not a show of regret, the reason I do this, oh no, I have no regret, or pleasure for the most part, I am a hunter, I eat to survive like all people do. Wait a little, I do have pleasure, for the moment anyway, it is a reward. I’d rather kill a bear than a rabbit, no joy out of such a light kill as a rabbit, only meat, but it tastes good. Nevertheless back to the bear, to survive you must be more powerful than the bear, or wiser. When I kill the bear he has a blue tongue that protrudes between his teeth, and he will collapse on the ice. I kill him silently, and silently and sadly, very sadly, and lovingly, so gratefully I observe his outstretched body. I am one of the few, no, no: -- I am the only one [left] now who kills the bear on the ‘Great Solo Hunt.’ And the only one I know of, who, who jumps onto the back of the bear and kills him. This is true, and each time I do this I die a little, rapidly die, but I come back alive again. My whole body, being, mind, is devoted for that moment to the kill. The kill engrosses me.
I am not dark-skinned, I am lighter than my native kin for the most part, but I have cold blood, --meaning, I am at peace with this, for with it comes faith, solace and never failing joy, and you may want to mix a little revenge in there possible. I am a bear hunter; it is what I do best. And the bear is warm and hungry, and brown, the one I am looking for in particular is so, and as blinding as snow can be, I never miss him when I spot him. But again he is no match for me. I will kill him, like I have killed other bears in many ways. This bear is very strong, strong and cleaver and can take an animal or man and swing him like a bird and throw him far distances. I have seen this happen. The bear can take gigantic leaps, and can disengage himself. His claws are sharp and can dig many inches through ice, if need be to make an escape, or dig a hole and grab a seal for dinner. Yes, oh yes, he can do this in a matter of minutes, and if the ice is thin, seconds. I have seen how some of the hunters have many dogs and they surround a bear, who cannot escape them, yet I tell them all that during this phase, or better put segment of the kill, this is the time to be careful, for they have been bitten in such events, even a small bear can be dangerous. You should know the bear-spirit does not lie down and die because he sees dogs or a hunter, he will not skedaddle–move over, because you say so. He goes back and forth, makes you dizzy, makes you lose your way; besides, after roaming aimlessly you die not the bear, in a frozen stance, by a cliff, or plateau, in the blizzard you didn’t notice was coming because the bear got you dizzy. I know, as I talk on, I talk about my bear, and with bears I’m fussy, but let me do this, my life will be short lived anyhow, and I have chosen this exacting life, so I can not blame anyone for my hardships.
My father was a white man, my mother, an Eskimo. They are both dead now, he was an Arctic explorer, --she, oh yes, she was a Thule woman; she was born to the Arctic, in Greenland. I am her only child she carried me in her amaaq, yaw, this was me, laying tight against her back, as she went about her chores; I remember her well; --she had long hair, thick to the skull. Wore a necklace made of walrus seal ivory. Many little things were on it, little figurines that represented her life, such as the igloo, the woman, kayak, walrus, the dog, salmon, the bear, and seal.
She would say,
“Tipi, are you ok back there,” and as I’d feel her back and the warmth of the fur around me and against my body as her back supported me, I’d touch her shoulders to let her know I was all right.
This is my given name, --this is one thing the bear didn’t know, the Great Grizzly. As I was raised like most in the Arctic, a native, I was never touched harmfully by my mother, or father, --never disciplined in a physical way. It is the native way, --the Arctic’s way. Often times my tribe I used to belong to, but I have left them since adulthood, would allow other tribes to take wives from other camps, or tribes, if you will—no real husbands and for awhile, none really belonging to any certain person or forever, if that makes sense. It was the way it had to be. Or we would have no tribe at all we would die out. And so a woman may end up with a stranger from another tribe to mate with her. And children were very precious. I have slept with woman, but I have never had a wife, or chose a special woman to remain with, and I assume I may have children in a few tribes. In their summer tents, I would make love to them. Listen to the drum song [Ingmerneq]. I think a bear would like to sleep with a woman if he could steal her long enough. They have secret spirits inside of them. I have not seen a bear harm a woman maybe that is why. And they are close to our ancestors—but I could be wrong, maybe a bad spirit makes me think that.
But once when I was learning how to make water—you put three great stones together and a heap of snow on top; under the main top stone you put another one under that, make a fire, and slant the upper roof stone, so when the water drains, it will drain downward to the container, and fill it with water—a great white bear came; he stood no more than twenty feet from me. I was with my mother; I was but ten years of age. The bear lay down, eyes cast upon my mother, and she continued to show me the bucket full of water. And she said “Sjorfaa!” and the bear left her. But my spirit doesn’t connect with the bear like that. It wants to kill it. Conquer it. Why? You tell me. It is who I am, that is the best I can do for such a question
bear, --bear, who you think you are [?] – You are dead, dead, dead...
I have killed many bears with furious looking hatchets, knives --along with using sharpened stones to keep them deadly. I learned from the Canadian Eskimos when I was young, the many forms of hatchets they had, therefore I could select, which one I needed, and which would work best for me. They were what I called Polar Eskimos; --they knew very little about wood, but the Whalers and the Thule traded information.
The Chain
Death to helplessness, to the born and the dying, the aged, for first you are born, --helpless, which is natural, ----are we not, and by way of instincts, we say to ourselves we must smile, or cry to get our way, to survive. You must learn who is your mother and father, for the bear can fool you and say he is, when he is hungry, and you do not know the difference, and you willingly go to him, and he devours you. If you asked the bear, “Have you done this bear before?” He will say, “--oh yes, I have, many times…” and he has, he will not lie to you unlike so many humans.
As a child we don’t even know what we look like, only what we see. So we think we are similar to the bear—only the bear knows we are tiny. Then you grow old and again, now you are resembling the old grizzly, the polar, the panda, the Russian bear-Tamens, they like to play; but in all cases, they grow old, weak, tired just like us; yes, we are much alike, are we not. And even the dremo the Tibetan Grizzly [also known as Ursus arctos], he may be the exception, for I have looked for him for twenty-years, but only one…it is he, the Great One…I seek now.
I have never known a person to have seen a Tibetan Grizzly other than my family, to include my father, grandfather, my uncle, my mother and myself, but that is my heritage the, “Great Grizzly”, he has in his veins our family, he has chosen us to be his destroyer, as he has been ours. He is as tall as a mountain, and as strong as the ice. He has no equal, no fear of death, for he is death --Ursus arctos.
The Nature of Things
I am the greatest hunter of all the Northland. Who has been to Melville Bay, and all the way over to Point Barrow? I have an uncle, Makpo, he is old now, but he lives there. I will only visit him when I have killed the Great Ursus-arctos, and bring his fur, teeth, and head to him. As I was about to say, I have been down to Churchill, and to Disko Island. And many other places, so you see I have no choice --it is the Great Grizzly and I. Yes we have met before, have we not? I have seen him from a distance roll like a ball, to the bottom of a slope, tumbling like an avalanche, no, like a glacier rat, from miles away that is. That is how huge he is. My grandfather said he was old and his teeth were of holes because of age, his teeth must have ached, and yes I know now he has holes. I saw him in a vision; --he told me that Ursus had to eat animal’s whole, swallow a marmot and herbs whole. Yes, I can imagine, he has a big stomach.
I have hunted the walrus, even though I am a bear hunter by name, and reputation. But nonetheless, I like hunting what the bears hunt also. They hunt the walrus. But I do not necessary like hunting with other hunters, although I have many times done so; the division of the walrus among several gets to be severely small portions for the effort.
I have many dreams, like my grandfather used to have, --but then, many in the Arctic have dreams, it is not uncommon; --for the real hunter must plan his moves, absorb them, perfection and balance is number one. Or you will be a dead man. If you live long enough in the Arctic you will discover a natural order to all of this, all things connected to one another. Akin to the bear and the walrus, and yes, then there I am. Things must live on, and so there is a season for most things. The more you look at order, the more you see and become part of its habitat, it is engulfing, slowly you become frozen alive, and you can’t leave this land of ice.
A shaman, like my grandfather was killed by a throat wound; the big bear knew this, and when he was asleep [my grandfather] he came over the top of his igloo, and with his weight, he climbed on top of the igloo, and it cracked, then with a sweep of his paws, cut his throat with his claws, and left him there to bleed to death. Yet he never ate him. You see the order of things must remain as it is. It is told that the Shaman can only be killed this way; and so he was.
When this land has come to its end, my grandfather like Makpo, who now is old, says, the ice will melt, and swallow up all the land, and the weight of it will break the earth’s foundations, and what is on the bottom of the ocean will rise to the top, and be land, and what was land will be the floor of the ocean. And there will no longer be need for a cold land like this; like the North Pole, and it will go away, --as will the Thule, for Greenland will also disappear. The warm airs will sweep over the lands once again; Greenland stops the warm airs from doing this, my grandfather told me. Strange as it sounds, I am glad I am living now, so I do not have to live in such a climate. I like this one this is my birthright.
But I am the greatest of the hunters, as you well know by now; I need not tell you this anymore, but simply follow me and you will be gripped. I am like the bear that makes a hole in the ice for the seal to come and pop his head up for air, and with a snatch, pulls the seal out with his claws, and sits down for dinner. Yes, oh yes, this is surely me. I, in a like manner as the bear, find the hole, or make one, and wait for the prey’s head to rise from it, --like the bear hiding under the snow, so am I, and with my harpoon, yes, then I go for the kill. You may as well ask me, why I sometimes hide under the snow, just like the bear, I will say to you, so I can’t be sensed, just as the bear would say to you if asked.
By the North Slope, the winters are extremely cold, and it looks like flat land, but the bear knows better. In the summer ice wedges make the terrain crack. Oh yes, the winter cold is the beast more so than the bear, even stronger than the bear, and me. Very few people are constituted for the open Arctic life. If you do not acknowledge this, you are a forsaken man; or for that matter, a dead bear. You can turn in any direction and journey, skirting great mounds of snow—crossing the great ranges of permafrost, and ending up on the coast, no trees in this land, only winds, caribou and passions of my forefathers that are imprinted in me. As I was saying the winters are very cold, very, very, so very cold, and the land contracts like a woman having birth-pains. I have walked its mud in the summer, and what is called permafrost, as I had mentioned before, I call it permanently frozen ground, of a color made by the great treeless Architect. Impressions, as I was saying, are stamped into me as it seems to be a second me inside of me, a second personality. There is no way to obliterate that, in point of time; I must go on to the rest of what needs to be said.
Perhaps you know, or have heard about the great phenomenon called The Aurora, or, otherwise known as the Great Northern Lights; you should, they are like your blankets. Makpo, who was with my father when he was killed by the Great Bear, Ursus, told me the Great Spirit, took particles from the sun and threw them at the earth’s North Pole, there were many colors that he threw, and the Pole being a magnet field of sorts, and consequently, this caused the particles to shift, and the colors similar to a winding, or wavy long tale of a whales in motion, shifting to a side, it created the lights in the sky. I sleep under these colors, these God made features. Where else can you find them? Not in a city, I’ve heard of those places, bigger than Barrow, one hundred times bigger, unimaginable. You live and die in those big cities, and never get cold, or see the lights, or feel the nearing of the bear. How unfortunate. When I return from my journeys to a village, and I must do this now and then, it is a matter of survival, in any case when I’d arrive in the small isolated villages I’d look like a mere perambulating skeleton, --you see, the Arctic is not a happy abiding place, for anyone, the raw cold wind can suffocate you, just one of the many dangers.
Let me tell you some more about me, and my journey in life. For the most part, the bear is/was my life, after my mother and father died, my quest is to kill the bear, but to be patient about this task…no hurry for my spirit inside told me so; saying in essence, ‘…all things in good time,’ [my father used to say that also]. I often times know where the great bear is and how to get to him; but again I hesitate until the time is right, until I am wise in my ways, strong in stature. It is the Great One I have always told myself I wanted, not his siblings; they are not worth the challenge, not worth my time. And I’m sure he has many children by now: but again I do not care. I have seen the Great One a few times with his children, many years ago. They are huge now, but not like him. No bear is like him. My uncle told me that this bear, one dark Arctic night, a still starless night, when this beast put his hand through the igloo; let me explain: his hand crept up near the top of the igloo and killed my father with one sweep; yes, he smashed a hole through the blocks of snow, in the upper part of the igloo after looking through the ice window below, knowing exactly where he stood, and like snatching a seal popping his head off at an ice hole, this bear grabbed my father with one sweep of his paw and broke his neck, while grabbing him by the head with his other hand, laying now on the igloo, he decapitating him instantly, as the igloo started to cave in, knocking my uncle unconscious; hence, the bear grabbed the remains of my father, dashed off some place and ate him just like the seals he’s killed. His, his was a trophy for a while, and then I’m sure he ate that also. Yes again I repeat, he has enormous paws that can smash an igloo into pieces, and, and leave it open for the rest of the scavengers. Makpo [my uncle, my mother’s brother] was there, and remained alive to tell the story, how he got away from the bear I’m not sure, but he did, I imagine as he said, he was simply left there, buried under the snow, and when he woke, a few of the dogs came back, and he made his way back to Barrow. He is a cleaver bear, and not greedy in his attacks, or so it would seem for he could have searched for my uncle and did not.
You may not believe this, but my father in l908, when I was but three years old met Mr. Cook, he had an expedition. White men come and go. Write their books about this land, get what they call money, and go back to the big city and stay warm. They take many pictures to show how brave they are, yet they hire us to guide them, protect them, find food for them, not sure why they don’t take our pictures and tell them they were useless without us. To be quite frank, without the wisdom of my mother, my father would not have lived as long as he did in the wild cold of this Northland. I loved my father, devoted my heart to him, was happy with him, but I never had peace with him, or faith in him. It was my mother who gave me comfort in this area. But my father was successful in his own way, and back in the big city, he is a hero to many, some place far to the South, god only knows where, I can’t remember the name, or how to pronounce it. He taught me many things though, how to read and write I can speak two languages, English being my father’s language. And so I am not angry with my father for being a reader of books, and not a hunter of bears. I hope he feels the same way, wherever his spirit has gone, his soul, as he called it.
White explorers do not structure and trap fox. They don’t even know how to do it. You take stones and build a three-sided hut, put a piece of meat in it, when the fox comes to eat it for he has smelled it long enough, and cannot resist, for the pain of this waiting causes anger. It is psychological, like wanting whiskey; they want the blood they smell. Then as he creeps in, and he grabs the meat, the stone on top falls on him, and pins him to the ground, it crushes his ribs, he can no longer fight, or run, even if he lives, he is dead, no means of escape. He is like a seashell, empty. It is the order of things, the nature of the land, I know you know this, but I feel good when I say it. Maybe you forgot it.
Many people build igloos, but do not put ice in them for a window; you must do that to see the bear coming, and sometimes the bear sees you also, yes, not like my father, one must be aware of the window of ice, the window of ice, the window of ice. And the sledges of wood are no good, yet that is what the white men from the great cities bring; they must be made out of whalebone, joined together by sealskin. No nails, no wood. I, like my people, make my own sledges; it is the only way to do it, --if you die in the wild you cannot blame anyone because of a broken sledge, it is your fault if your sledge no longer can go. Long life depends on the pride of your sledge. The runner’s muse is of bone, whale, seal or walrus. Then you will be safe, I assure you.
Makpo was my mother’s youngest brother. He will live a long life, he is a man of many means, --I should say, was, for he is old now. That is why he lives in Barrow; I miss him sometimes, talking to him that is, but not too much.
My mother was a small woman, but not for a Thule I suppose, of which she was one half. She was born in l885. I was born l905, in a cold month, so my mother told me. She carried me all around. I remember her rounded cheerful face, a long pretty bridged nose --long thick black hair. Her eyes were not round like mine that is all I can remember. Her skin had a glow to it though. Very strong, she was so very strong, oh; she’d carry me everyplace on her back, in her sack. She told me, “…Each person is made for some reason.” They are wise words, but dangerous ones, she implied, she also said, “…if you do not follow through on a life plan, what is life then, what is it for? Plus what is a person with no history? He is nothing, nothing at all.” She told me my father and I was her life plan. For my father, he wrote books, and that was his. My plan has always been to kill the Great One, and then I will have shown my mother I am a man of history, and possible my father’s revenge will be settled, but it is not so much this anymore, not like it used to be, it is more now a challenge, a game almost, a death game we have both played, even our spirits are involved; all of the North Slope knows this. Then my desires will end. And although I will survive in spirit, even if dead, my desire --like the whiskey who makes one oblivious--will rest in peace, and I will have accomplished a life plan. Life is nothing if not lived, nothing at all. To die loved, is one great thing, and to die accompanied with accomplishment of your quest is the second great feat in life, and the third is to die in peace having found your Creator. I will have all three.
You may be asking yourself, ‘why is he telling me all this,’ it is because I must. Someone else must know this. It is like the writer, why write if you do not have someone to read it. In a like manner, why talk, if you do not want it to live on, for it to be heard. I am sitting right at this very moment in an igloo; I built a few days ago. I have six dogs outside, with orange looking eyes, the cold has melted the orange into them, they are fierce; I can see them through my ice window. The Arctic sky is lit up tonight with the miracle lights, they are white, yellow and green. I have five white dogs, and one black and white dog, with tints of brown, interweaved throughout his frame, he is the leader. I am a little hungry with all this talking, I’d take pleasure in a piece of black bear meat, I like that, and it is tender and well flavored. In the past, I have mostly found them in the Canadian area of the Northlands, in the forest south. I was going to mention it before, but I didn’t, that is, my grandpa took me a few times to warmer climates south of here, or better put, for short periods of time. And this is where I learned a lot of my hunting skills.
He once took me down to this cold, dark subterranean tunnel, whereupon I discarded many objects, old torches laying about, found access to a crypt, skeletons of children, women, all skeletal remains laying about. He said they, -- referring to the people of the bones ‘…these bones belonged to a time, and a people who used their own kind for sacrifice.’ This underworld chamber was of a maddening culture long gone. That is when he called me The Great Bear Hunter, Tipi. I killed many black bears in that land, back then. Back then I ate whale meat also, it is delicious, long slices of thin meat, with a gravy over it to take the wild taste out of it somewhat, but I like the wild taste a bit.
But let me not forget what I was about to say, I am in this igloo I have made.
The Great Hunt
Gigantic-a, that is what I should call you; --The Great Tibetan Grizzly, or should it be the Great One; --all thirteen feet of you standing erect. Will people call me ‘Tipi, the Great?’ I fear not. Are you 1700-lbs? I have no way to weigh you.
The snow was frozen, the cliff fifteen feet up, I had rested, waited for hours for this moment --thinking about my fight. I had my harpoon by my side all day, tight. I had left the dogs back by the igloo, hungry, so they would make noise for the big bear, and this would fool him. Thus, assuring the bear he need not be guarded. It was the dark season, and everything resembled gray dust, but my eyes adjusted, they always do.
I had killed one of my dogs, placed him in an area where there was a cliff overlooking where the big bear would come to me, but first I had built a fire. I cut the dog open, and let the fire warm his blood; the bear would come, and he did, and seen the food was easy pickings. He could not resist the meat I knew this. He will stay thinking I went to get my dogs, and I would come, come back later; this is how the bear thinks. But I have already done that. I did not want to kill the bear quite yet—let him eat, get full. When he positions himself perfectly I will jump on him with my harpoon, onto his back, and kill him. I have done this many times, and sometimes have fallen off, only to run and get out of the bear’s sight. Once I rolled off a bear’s back when I startled him, he and I both got scared; I could not get my harpoon in him quick enough. But over twenty bears have fallen to my deadly act of jumping on the back of a bear, from a great height.
◊
I was lying down covered under the snow now, whispering to myself as I witness the bear. “Your head is as big as my mid section, I told you Mr. Bear all this just before I killed you; --your fur as thick as my upper legs; your eye sockets as big as my fists” I’ve seen the bear, and he’s seen the warm meat, his face brightened, desire shining frankly forth. I knew he was very hungry. I was clinging on to my harpoon, layered within myself—I said, “Just you move a little to the right, and you’ll see me, big bear,” least I get scared at the start, but I will not I told myself, standing up, my feet weak, I told myself, --be fierce. It was cold my hands were shaking. Then reminiscent of the calm before the storm, I stood there on top of the cliff, my plans were as I had predicted, the first few seconds I stood up from laying secretly in the snow watching him, I now got my balance.
As I stand up, the from a laying position, the bear did not see me, here [I told myself], it makes me think when he first came here, how excited I was, I said in a whisper, “He comes, he comes,” and now I see him down below me on all fours. He does not see me above him. The wind has stopped; he cannot smell me yet, not with the fire. His eyes are old. Fearless animal, my head told me, nothing could harm you, but here I am, and my spirit tells me, I can, I “Tipi,” the great hunter, 20-years to get to this moment. I will put my harpoon in your …wait he is
…Wait… sheeeeeeeeee…
Qui…et…let him eat, eat, just a little more…a little more, he is ripping the meat from the dog’s skin…off
I have to take a bi ggggggg…leap—NOOW: -- I’m on his back, he’s in disbelief, I’m…………..≈≈≈≈
pushing the harpoon into his thick fat, muscle-bound neck, blood spurting in big blots, like a whale spouts water, the bear is shocked, disorientated; ≈≈≈I’m░ trying to find his inner part of the neck √, the harpoon went right through the upper part of his shoulders √ by the spine √ close to the neck, but I have the round knife, it is hard to get it through the fur, but I cut, cut, cut-ttt…I can feel it enter his body. He is making one last attempt to get up, his blue tongue came out of his mouth, and I almost rolled off his back, if I had, I would be crushed, --now he collapsed. He is shaking; I have never seen this before.
“Die, die, die-di-di…ee” I cried and cried with elation as the blood drops fell on the fire -- his big snout, silently, and sadly trying to see me.
٭
As I looked at the old, tired bear, I could see his spirit leaving him; I finally got off his back, I was like a fly on him, not moving more than three inches any which way, he was winding down his life. Like a white mist of warm-breath, it was leaving him, there, it goes --his spirit. Stripped, I put ¼ of him on my sleigh. I buried the gall in the ice, padded my sleigh with meat, and headed back. I will keep his claws for my friend’s wife in Barrow, and his teeth, they make for a good gift. There is no hospitality out here only the hunt.
Œ
As I headed back to my camp, I thought about you, Mr. Grizzly, if you would come to dinner. I have searched for you for 20-years now. I have killed many of cleaver bears, it is up to me to survive, nonetheless, for some unknown desire, and I sought you out, even before you killed my father. When I jumped on your back I must have not trembled anymore, but you did, you knew who I was, and you let go, you did not fight as I thought you would. You gave up the good fight. You had your reasons. Maybe you have a secret waiting for me. The more I think of it, you are old and will have died in a few more winters, anyhow, maybe…or maybe it was your way of getting me to come to you. You are cleaver. I do find myself in an odd situation now. Are we to die together [?]?
Ill-lighted, I can still see my igloo; it is close now, the midnight sun. I came short of your neck, but it –nonetheless—worked out fine. The kill spot in front of my harpoon, with a stretched out arm in the air I heaved it through you, like a thick fog, I’ve seen it come out the other end, I knew then I had you.
Let me rest, I like looking at your head, it is huge. Morning will be dark, but it is getting warmer, it is only 35 below out now, or so it seems. But you and I have adaptability, the essence of survival out here. Your sons, where are they? They will want their share of what you leave them, so I will leave the other meat of your-body back there, they will come, I’m sure, and eat what they can. They are spoiled; I’ve seen you spoil them. The question is, ‘…will they honor you?’ --and if so, ‘…h.mm…how.’
The Igloo
Now I must say what I have to say, or should I say, what I was about to say, as I find myself in this igloo, like my father did so many years ago; I must tell you all this, it is my story, it is because I have killed you. Yes you are by my side in my igloo; I am done with the Great Hunt: I mourn you now. It is my great day. And it is starting to get colder again, maybe 40-below zero out there, and the winds are wild again, it is your angry spirit I think. And I hear silence. I have been talking for a long, very long time telling you my story oh Great One, like the mountain. Your spirit has been patient, but angry, so very angry, but you found peace. My dogs are silent, it tells me as I look out my ice window, and see your sons and daughters out there [for they have come suddenly] I counted an hour ago, four of them, and I think more are coming; was this your plan, your revenge? For they have eaten my dogs, I’m sure of that all of them now. And the meat I’ve hidden, that once belonged to you, they ate that also I fear. You see, they do not have the respect you and I have. Unless you told them they could. They are from the younger generation; they will create a disorder to things. I think it is the end of all the Northland, the Pole. It will come it is ahead of me. They wait for me to leave; they will not come into my igloo like you did to my father, because they know I have you, your fur, and your head. And they fear your spirit.
They will wait for me to starve, then for the ice to melt, and then drag my ragged body out; or they will tar down this igloo when they get angry enough, and say hell with your spirit, when all seems well. I will not run, but you know oh Great Spirit I have no place to run to.
Loud Thoughts—
I was happy most when I could simply stare in to the sky, into its world of stars: --happiest indeed I was, like a child in his mother’s amaaq [back-attachment use to carry a child].
“I know ‘Spirit Bear,’ the time is too serious for joking, I will not worry about setting the record straight; --before I thought in years, months or days, now it is seconds. Time is very short. Thank you for your concern.”
I used to measure the temperature, no time now to. Everything is collapsing. I now seem to have a picture of my mother in my head; it is like it has been there a long time. This feeling I cannot explain—the bear spirit hears my voice: --I know,
“My sacrifice is meaningless to your children out there. But if I would not have killed you, I would not be able to deal with such a disappointment in life. And now, yes, I know, I’m pending death.”
Pity I am not a writer—I could describe how the bears wait impatiently for me out along side my igloo; --pacing in the 50-below cold, I think it is that cold now, I feel my bones, and 25-mile an hour winds. In circles they go these impatient siblings. Waiting for my flesh, my warm blood, listening for any sound: --moreover, I will receive their welcome with my harpoon in my hand, soon! The land will remember me, and say I went by the order, their rules, and the nature of the land. Not like the standbys in the great cities my grandfather told me about. Today the cost will be my life.
“No, I will not remain here, great bear, not here in isolation. It is useless to fight I understand, but I will. Unflinching I will have to be not to allow misery, hunger, cold, doubt or despair subdue me. That would be a horrible death.”
I will say no more for the moment. “Don’t forget me bear?” It’s getting colder out there, more snow I see. I will fight, just so I do not fall………. Here I am…they see me in my ice-window.
Back to the Igloo
It is no one’s fault but my own, I know I have chosen life over death, but death was part of the order of things, the nature of the land. You gave me my desire; I cannot be mad oh Great Spirit. How could this be? Even in the waiting, I got to tell my story; it was my way of respect for the Great One, my testament, if you will my grieving for you; maybe for me, to the bear that was honorable, Ursus-arctos. Like all children, they have gotten their prize, their wealth, and the meat he offered them of his old body, as they wait outside my igloo for me, they are much like other children, greedy, are they not. I hope they choke on me, I hope I do not taste good: its wild flavor they are after and I suppose I have that in my bones. As far as you go, old bear, you are too old to taste all that good, anyways, so I shall not eat you as you ate my father. I had good dogs, but they killed them, I know, for they are gone. I am starting to repeat myself, death lingers that is why. I will not survive in this land without my sledge; I see that it is busted up. The bears are cleaver, they learned from the Great One, you.
I hear the wind the cold is seeping in. A bear is looking in my window; he sees the Great One and me. I have won the prize he says with his eyes, me; but it is I also who has won the prize, I just hate to get killed by such scavengers. That is the joke, if there is to be a joke of this whole matter. I’d rather die by the hands of a great bear.
Oh Great One, let me step outside a moment with my harpoon, for what do we live for, is it not desires, not for this last battle, you have fought yours well, and so shall I [?] Oh yes, and you and I have no more: --yes, there they are, and here I am:
“Sjorfaa! Sjorfaa!”
Œ
Note: Perhaps I should thank the folks up in Barrow, Alaska that shared their warmth with me, their dance, their graveyard of ancient bones [l996]; Point Barrow being not far from the city, they shared their two approaching seas; --and perhaps the pilot who flew me around the surrounding area, on a ‘mail run,’ [750-miles]. I also should thank the natives of this beautiful Northland in the lower area of Juneau, who taught me how to fish with my hands, and the ones who took me whale watching, and on to its glaciers, of which I landed on one; along with the journey down the Stephen Strait with its beauty icebergs, --and the towering trees that reach over 200-feet sky bound; and the hundreds of bears I saw climbing the cliffs like monkeys; ----and the giant white bears of Barrow. And the great taste of whale meat in Iceland; --and so, having said that, I finally put into words my adventure as I’ve seen it in my imaginative mind.
3
Death in the Dust
[A Bullfight in Mexico]
Lee Lopez and his wife Dalila, along with their friends George and Nancy, climbed down the stairs of the bullring, on the outskirts of Mexico City. The heat of the day was slowly taking Lee’s breath away, he managed to lift his heavy legs up and around, and over people, and over the arena seats to find his and his wife’s numbers painted on the cement in patched red, trying to focus and gain his balance, in the process; his wife watching him, in fear, of his health issue, he might stumble, or become too short of breath and not stop to get his needed oxygen down into his stomach and lungs; he was not the healthiest person at the arena she knew, this day, or any day for that matter; --this was her first time to a bullfight although, as it was also Nancy’s. So finally Lee sat down on a cushion he was given when he entered the walkway to the ring, not uncommon.
There was little talking between the foursome, Lee had a quest, to get centered and set up his body for the great fight that lay ahead,
----Standing up straightening his cushion out, making sure his fifteen-feet from the arena was not too far to jump up and around a few people if need be to get closer to the ring, insuring himself he would have at his disposal the spirit for the bull and/or matador. Depending on his moods, and the way the bullfight went, he could be cheering for the bull more than the matador; it was all a matter of valor to him, or for the most part, a fair fight, or what he considered just.
It was Sunday, 2:00 PM, and the heat was so penetrating, Dalila wiped the sweat from his brow. Lee felt an impulse to jump up as the band started playing, and the matadors came out to parade around the ring. The doors wide open, the sun baking the ground, the few clouds in the sky brighten up the arena [nothing new, he thought, nothing new, just old things; yes, yes death was waiting]. All was set for the ritual, the skill and the dance of death, the dust was being spiraled all about, but Lee knew there was much more to come; --he had just talked to one of the picadors; he was proud to make his acquaintance, and get a picture with him, he was checking his Polaroid—
[Pelicula instantanea] instant film –picture out as it materialized like magic in front of his eyes on to the paper, --then out came the picadors, one was his man [the man he had taken the picture with]; he quickly nudged his wife, so she’d look, and she smiled agreeing it was the same person in the picture. Like always it would be a quick showing, for everyone wants to get to the bullfight, the kill. If life had dealt him a different deck of cards, he’d have been a bullfighter, a matador, picador, or banderillero [bullfighter’s assistant who sticks ‘banderillas’ into the bull]. No questions asked.
It was man against bull, the man-beast courage against the breath of life. It was… was all or nothing, like a love affair. Every bullfight has its price, he would tell his friends, and today would be no different. George and Nancy looked at Lee to try and gain his excitement, but Nancy was more in the corner with Dalila, not sure where her moods would be once the fight started…she questioned both George and Lee on all the details of the fight, until Lee had to look away, not returning answers to her questions so he could get himself focused; rudeness was a virtue at a bullfight he told himself:
“If women can shut their mouths at a bullfight, well done,” he’d say, adding, “Otherwise leave them at home… --I’m here for the man-beast and the matador, not to baby-sit anyone; --it’s a man’s game anyhow—” he’d convince himself, then would stop mumbling and set his eyes on the dust flying about the arena.
Nico—the bull—was the chosen one, the big bull; the one Gerardo—the matador—would fight today. He would be reborn again; Nico was a good bull, Lee told George, and Gerardo a good Matador. As Lee waited impatiently, sweat coming from his arm pits leaving huge wet dark stains, --forehead and crotch sweating the same [profusely], he grabbed some more air pushing it down through his lungs to his stomach leaving out a long sigh; he was situated finally, took a pill [nitro for the heart] and watched the arena resembling a cat waiting for his mouse.
The ground was soft from the heat, allowing the dust to fly about as the wind was picking it up, ‘…let it come …let it come…’ mumbled Lee, he didn’t feel the wind or the heat, although his body was responding to it.
He mumbled again, ‘…the battle might take place more in the shade, who knows, that is the wonder of the whole fight, the unknown, who knows.’
He told his wife many times upon returning home from a bullfight, that it was the human-dilemma, to survive in the bullring, for the opposite impulse prevails there —he would tell her; adding, that one fences himself into death, to free himself to live. Yes, he’d say, we must all face death; you will never appreciate life until you do. He would argue with himself while his wife looked on after the fights, listening to his analysis, “…will man have the capacity to survive his own measures?” He’d continue to question himself, adding, “…What degree of civilization is this, to watch a madman fight a mad-bull?” [Then laugh]. He was no philosopher, just a realist, next to war this was after that, the best event in town.
₪
Lee could scarcely wait. He was asked by Nancy, who he was voting for, the bull or the matador to win, but Lee said nothing, for he could careless if the bull won or the Matador, it wasn’t what the fight was about to him. It was the ritual that was important, the sacred sacrifice to the gods that didn’t exist. It was the last of the great invisible journeys; like being lost in the great ocean of thoughts dreams, or trying to walk across the Arctic in the middle of winter and never touching the snow, or trying to walk on the moon without a space suite. This was the last of the great feats of man. Where else could you taste a bit of Rome, at its glory, like in the battles that took place at the great Coliseum? This was it there was no more.
“Death,” said Lee to Nancy, “I am looking for death to win…when it has lost its sting. I want to see death at its best…who will be the coward here?”
“Will the bull be spared if he wins,” she asked.
“I hope so, but not always…sometimes the judges are cowards just like the bulls who stomp their feet, or tremble at the Matador’s presence, and the roar of the crowd; sometimes the crowd is the coward for applauding the un-brave.” He leaned over Dalila closer to Nancy’s face and said softly, “Death my friend is a rare thing to taste and still live to talk about it; that is what we shall get today, you will look it in thy-eyes,” he laughed, and Nancy sat back closer to George, whispering, “I think Lee has lost it…” George laughed.
Lee had been to a cock fight in Lima, Peru, prior to this bullfight, he wanted to compare the two, but even though he liked the cockfight, it was too one sided, too un-daring for the onlooker he told himself. He said to his wife when they had left the small-enclosed arena [at the cock fight], “It is chicken against chicken, not like the bullfight, man against beast.” He couldn’t get involved like at the bullfights.
And boxing, he loved boxing, he had seen a championship fight in Buenos Aires, Argentina, earlier that year, and made comparisons with that also, telling his wife, “It is man against man, not much blood, no death usually, and too much this and that…” he walked out enjoying the fight, even met the champ, but it was not like at the bullfights, when man has to face the beast, and the beast is five times your weight, reflexes and instinct needs to be at its very best, in place. There is no flexibility for instinct; you have to have it or perish. It is mind and skill of the man; some say an unfair comparison, meaning man had the advantage, but then why did he see people die in the bullfights if that was true, he asked himself; both the boxing and cock fight, was too weak to arouse him, so he stuck with the bullfights. And so unfair or not, it was the price one paid to see the dying. He had even went to Kyoto, Japan to compare the Sumo Wrestlers with his death against death agenda, and again, it feel short of his approval of being worth the salt of his time to see it a second time. Not like the bullfight though.
Lee explains to his wife and Nancy:
“Fantasies, which are what we are after, a fantasy—that is what makes for this bullfight, in the beginning at least; matter of fact, even before I come to the bullfight, I get my fantasies. The bull and the Matador will have a romance, but love will not conquer…--the contest is not about love, it is about beauty, and beauty is about fantasies. I dream about how to make love to my wife as much as I dream about how I will kill the bull—they are both highs… or would kill the bull.”
“And what is beautiful about this blood bath that is going to take place,” said Nancy.
“Beauty is clean, as clean as the bull will first be when he comes out of the gate, either fast or slow, it doesn’t matter, you will see him clean—he will be clean, washed up, and the sun will reflect on him, we are going to honor him as he enters the arena with our roars, and the Matador he will be clean, it is this place, this arena, and the flowers being tossed about by the lovely ladies, and the colorful painted areas of the arena, the band with its brass and strings, the standing of the people, the picadors, the bull, the everybody and everything; --the cloths the Matador will wear, show off, --the peril, danger both the bull and Matador will face. That is the damned, which will have its beauty.”
Then he added, “…but then, beauty is similar to values, they are different for each person.”
Nancy looked at George, --said Lee,
“You see George is beautiful…”
She smiled, Lee thought, I hit it on the nose for once, and then looked away back to the bullring, as Dalila was carefully checking Lee out to see how his breathing was, for it all related to his heart she knew, his breathing. He had had a few strokes and heart attacks in the past, and at times was careless, but the beauty in Dalila, or one of the beauties was her cherished devotion to Lee, he knew it, as pretty as she was, her higher beauty was in her respect and cherished look she gave to him. He could be anyplace and know exactly when her eyes would check him out. She was his sidekick.
The Fight
“I can’t see, --the bull, --the bull, no, the… the matador,” he said, watching every move in the arena, “… the matador…he, heee’s is too close’. [The matador is going to be gored by the bull.]
“You’re right…he’s too close,” said Dalila almost hiding under her forearms.
“What did I tell you…yaw—see—”?
“His horn is very close Dalila…look, looookkk… there is a blind spot –yaw…and he is too fuck-en close, he’s going to get it…damn…”
“Calm done, calm down now, --take a pill…. please!”
“I’ll miss it…hell with the pill…loooooooook will you, he is so close… the horn is goooo…shit—”
The roar of the crowd started up, the judges leaned forward, the heat kept coming, coming, coming as if it was trying to watch the bullfight also, on top of Lee’s head almost, his heart started to pound faster and faster, pumping more blood to keep up with his excitement, rapidly and more rapidly like a clock out of whack his heart raced; --you could see the bull’s veins sticking out from his eyes, he was fearless, no trembling, no caution, he didn’t hit his hoofs to the ground, he just tore in after the Matador- Gerardo.
“I thought you’d need this pill,” Dalila holding it in her hands as her husband was holding his chest, watching the bull.
“Get the damn thing away from me…look, again, [a hat was in the air] the cape, it’s going over the bull’s head, blind spot, blind spot, yaw…ya..Ya… can’t he see the Fu-… blind spot, get aaaaa
AA
Away!!!...”
Lee jumped up quickly …
“Ouch…what happened,” Dalila asked.
“Horn…the horn… in the
AIR-air….the horn…shit—” [the bull gored the matador].
“Oh god…Lee, is he…”
“That’s it…be quiet, please… I don’t know…”
As Lee sat back down he looked upward, stretching his neck, as if to get air, shaking his head. He had seen this before, but he wasn’t expecting it. He was really a promising Matador. Another Matador stepped into replace the wounded matador--and dying Gerardo, as did the picadors…who also came in, two men grabbed Gerardo, put him on a stretcher as Nico was kept busy. Lee then quickly took the pill from Dalila’s hands and stuck it under his tongue.
“Now you see Nancy…life is short at best, who will die today…?”
Nancy said with a sigh:
“This is exhausting….”
“Six times they stuck the sword in Nico’s backside—he has a thick neck…what they trying to do.”
“Thanks for taking the pill Lee,” Dalila said.
“Yaw, I can’t believe it…six times, and the banderillas [long decorated barbed darts] three times, and the picadors. Nico won, not the Matador. What is the problem here let the bull live.”
“Cigar, light it pleases—.” Dalila pulled out a book of matches and lit Lee’s Cigar, wiping his brow thereafter. Dalila then sat back watching him smoking, slowly releasing the smoke as if it went in rhythm with his observations.
“They’re taking him to the hospital, I think he’ll live, we’ll find out later, in the paper tomorrow maybe…” then came two horsemen dragging out Nico by the back legs.
“He won, he was the champ, and I can’t watch the next fight Dalila, this one was too disturbing, let’s go.”
As they walked down the steps to the outside of the arena, Dalila noticed to the left some movement by the side of the bullring; as they started walking up the ramp to go out to their car through the gates,
“Lee, what’s going on over there?”
“You really want to know…?”
“I think so,” replied Dalila.
“Let’s go check it out,” Lee knew what was happening behind the dark curtains, but he wanted to surprise Dalila, plus it would only anger him more, and he wanted to get his blood up for the Matador lost, and he wanted to protest the death of Nico, this was a good time to do it, let off steam, right in the back of the curtains.
“Look,” said Lee with a smirk.
“Oh…my god, what --they…!”
Dalila held her hand over her mouth, as Lee held up the heavy curtain made of thick rubber, --that exposed the visual butchering of Nico. He was being cut open as the shadows of the men blocked some of the black blood spurting about. He was now being hooked onto a meat cleaver, and there was red blood dripping all about as they skinned him. His carcass was in red flames.
“It was a good bullfight,” Lee cried, “It should be the Matador up there not the damn bull.”
The butchers looked at Lee—anger showed on their faces.
“Go señor,” said one of the butchers.
“I know,” said the other butcher looking at Lee, “It isn’t right, too many pick’s, swords,” he smiled at Lee.
“Not an even fight at all, but the bull won,” said Lee to the two faces looking at him, with knifes in their hands.
“Señor,” said the butcher who had asked him to leave, “That’s the way it is, go now, we got work to do,” and so Lee and Dalila turned about and walked out of the enclosure meeting Nancy and George as they walked up the ramp to the entrance gate of the arena, again—Lee is thinking as he tries to catch his wind climbing up the embankment, looking at the merchants selling marble bulls, and hats, and other gifts.
He thought how different the bullfight was compared to the cockfight and the boxing matches, he liked both, but the bullfight was more masculine; not like two birds picking at each other’s eyes, and cutting up one another with their tied on meat cutters to their legs. For some reason he couldn’t get a personal feeling out of it, no beauty to it, how could there be with feathers flying all about, and the smell, the lights dim, and the iron cage separating man and foul. It was almost like two boxers, they were skilled and could punch one another, but again, it didn’t match the bullfight, where the beast, the ritual and death all met face to face.
Lee was a fighter, a war veteran, a man’s man one might say, and he had the broken up body to show it. The cracked knuckles, the scars and the wounds that only time gave; that only man acquired when he had a history.
The car was parked around the corner, Dalila stayed with Lee as Nancy and George got the car.
“Was it a good fight hon…” he asked Dalila. She smiled, and said, “I like being with you, that is why I’m here.”
“Thanks for being patient with me, and for those pills, I meaNNNN A pill, you got to grab the moment Little One, oh yes, the moment and we did. I kind of liked Nico you know, he was as I’d like to be upon my death bed, brave, he was so very brave… it’s funny, isn’t it; courage—where does it come from, it’s kind of like you got it or you don’t—that bull showed us all a little today—besides entertaining us….”
4
The Rainy Place
[Quiahuiztlan]
Walk softy on my Sacred Ground
Where once I was king and crowned—
And look unto the valley below
Where the Toltec lived and roam
Where the Olmec marched
North to South
From Quiahuiztlan to Tajin
How beautiful, beautiful, beautiful—it is
Stand firmly now—by the tombs
You see; prostrate please
These were my people
Of Quiahuiztlan—the Rainy Place
My people, my people, my people
Now they rest in peace…
Dlsiluk
The Quiet of Quiahuiztlan
[The Nose-less One-1905]
I seem never to get the good stories, if anything the odd ones, and for some odd reason an American living somewhere along the Mexican coast, by Veracruz, was to become a legend in his own time. My name is Nick Farrow, and the man I’m talking about is Christopher Hawk. And the story you are about to hear is the last story before I retire. Although it is interesting in its own right, it is also sad in a more meager way; and most of all it has been and will remain misplaced in the annuals of reporting.
I had heard of a man in that area, the jungles of and around several archeological sites, such as Tajin, and Quiahuiztlan, which was located on a mountain top, and Cempoala [sometimes spelled with a Z instead of a C]; --all within twenty-five to one hundred and twenty five miles of Veracruz.
It was the spring of l905, and when my paper sent me out to meet Mr. Hawk, for some inquisitive reason, I seemed to have not searched that hard to find him. He was actually sitting in Cortez’s old house, believe it or not: amongst the old tree roots, which wound around its foundations, such as doorways, windows frames, and sills, of which they were huge and opened aired [like an out door museum]. The small town that surrounded the area was filled with want-to-be, tour guides, --that is, kids who wanted to make a peso for showing you the one-acre fortress.
There was a cannon situated outside of his house, a wooden bench made out of treed logs. I introduced myself to him, and of course he needed no introduction; the locals called him The Lunatic. He was naked for the most part, and I say that only because he carried a carved wooden helmet of sorts, with two big teeth, similar to fangs, you could screw them in place, or out of place. The mask was painted resembling a jaguar, red, yellow and black spots, with a fierce looking face. He had black circles representing hair in several places of the wooden sculptured mask.
He also had a pair of gloves of sorts, with which he had long finger nails attached to their ends; in addition, he had a thin belt around his waist that he tucked the gloves around [into]; --and his helmet, he could tie to his side if need be, or with the string he had attached to it, plus wear it as a hat [or sombrero] if need be, or let it lay against his back.
That first night we camped out right inside that fortress, the total area was the size of a small park, that being, the grounds. It consisted of possible two acres or three. He spoke English as well as Spanish. Although he was what you would call ‘a gringo,’ fair skinned, blue eyed, and light blondish hair, his skin was more tanned, bronze one might say. His hair was a long, snag to it, and it seemed to reach to the bottom of his neck, of which was short, and thick.
He was for the most part a tall person of about six foot, I noticed as he would get up and search the area for wood for the fire, the length of his torso was long and slender, making him look even taller, as was his waist, smooth skin lean, with nice looking stomach-muscles. His legs were like runners, solid and armored looking calves [back part of he leg in particular]. He had blondish hair on his chest, underarms and groin area, but not much. I also noticed which was more than noticeable, he was not circumcised, and had thick and full looking testacies, as well as a thick penis, and its length was what I might call average to above average. I suppose being in the army one sees many men in the naked form, and it is neither here or there, it just is. So I make no misgivings about describing it.
I seemed to enjoy his quiet company, although he knew I was there for another reason, for him, he never made a move to announce it; nor for that matter, did he try to grandstand his ideals or persuade me in any philosophy. By and large, I was there for a reason, and somewhere along the line I either needed to inform him what I hoped to discover, or learn it on my own—that being, why he does what he does, and does it naked. I think I had other questions, or things I wanted to know, but for the moment that was what I wanted, first things first I told myself. Maybe I’d see him do it, the thing he was becoming famous for. Other people had seen him do it, but no one, and I mean no one had interviewed him. And I was not about to start an unwanted interview if I could simply tag along for a spell, if so, I could learn more about him this way possible. I did know he was seen in these parts for some three years, and was originally from San Francisco. Evidently it was no secret, he told several people from the past that. But when I had first met him, I had never known his name, only that he would say, “I’m going to kill the nose-less one,” and at times he’d referred to them as the “Snout-less ones.”
I had learned his name after I had left him, and I returned to San Francisco to cover the Great Earthquake. At this writing, I am 57-years old, it is the 2nd of April, l907; it took place, this meeting I am talking about, in l905; it was the beginning of spring, I do not know the exact date, I’d have to review old newspapers. But for posterity I feel I need not write it down, the future will not care about such trivialities. My son says some day I will pass on and he’d like to remember the story. So I told him he could publish it at a later date, for myself, I handed in a report to my newspaper, which cut the 7000-word report to two paragraphs, of 10-complete sentences. It just didn’t make news after the l906 earthquake.
Cortez’s House
As I was saying before, we had a fire going in the section of the fortress that was used to carry prisoners to a back room, a few hundred years in the past. To the side of me, was where they kept the horses. That is where we didn’t sleep or have the fire in, neither did we in the house section simply because the rooms were too enclosed, and the roots were all over the ground, and climbing up and around the mortar and bricks the structure was made of. And so again I say we simply picked out a good spot, in the main area, free of all these intrusions, for our nest.
He was shameless in his nakedness; his hands were big I noticed as he laid the broken branches from a near by tree onto the fire; --veins sticking out as if he had hot blood. His forearms were like ‘Popeye’s,’ huge as if they could snap a person’s neck in a second, or for that matter dig into the depths of an octopus or squid and pull out his heart. But that is what he did best, I was about to witness I hoped, and the only person alive, the one and only, who could do this feat, and I wanted to see, if possible, how he did it. I had heard how he did it, how he told the people when he came out of the waters, but no one seen him actually do it; but then how else could it have been done, but the unbelievable way he said it was done. That was the only thing he was willing to tell the by-standards, the onlookers, and he was quite graphic about it. It was if anything, his legacy, his history, his claim to fame.
Again, as the first night passed into morning, I would find out later my explanation needed for me to make my report, but first things first I told myself. I had lived in San Francisco also, just like my celebrity, I lived on Dolores Street, it was a big house my mother inherited from her parents, and built around the time I was born to my understanding. Christopher, --I would find out, had lived in a small house down on Mission Street with his ageing mother; his father had died many years before Christopher came to manhood.
Quiahuiztlan
It was warm along the coast of the Gulf of Mexico, the spring of l905. I had followed Christopher for several days walking here and there, to the grave temples of Quiahuiztlan, about twenty-five miles from the city of Veracruz. He took me by the hand several times, --as we climbed the mountain to get to the top. He explained to me it was called “Rainy Place.” He also explained it was an ancient city at one time with some 15,000 inhabitants, but now a cemetery where 78-tombs were lying about. And as I stood there on the hilltop, in this stronghold of defensive walls, I seemed to have a shadow of peace come over me.
We both lay under a tree looked up into sky, and just absorbed the day. The site he said dated back to the first century B.C. That the Olmec people influenced this area, and somehow that produced what was considered the Totonac Culture. All this was way over my head. One thing this all told me was, was that Christopher being whom he was, was not a crazy man; if anything, quite cultured, and educated, but then why did he do what he does? But why does anybody do what they do I suppose; such as Climb Mountains, swim the English-channel, or roam the Arctic Circle as if it was home. Again, this was my secret to find out. And somehow I did not get the idea I would be told the reason, but rather I’d have to cultivate it.
As we walked around some more I noticed there were terraces about. We spent three days there, I was about to ask him why, but I got the reason, it was his sanitary. I had not seen one human being come up here in the whole three days. There were several dwellings about; --a stairway that led from one section to the other with temples in both locations, and the third location being the hilltop where we rested. I was told the Aztecs had an invasion in this part of the country around 1200 A.D. Possible that might be why the buildings and mausoleums were given their distinctive stucco coatings. Like Hernan Cortez’s house, it was in-between Veracruz and this site. So everyone had something to build around here, Cortez, the Aztecs, and the Totonac with their links to the Olmec culture. In all cases, it was most likely his seeking, and now sharing his place of peace with me, a trust, if not friendship gesture if you will; his hideaway; a place for him to regenerate; yet, let me not lull you into a pretence, it is not his peacefulness I was seeking to tell you about, but rather, his restlessness, and wild side.
The Coast
I didn’t know what part of the coast I was at, on, or by, to be quite honest. But as we walked about the beach area, he said,
“This is it, this is the place, the one and only, where it will be happening Mr. Farrow [he commented with an elusive smile.” As he made that statement, he pointed into the dense jungle ahead of us and the Gulf next to us, --I followed him into the wooded area, and there was a shack. Inside he took me, and there was a hammock, dead fish bones, and other parts of creatures from the sea lying about with flies everywhere. He quickly swept everything out trying to be a good host, airing the small 200-square foot, dilapidated shack made of sticks and stones. I had come too far to call it, ‘quits’ or the end to this mission, for the stink would have been enough to turn most men back to San Francisco. But this was my last official assignment, good or bad I had to make it through, plus I had to see it in person if I could, witness the unbelievable, the mind-boggling event.
“Mr. Farrow, in the morning you will see me do what you came for, that is, if you still wish to see at first hand” Having said that, he smiled and walked away. The sun was hot, very hot today; I told myself looking upward toward it outside of the dusty window in his hut, yet avoiding it directly. So hot, I went outside the shack to rest, and catch a breath of nice, beautiful fresh air, not the decayed air inside the hutch. As I lay back against the shack’s foundations, I noticed my beard was growing, as I rubbed the palm of my hand across it; I looked like Christopher now, unshaven. His growth was about a quarter of an inch long, a little longer than mine I figured it to be. He then came out with a razor, soap, and a bucket of clean water he had in the back of his hut. The water evidently was in a 20-gallon tank above his hut, in which he used as a shower, or better put, for showers. A ladder reached it, used for filling it, he had to walk down to a creek about 1200-feet from the shack, and carry five gallon can’s back to fill it up. If it rained he said he’d take the top off and let the rain fill it, thus, saving his strength for other chores. He then sharpened his razor on a belt, and took to shaving, as I did after him. Then we both took a separate shower, and walked to the creek to refill the water, three times each.
Morning
[Meeting of the nose-less one]
Morning came quicker than I thought; he waited until 11:00 AM to prepare for his exploit [achievement, feat], saying he wanted the sun bright, real bright, as bright as could be, --so it would shine through the water, giving him luminosity, the right kind of glow, radiance. He was about to dive some 50-feet to the floor of the sea, where he said he knew there had been two squids spotted. He wanted one, but would take both, should they wish to fight him. He alleged he could last between 3 1/3- minutes to almost 4-minutes underwater. A feat in itself few could claim, I told myself.
I was told I could dive to a safety bubble under the water, where there was an air pipe sticking out of the surface of the water with a hose that pumped air into it [this had to be done prior to the dive although, and then locked and sealed before anyone went into the underwater chamber], he pumped air into it for observation purposes he explained, but never used it otherwise. Matter of fact he explained, he’d go in areas where he did not have the observation bubble within range for him to get to, and perform his ritual of sorts wherever the prey was. I was not much of a diver, but I could swim twenty feet I suppose, and so I accepted his invention, for that is what it really was. How he was going to go forty to fifty feet was beyond me, but this is what I came for, to see the unbelievable, the implausible.
We took a boat out to where the air pipe was, and I dove into the cool water with him; as I got to its structure he had described to me, kind of climbing down a rope to get to it, the last ten feet, I went under it, and thank god, air was plentiful when I popped my head up. It had a ladder in it, and I climbed up into it and witnessed several windows. The sun was shining, as he predicted and reflections in the water were all about. If anything, this water was very clear, free of pollution.
Now I’ve seen Mr. Hawk swim by me with his mask over his head, and his long fingernails, the rest of him was sleek like a fish; he went by me like a shark. Before I knew it he was way below me about 15 to 20 feet. An octopus or squid was coming out from a cave like entrance. The eyes behind him, behind the monster leaving the enclave, told me there was another one ready to join his scoutmaster; sure enough the other one joined its mate, it took less than a minute. Slowly they jumped as if a kangaroo lived inside of them; --they jumped within a few feet of Christopher. They looked as slimy as slimy could look, slippery akin to a snowball. By the looks of those two-creatures they were hungry, after pray, a dinner; --the first one was a little over 14-feet long: two of his tentacles were longer than the other eight. His head seemed to be somewhat fixed to his mantle. He looked aggressive, but then I told myself, why wouldn’t they, they would scare the shit out of anyone, even with a smile, if they could smile. All of a sudden the smaller one, about seven feet long, leaped to the opposite side of Christopher.
The big one had a slender body [visceral sac], well enveloped eyes, I could even make out with my small binoculars it had rows of suckers along those long arms extending beyond the other eight. They were the ones most mobile, and trying to capture Christopher, but Christopher for some odd reason moved his face right next to the creature’s greasy looking body. The two squirming masses moved their tentacles wildly trying to grab Christopher, entangling one another somewhat; he was too close for the beasts to grab onto him.
What was he up to, I asked myself? He took his fingers, which were placed into wooden claws and opened up a section into the monster’s mantel, as if it was a person’s chest. Then taking off his wooden mask, he unscrewed the fangs he had used on his fingers to open the beast up with, screwing them into the wooden mouth piece of the mask, --thereafter, he put the mask over his face again, as if it was part of him, --as if he was the monster. As I looked on, I wasn’t sure whom to feel sorry for, the water-beast or the man-beast. I was counting in my head two minutes had gone by.
Then like a shark, Christopher pushed his head into the opening he had created within the creature, thus, opening the wound even more-so, and deeper and wider this time, ---then abruptly, he pulled out his heart with the screwed-in fangs on his face mask—his head had gone right into the belly of the monster, incredible, it was hanging in his mouth, his heart, the monsters heart in his mouth, Christopher’s mouth. Amazing, just amazing, I told myself, other than that I was lost for words, and amazing seemed to dominate my mind set for that moment. It was all-true, he could do it: --he did it! This was what I wanted, what I came to see, ‘witness’ all so very true, true as true can be. I would have to figure out why later, but now it was the epitome of the show—that is why he did what he did, what I’ve just seen. A spark of a volcano seemed to erupt inside of Christopher, he had lost all control of the humanness I think inside of him, and transformed into none-other than the beast he was after. The creature sunk like a dead mammoth, and the smaller one just stood in shock backing away. I now counted to 3.5 minutes, he had to make a decision to kill the other one, or go for air. I was hoping he’d kill the beast so I could leave this bubble in peace, but he didn’t, he quickly chose to grab his helmet from the crust of the earth below him, which must had fallen off him during his jubilation period, after the kill; and like a shark made it to the surface with the heart of the beast still in his mouth. This is what he was famous for, known for…he’d walk out of the water like Neptune, with the creature in his mouth, its heart that is.
The Earthquake
After I had gotten back to the surface, which was some twenty minutes later, the reason being it took so long, I had to get enough courage to make the short journey to the surface, then the boat, thinking every step the other monster would come after me for revenge, Mr. Hawk was on the bank cooking the heart when I arrived: --I joined him. Again I never asked a question, I had seen it for myself, no reason to question, ‘…seeing is believing.’ And I guess in my own way I knew I would answer my own question of ‘why’ on my way back home to San Francisco, somehow. And that was the last time I saw him, Mr. Hawk --but not the end of this story. I figured as I journeyed back to San Francisco, he must have done what he did for some kind of high, challenge, as I have already mentined, and I really wanted to get some insight into this mystery. He seemed to be testing God’s patients, possible His grace. He had a fever in his blood, an unquenchable one. He wanted to be a legend in his own time and he was, not sure in his own way. Just why he selected this kind of life to prove he had courage or whatever will be left up to the reader, but again I felt on my way back to San Francisco, dollars was not part of his make up. He was naked because he was free. He was a monster like the creatures he killed because he had to be, I suppose like anyone trying to invade another dimension. He gave them as fair a chance to kill him as any man would, more so than even a Matador at a bullfight.
I heard he had come back in l906, to San Francisco, and made headlines. I had done a 7000-word story on him, and only a few sentences were really published of it, the reason being, the l906 earthquake, that was international news, an so my story ended up on the back page somewhere; and I had retired. Mr. Hawk, Christopher that is, died in the earthquake, he was sleeping at his mother’s house, which was 82-years old. She survives that earthquake, as she was in her garden caring for the plants at the time, as her house was demolished behind her. She lived to be 96-years old, some 14-years after her son had died. It’s funny how life plays its introspecting game. It has very few exceptions, when it is your time, it simply is.
Interlude
I thought I was done with this book on 9/14/03, taking out one short story, ‘The Tiamat, and the King,’ and adding the ‘Vietnam’ extract [a week ago or so]; --but I wish to add these notes and two poems into the book while it is fresh on my mind; --one being into this ‘Interlude’ or pause between short stories, of the book, and the other in the ‘Afterward,’ part to the book; it is only relevant, in that they are connected [both]—to death.
[The Farm] The second thought on my mind is to explain the poem you are about to read. As a kid [l958-59], I’d go to visit what I referred to back then as the “Old Folks Farm.” The building was on an old farm, at the ends of the corner of the city. It was actually a farm bought for this purpose, as the city was growing, and the farm land was being sold off, there was a few aches left, with a few of the building on the site in pretty good shape. And so during these two years of my life, about monthly I’d go with a friend of mine, and his mother to visit the farm, we’d run around, and then catch up with his mother, whom was visiting someone, and of course, we’d get to know that someone, along with many other people throughout the facility.
In l980, I was dong some research at the University of Minnesota, working on my Masters Degree, and in doing so, decided to go back to that old farm for it was still being used as—let me update the terminology—Long Term Care Facility. And there I met Oscar, in which I did a poem about him, and added it to my first published work, or book, in l980, “The Other Door.” Now, having said this, here is the entire first poem [of the two], the second you will have to go to the end of the book to read.
At the Old-folks Farm
There was those days—,
I’d roam throughout
About and all over
‘The Old-folks Farm’
Watching them play pool;
Spit, in the ‘spit-toons’;
A poker, game going on
Here and there, and there;--
Chess and checkers
[Everywhere, everywhere]
Old grinding jaws—
Tight with frozen stress
From years, and years gone-by
[Everywhere, on everyone,
almost everyone]
An old lady who, who
Knew President Ike, Roosevelt,
[Had pictures to prove it]
Hid in the basement
By the warm furnace
Rocking, in an old rocking chair
[As if, without a care]
Dust and dirt everywhere,
So many memories left to bear …
To dress and undress.
Elbows and knees at
--The Old-folks Farm—
Bent out of shape, never, oh never
To be replaced.
Discharges in their pants,
Yellow pale eyes, --
Decaying teeth, a few teeth
Here and there, and there: --
Some missing, some replaced;
Some had none.
Everybody today is waiting
For tomorrow
‘At the Old-folks Farm’,
As was Oscar yesterday—
And today he is gone…
Somehow I miss him;
But he liked the ice cream
I bought him.
My mother never did go there—
To the, ‘Old-folks Farm’—
That is,
She chose death instead.
5
The Plane from Iquitos
[Iquitos, Peru- 1959]
Iquitos & the Amazon
It was December 2, l959, I was sitting on a small prop-plane leaving Iquitos, Peru for a trip down the Amazon toward the opening, the mouth of the mighty Amazon, --to Manaus. As we flew low one could see the waters of the Amazon, the city always impressed me, but more so from this birds-eye view the Amazon, which you could see the mighty river in its squid like form, with all its tentacles—its tributaries [so very much water linking to the river, it was enormous]. It would get smaller, and then wider as you flew along its stretched out body, it was four miles wide at one point, and that was nothing compared to other spots of the Amazon.
It was all jungle by the banks of the Amazon, a sea of green, nothing but towering green, 115 to 130 feet high. And there again was the Amazon on all sides, everywhere pink-Dolphins jumping through the waters as if it was a playground. It was said; the Amazon could produce as much water flow as any seven rivers in the world combined. It is also said it is the longest river in the world, seemingly always debating it with the length of the Nile, though. As we continued flying down the Amazon, I looked at the other seven passengers, I made eight, and the pilot and co-pilot made ten.
I thought about Iquitos, as we sailed along the edges of the left bank of the Amazon, especially the Iron House, the very place made by none other than Mr. Eiffel, the one who made the tower in Paris; it was all made of huge iron beams. I had eaten for the first time Piraña Roja, near by there, it was delicious, except for the many bones, and the fish wasn’t all that big, especially with its head cut off. But its teeth lived up to its reputation, they looked like a baby sharks’ set of teeth, for the most part.
Some years back I had been in one of the tributaries of the Amazon, had gone fishing, and caught a few Piraña Roja myself. I used a stick for a fishing rod, and tied a string on it with a semi-big hook, and put a big piece of meat on it, raw beef to be exact. Then when the fish took hold of it, the ‘Piraña’/piranha that is, he doesn’t chew it, or even bite into it like other fish would, he rips it outward, and so at first touch, the fisherman has to yank it upward to hook the fish right under his upper, and next to his teeth. It took me a while to learn how to do that well, but I remember the first several I caught, --in any case, they had a big low jaw, but a small upper portion to their head so if you do not do this right, pull quickly that is, he will not be hooked. Actually you may hook his upper teeth for they extend out as does the lower one, but it is better to hook in the skin.
As we continued to fly down the river about 125-miles to the east we started to go inland from the river. The view was tremendous, the height of the trees, continued to amaze me. With my binoculars I could see what the co-pilot called The Big Lazy Birds high up in the trees; we were less than 100-feet over the top of the trees, and some of the monkeys were going crazy. Then all of a sudden I heard a shot; it hit the wing of the plane, and then another shot.
The co-pilot, Henry, ran back by me looked out my window didn’t see anything unusual, then Captain Derry, came,
“We’ve been hit by something, we’re loosing fuel, not sure exactly where we can land but I’ll see,” then he went back to his cockpit where the co-pilot was. All eight of us now were looking out the windows. There was Dana and Kim, from Hong Kong, both spoke good English, and then there was
Lora from someplace in Florida, she was an accountant on a single trip, leaving her boyfriend and women friend who both did not want to come on the trip for personal reasons with her, behind, --she said she had just left Iceland, and ate whale there and really enjoyed it; explaining, just because her friends didn’t want to come she shouldn’t have to stop her trip, and she didn’t. Then there was the man from Budapest of all places a professor of some kind, I just called him Professor, and he also was alone. Then there was the three women from someplace in the South West, they were on a world tour of sorts, and had left Barrow, Alaska. Martha, the elder of the three women [of which all three were in their 60’s] was most chatty, and talked about her walking 500-feet out onto the ice, and standing on a frozen wave. She was courageous for sure. I never did get the other two women’s names. And knowing that area personally, I knew there were huge white polar bears in that vicinity, and they can run like hell.
And now the plane started to lower itself, I’ve seen an opening, several huts; one big one was below us. The pilot circled the area. In the center was a courtyard, like a ballpark, or simply a wide open space, but it looked accommodating for a crash landing if need be, a rough open space. As a result, the pilot was going to try and land the plane there.
Twenty Minutes Later
The Village
Somehow we had landed, but the front end of the plane went head first into one of the several huts, one wheel broke off and no way would we be able to use this as a runway to escape, if even we could find a way to repair the plane. We were all shook up a bit, but no one was hurt.
As we all stepped out of the plane, it looked like a deserted village, --no one seemed to be around. As we all started going our own ways kind of walking in a dizzy state of shock, we found ourselves in two groups of five. The Captain’s group was headed towards the big wooden hut of sorts, to see if he could talk to any of the tribe’s people. I was walking with the other five to the smaller huts. As we went from one hut to the next, it seemed there might have been several families to a hut, I noticed sleeping rugs, made out of sticks on the floor. Then on tables I noticed cameras of all kinds, watches, rings, jewelry.
Then being more curious I made my way with the following five, the three women from Barrow, and the Professor. The others were with the Captain and co-pilot; --we went into three more huts, they all had these little treasures of sorts, cameras, rings and watches, etc. It was as if they were prizes, or for that matter, trophies of sorts collectables.
Then I got thinking we needed to catch up with the Captain, so I directed the people with me to the big hutch. There was a dugout, or basement section to the hutch, that is, within the hutch, and I noticed the others were down in it. It was much cooler in the lower section, and the square footage of the upper was the same as to the lower section, quite big I thought, compared to the other huts, maybe 1600-square feet for each level.
“Troy,” said the Captain to me, “It looks like these inhabitants are not friendly creatures.” Three hours had gone by for him to figure that out I thought.
He added, “Let’s take our jewelry off and leave it down here so when they come they will realize we are friendly.” Everyone looked at him, and then started taking it off but me.
“Troy,” the Captain said, “You going along with this or what?”
“No, sorry Captain, but you’re not the Captain anymore, only while I’m on that flying ship or yours.” I was an old soldier, and I didn’t stay alive by giving up. I was 39-years old, in the Korean War; this was not the way things were done.
“Listen,” I said, “I am not going to leave them anything for a trophy, and I do not see any live people looking like me walking around. Matter of fact, I see a hole in the wing by a gun, and it is most likely theirs. Second, they are most likely looking for us, but went further East thinking, possible, that is where the plane went down, because that is the direction you went into, when circling around this spot, looking for an area to land. Third I suggest we go west 150-miles back to Iquitos. It should take 15-days, at 10-miles per day in the jungle. We should also burn this village so to let them know we are not going to be easy pickings, plus they will need to re-supply, and this will damage some of that. And we may need our jewelry to keep us alive, if we find some nice natives in this beastly jungle.
I wasn’t real sure if we should burn the village, but I said it, and I thought it was the wise thing to do, but once they see we were not in the plane they’d come looking for us one way or the other—so why not, it might give us a running start.
Said the Captain,
“It sounds better than my plan I have to admit, and so, where do we go from here?”
I had thought we needed to go in two groups, if one didn’t make it through, possible the other group would. And although I didn’t say it, I felt the natives would seek out one of our groups, and that in killing that group, figure that was that. Allowing the other group to go free, not even knowing there was another one.
We put torches to the village, grabbed some meat that was hanging in one of the huts; I grabbed a gun from the plane, the Captain said he never shot one, so he’d have no use for it. It had six bullets in its revolving chambers; it was worth its weight in gold to me. Then with some skins tied to our backs, we found in the big hutch, to use for sleeping, and some skin-water pouches, filled with water, we headed west.
The New Journey—the Amazon
The five that were with me seemed to want to say with me, and so we both already had our teams figured out. And so into the wild we went, tracking the deep rooted jungle with all its extending roots, and hanging leafage, and untiring creatures that crossed our paths. If anything we got sore feet the first six hours of walking through the jungle, trying to get to a location in the Amazon which would be easier to follow, if anything a road possible, thereafter [hopefully] we’d find a boat somehow, or make one and possible someone to help us on our trip back to Iquitos. I told myself anything was possible, and you had to have a plan for the group, and we could modify it along the way.
I had already broke a toe-nail to my big toe as I had fallen a few times on this shallow looking path of sorts, water getting into my shoes didn’t help either, yet I dare not take them off, too many stones, roots, and those big tarantulas, hairy similar to a dog; for the most part they went back to their home, underground by the tree trunk, nesting within the gamut of the roots. But a few jumped toward us as if to give us an everlasting massage, evidently we were rather close to their studies. After a bit more walking, I had taken my shoes off for awhile, and walked barefoot over the mucky and slimy patches jungle leaves, along with sheets of vegetation; jumping over old moss ridden trees laying in our way; some of the trees were so huge I looked like a grasshopper standing next to it. And everywhere were ants of different design, many carrying leafs home, ten times their size; some so large, they had a hard time balancing them on their backs. Some ants were huge, others just in a marching mode with a few million more behind them, that stretched for quite a ways. And butterflies with eyes in their winds, I thought how my mother would love these, her liking an assortment of butterflies that is. All in all it was becoming a jumble move right out of National Geographic; I compared it to in my mind. As I’d step over the many pools of water as we hiked through the jungle I had to put my shoes back on, they were sore as hell. The roots of the trees, that extended out and above the swampy mass pulled my toenail out more, and it was bleeding now. The Professor fell and broke his nose trying to climb an embankment, over roots, roots and more roots. The three older women were quite tired, and so we stopped to make camp, and I tried to make a fire but everything seemed damp, too damp for the moment. After an hour I did succeed.
Then about 10:00 PM, I heard some sounds in the nearby density of the jungle. I grabbed a burning stick, and my revolver in one hand the fire in the other, thinking animals were a bit cautious with a flaming piece of fire about. And then appeared a native, he stood at the jungles edge to our camp, with a creative smile, he then came walking into our camp, I lowered my revolver,
“No vant dtrouble,” said the native, he was almost completely naked. He had explained he had seen a few white people before, learned several words, like trouble, no, yes, want, eat, hurt, kill, but that was the extent of it. He expressed he knew of, or heard that the natives, that I had burnt their village down, were looking to kill me. That we were brave to do that, and he added, they [his band of people] had thought many times on doing just such a thing, when they were gone, but they had no place to go but here, and it seemed to me they were afraid they’d come back to hunt them down. Well, we got acquainted quite well within the next few hours, as he –this evening invited us to their village as guests—and it couldn’t have happen at a better time. It was past midnight when we started hiking through the jungle. He didn’t need the light, but I did.
When we got situated at the village some 45-minutes later, he gave me some ointment for my toe, and reset the Professors nose somehow. The women were given hammocks to rest. And as I looked about the five huts, I noticed on top of a tree there was a man looking about, as if in a canopy that circled his village for any trouble.
“Ma n…ame Mana,” he explained.
The Tarantula Hunt
Mana was very kind, we expected to stay there two days, so he would not get in trouble with the other tribe, but he personally extended it, the reason being, his tribe took a profound interest in us. As it was, they had a great celebration for us, and cooked a boar, and fish and even allowed the guards up in the trees, or I should say, the one guard they rotated 24-hours a day, to get involved with the celebration, and festivities, his name was Kana.
On the forth night at his compound, Mana, and one of main guards, Kana took me Tarantula Hunting. Fine I thought, but it wasn’t on my priority list, we didn’t kill any, just went into the depths of the jungle and he took [Kana] a long stick, and found holes by some big trees and poked it down into the under bellow of the roots, waking up the tarantulas, and they’d come out to see the mysterious invader’s intentions. He did this several times; most were larger than my hand. I stepped back a bit, but not too far from Kana, somehow had minimized his character, and mesmerized the creature. They, if anything, seemed to be a little sleepy, enthralled at the stick poking them between their legs, and Kana staring at them as if they were pets. Yet, as we’d walk away, they’d stare and watch us, not go back into their hole until all was safe. Interesting how we all protect our property, I thought.
The Attack and the Painted Man
It was morning on the fifth day, we had outstayed our privilege, yet it seemed Mana didn’t want to let us go. The three older women got along well with helping the youth of the camp, and the Professor was as happy as a baby duck just walking around trying to learn their language and customs. I was more into the adventure part, and took a few walks with Mana, and the night before, we had a hunt on one of the tributaries that lead back toward the Amazon, looking for big snakes, but didn’t find any in some kind of a dugout-boat.
Mana was going to point the way for us this morning back to the Amazon River. Actually he drew a map last night, and we expected to be on our way soon, just needed to get our balance in where North was compared to South, and the rest would click. As we all gathered into the center of the village, Mana looked up in the tree at the spot Kana was suppose to be guarding, and he wasn’t there. He then looked at me, he looked a little ill, and then looked about, into other areas of the high trees, some reaching over 115-feet high, but Kana was nowhere to be found. Mana looked at me again, even more ill than before, as if an instinctive death mask was put on him.
It seemed out of nowhere, all of a sudden, all the birds in the trees left, Mana and I looked into each other’s eyes, it was as if bereavement hit both of us at once, and at that moment, at that very moment, before I could let the carbon out of my lungs, and take in fresh oxygen, a spear went through his Mana’s back, piercing his heart, and right on through him coming out his other side, and almost hitting my thigh. He dropped to his knees, then several spears more came, like lightening rods out of nowhere, all hitting the men first, after that the women and kids. I shot wildly two rounds out of my gun, then three more, and I hit all three natives, as they fell from the trees, but it seemed no one else had a chance to get to a weapon, and no one else could see where the enemy was. I reloaded my pistol, and simply sprayed the area with bullets, where the spears were coming. Out of the six shots, I got three more of the enemy. And I stood there, just stood there with bodies all around, one bullet in my pocket left, but I dare not try for it I told myself, if I did, I’d not see the spears coming, and so I looked dreadfully about; inch by inch covering a circle around the campsite. I saw from a distance a tall, very tall lean man, with a painted face. He didn’t come close to me, he kept his distance, possible for two reasons I thought, one I had the gun, and he didn’t know how many bullets it had, which was none for the moment, and two, he wanted to show me what my presence created, possible the disruption of what he considered harmony. The professor and the three women were dead, Mana was now dead, Kana, I really didn’t know, maybe alive, maybe dead, I never saw him at all; to my observation all the twenty or so tribe’s people were either dead, and possibly a few got away into the thick of the jungle. But there was no way for me to escape, I was in the center of it, it was proving to be a hell of a day.
The painted man gave me a bow of bravery, and a smirk of contempt, and then walked away, as did everyone else. And then a spear came towards me, from the tree above, not all that far away, --I thought about the bullet in my pocket, but that was my last thought, I knew I was dead—I wanted him to turn around but he didn’t, he was showing me I was insignificant—and. ………Dead.
Note: Part one of two parts [part two unpublished]; my journey in the Amazon in 2000 was most interesting, and many things part within this story are true, the heavier ones of course are not. But we did see tribes and the big spiders, as my wife would call them, and the Lazy-bird as it was called, monkeys and Pink Dolphins, among other things; the long ride down the Amazon, and into its more secluded areas was also most interesting, and eating and fishing the piranha. Actually one of the party members in a group I was in going through the jungles of the Gran Sabana, hiking up to Angel Falls, in Venezuela, did break his nose, and I did have some trouble with my feet, and toe nails. The three older women I actually met up in the Arctic, in l996, and I walked one out on the Arctic Ice, she was so proud she could do it. We walked quite a ways to be truthful; it could get a bit dangerous with the polar bears and so forth. And the single girl I call Lora, I met on a boat sailing round looking for whales in the waters of Iceland, 9/l999. Fictitious as my characters are, I have put a little realism into them. Although the names are different, yet there lies within the soul of each one, a real heart beating. I met a professor in Athens, in l995, from Budapest, and again I used his character to create a character.
6
The Diamond Caddo Estates
[A Tragedy]
Meeting of the Movie Stars
It is a typical summer in San Francisco, Jessie and Johnny, a married couple, --Jessie a writer, prize wining poet, comedy writer and novelist, have become somewhat known in those fields, in essence, to some extent, celebrated/famous in later life [at age 50 Jessie, and Johnny, is now 40]. They are at a talk show, and meet Russell and Tammy, both movie stars.
During the waiting period [that is, waiting to be called out on stage by the host] Russell and Tammy talk with Jessie and Johnny quite a lot, and a friendship seems to prevail in the atmosphere, and before any of the four go out on stage Russell invites the couple to go swimming at a private beach with them this coming weekend. Not realizing at first it is Friday today, he quickly adjusts his thinking, and mentions the swimming would take place tomorrow, I guess. The invitation is accepted.
Saturday
Jessie and Johnny go to the location given them by their new esteemed friends Russell and Tammy at the private lake area, outside of San Francisco. The area is serene and most pleasing to both Jessie and Johnny. The two hosts are swimming, and coming into greet their guests. There is no one else along the beach: --a little house to the right of them and some trees and shrubbery.
Both Russell and Tammy call as they run up to greet them, with excitement and positive gestures.
Everyone seemed to be in their Saturday best humor, with smiles and kind gestures; and for all honesty, there was no deception.
Tammy grabs Johnny’s hand, all in their bathing suits now, and takes her out in the water swimming with her, while Russell asked the laureate to write him a poem, as they lazily sit watching the girls swim. He does, and when the poet has finished with the poem, and Russell reads it, a tear emerges from his eye. At that moment, he is distracted by his girlfriend [both in their late 30’s] who had run up out of the water, grabbed a towel, and happened to see the tear on Russell’s cheek.
Tammy: “What’s the matter honey?” He doesn’t say a word; she is unspoken for a moment, feeling for some reason, and who knows why, but men seem to shut down when they are emotionally tied in knots, she conjures up in her thinking. Unyielding and still, she puts her hand on his shoulder, as she scans his face, arms and ends up at the poem, and reads it as he is holding it.
There is much truth in the poem, as she reads it, and her mind and face tell her that, “…it is a good poem,” she says. Russell has truthfully swayed away from his faith, by the looks of things, the poem is calling him back, or so it seems as the poem is being read. He is quite impressed with Jessie as now Tammy seems to be also [he lets Jessie know this with expressions] Tammy kisses Russell on the forehead.
٭
[In-between time] Everyone is standing around after the reading of the poem; Jessie not used to famous people, takes pictures of Russell, and has them taken of him with Russell, by asking Johnny to assist. Tammy is also a movie star in her own right, but not as famous as Russell, --nevertheless, within a matter of minutes, they all end up taking pictures of one another. There seems to be a mystic-commonage here.
The Diamond Caddo Estates
Russell and Tammy call Jessie and Johnny up to meet their rich and most famous friend [something similar to the Great Gatsby, as far as richness goes, and mansion] two weeks later; it is a weekend, again Saturday evening. It is simply a get together of the rich and famous. Everyone has agreed to meet at Russell and Tammy’s house.
When they arrive they take Jessie and Johnny by the hand in their car, and their driver takes them to the Diamond Caddo Estates. Upon arrival, they escort them into the great halls of the Diamond Caddo Estates [Russell knowing Jessie would feel a little uneven going in alone].
Harry Goldsmith, the owner of the estates and his wife Juliet sit at the end of this long mahogany French made table, where is seating 25-people. The maids have started to serve the drinks and food.
Harry finds himself staring at Jessie for some odd reason, and Jessie is not looking back, matter of fact, he is to the contrary, avoiding eye contact with the owner, and talking to his wife Johnny.
Harry: [asking Jessie a question] “It would be grand, haw, is it Jessie [a rhetorical question] if you could do a poem of for me, I’d be most appreciative…”
Jessie would prefer not to have made a nod, or for that matter, any gesture, but moved his shoulders in a funny way and continues to eat. A few of the guests started to laugh [although it was not meant as a slight or joke].
Harry takes offence to it, and looks at Russell [who shakes his shoulders, likewise, but in a way of expressing, saying in essence, ‘I don’t know’]; then Russell looks over to Jessie …
Russell: “Why not…” he says with a smile.
You now see a smile on Harry emerging; he has gotten his friend’s support. The whole life-size room is silent and still, until Jessie agrees, and then a sigh of relief is given, from several of the guests at the table, even one maid, and practically Russell [Russell knows Harry has a lot of pull in Hollywood, matter of fact he owns a good portion of it: --and would prefer to stay on the good side of him, as Jessie must have figured out.]
Throwing the Pearls to the Swine
Harry now is reading his poem by himself in his chair as the clean up people are picking up this and that off the long table. Jessie is at the end of the table getting up walking over to the huge bay windows looking out onto the grounds, his wife Johnny remains seated for the moment.
Russell comes up and thanks Jessie on the sly, letting him know, it’s harmless, plus it was a good party gesture to entertain by creating a poem for the host.
Jessie: “I’ve wasted my pearls Russell…” Russell looks odd at him, and pats him on the back, walking away.
Harry reads the poem, it tells him who he really is, as disturbing as it seems to be he reads on, it implies he is: slimy with his schemes, cheating, double-crossing, and doing any and everything to get ahead. The poem points out he needs to put his cards on the table with people, be up front.
Juliet sees the poem then tells Jessie to do a poem of her [Juliet and Harry are at one end of the table, where they were before, reminiscent of a king and queen, they will not move; and Johnny and Jessie are sitting down by at the other end of the table; Russell is now on his way to stand by the other two].
Russell implies [rather informs as he is walking away from Johnny and Jessie, saying to Juliet in so many words] that the poet in Jessie must be tired, inferring to let it be, meaning, not to insist on acquiring a poem, but she insists non-the-less. And to accommodate Russell and Juliet, and possibly himself, Jessie agrees to do one more.
“It’s not worth it, not here, you’re wasting your pearls,” Johnny, says with a concerned tone in her voice.
The few standing is Russell, Harry and Juliet [the poet still sitting down with his wife at the end of the table, somewhat out of the picture for the moment]. Yet, the only ones that seem to know what Jessie are saying, is Jessie and Juliet [along with Johnny of course].
Jessie makes another poem, the guests are gone now, only Russell and his girlfriend Tammy, along with the Goldsmith’s and Jessie and Johnny. She reads the poem, it tells her about getting old before her time [she is in her mid early 40’s], also, too much ahead of herself, that she is getting too far over her head in everything she is doing; in effect, ruining their future, hers and Harry’s business, per se. It ends [the poem that is], implying she’s going to end up being a beggar on the streets, consequently loosing it all with a will to kill.
Juliet [becoming unraveled], showing twitching in her face, holding back her emotions, her repugnant remarks that want to escape her, cannot hold them back any longer, she scolds Jessie for being so self-righteous, for being a dooms- day-prophet. Yet she will not show her poem to anyone [least she be exposed more]. Harry tries to get the poem from her but she refuses, tugging and pushing him away like a mad child; --
now Juliet, [with the people wanting to leave, getting their coats on] runs to Jessie apologizing but wanting a new poem, one of/for the whole group.
Russell: “Juliet, I thank you very much, but you’re abusing my guests,” with a tone of contention, [along with defiance and protection for his two friends] Russell, takes in a deep breath, not sure where this is all leading to.
Juliet: “Your guests,” she implies, “They are at my house.” Russell shakes his head.
Russell: “Why now, why not another time, it’s 2:00 AM?”
Juliet: “Because once Jessie goes he is never coming back.”
Russell: “Oh that’s nonsense.”
Juliet: “Ask him Russell.” Russell turns to Jessie and asks if he is coming back. Jessie hesitates with eye contact as he looks at Johnny…
Jessie: “I’ve wasted enough pearls here, it’s time to go.” Russell not knowing what to say simply lifts his eyebrows, in a dumbfounded manner.
Russell: “Well, I’m going.”
Jessie sits down right along side of the door, leading to the outside area and starts writing, everyone now is waiting, even Russell and Tammy. He writes for about 20-minutes about the group, and then hands the poem to Russell to read at his will. Russell looks at Juliet, and starts to read it right there, knowing Juliet would be offended had he not.
The poem reads they [the group of 25-guests] will not stop at fame or fortune no matter what. Some are good; some are bad [the chasing after the fame is the theme]. But the poem implies the fame has them by the throat, which is strangling them. It has ceased to produce happiness, rather immediate gratification; in addition, it has for many of the folk given way to power which is not under control, but rather out of control. They have their own world it implies. And if anything, he [Jessie] was the intruder and a distraction at best. And yet, he being the intruder with no power bothers Juliet. The poem goes on to explain that it has moved Juliet to the degree of pain [and as Russell reads on, one can see the pain, anger, and hate reeking out of her pours on her face]. It gives her pain that someone else can see her soul, and how black it is. Juliet is furious now, but holds back to hear the rest. The end of his poem indicates someone will try to kill him: Johnny grabs Jessie’s hand and pulls him out of the house; Russell’s eyes open up wide, turns away from the poem, drops it on the floor, and walks out, as Juliet picks it up.
The end of the poem reads:
“Let nothing—no, not even death itself, no matter of whom, take your revenge and you will win.” It was what Juliet was thinking, in her ill-stricken mind.
The Kill
Two weeks had gone by before Juliet showed up at Jessie’s apartment door; Johnny is out for the moment, doing some household tasks, outside of the house. Jessie let her in their small, comfortable, and modest one bedroom apartment and asks her to sit down on the small sofa by the window, as she could watch and see his return, and she waited.
Upon arrival Jessie asks, walking through the door: “And just what is on you mind, what we can do for you Juliet?”
With a strange look on her face, as if to say, ‘…you forgot what the poem said already,’ a longer pause occurs as she stands up, now a deep stare at Jessie, she pulls out a gun and shoots him in the chest, as if she was searching for the keys to her car, next to one of the main arteries of the heart the bullet is lodged.
Juliet: “I don’t need to know my sins, keep them to yourself; yes, you should have saved your advice for those who most need it, not want it.” At that moment, Johnny heard a shot; she was outside of the apartment: --Jessie was now on the floor.
Juliet [peering down to Jessie as he is dying]: “Funny, you forgot what you wrote, haw…” [Jessie often did forget what he wrote, having Multiple Sclerosis].
When Johnny showed up, hearing the shot, running up the stairs, seeing Juliet leaving, running past her, her first view was seeing Jessie laying there dying on the shinny wooden floor.
Moments later Russell and Tammy show up, as Johnny is calling for the ambulance and police. Everyone knew it was Juliet, they all have seen her quickly walking down the few flights of stairs from the apartment, gun hanging loose from her hand, a smirk on her face.
Johnny: “Jessie, ohooo, Jessie, I knew I shouldn’t have left you I told you so many times, so very many times, people just don’t want to know, they just want to walk around blind, they really do, it is like throwing pearls into the swine pit, I told you and told you, you got to tell them something nice, not the truth, it is not what they are seeking.” She is hugging the dead corpse now, not letting go, making moaning sounds, grieving, she adds,
“They only want to know what you know, to see if you really know it. That’s all. They don’t want the truth.” But it is too late for advice, dead is dead, and all the advice in the world will do no good now, yet she rambles on and on.
◊
Now Russell and Tammy knew what was meant by the usage of the word, ‘pearl’. It had made a better man out of him in only two short weeks, he was taking his own inventory; --and the relationship with his father had even gotten better. For Harry, he was thinking twice about his dealings with people, it also was starting to show; he and Juliet were becoming more resistant to one another, someone was wising up; she was no longer getting her way, how could she, she was in prison, and money did not buy her way out, for her husband did not purchase the best lawyer in town: matter of fact, he left town during the trial. Juliet, infuriated, thought she had hid it from the world, all her insecurities, her secrets, and here besides God himself, another man could see her soul, her real character, it was all too much. Yet now in prison, behind bars, she need not hide her other side, and she screamed, and bellowed, and yelled at the guards; fought with the other prisoners. In time she became madder at God than at Jessie, for God had given him the gift in the first place. And for the rest her short lived life in prison, she was a panther waiting to attack, and one day, went to the bathroom and could not stop the waste that came out of her, she sat for four hours on the toilet, until all her liquids were dispersed out of her, and keeled over dead.
7
The Tale of:
The Feathered Serpent
And Lilly the Lizard
Once upon a time, about 7000-years ago, there was a six feet lizard who wanted to cross the great Strait of Gibraltar, otherwise known as “The Pillars of Hercules,” by the way of a barge; her name was Lilly. Knowing this was very dangerous she hesitated, sitting by this huge rock called Gibraltar, which was known as one of the Pillars of Gibraltar, looking more like a mountain than a pillar or rock though.
The Great Feathered Serpent approached her suggesting he could fly her over the strait to safety. Lilly thought about it, and although she wanted to go badly to see her friends and family in the deserts of Morocco she told herself to wait, hesitate, for she was no dummy, that she had heard about this creature, and he was the “Lord of Death,” and would surely have something bloody in store for her, should she allow him to take her without further thought, yet she couldn’t completely say no, and at the same time, neither could she think about asking him why he was so willing to do this. And so she pondered on his offer as they both sat on a cliff up upon this great rock, looking over the strait to the other side which was Africa, and another huge rock, considered the other portion, or brother to this rock.
For thirty-years he sat on that rock-cliff waiting for Lilly to make a decision, and then abruptly, Lilly asked:
“Why would you like to take me over to the other side? Is there something in it for you?”
Said the Feathered Serpent, “I’m glad you asked that question, it is because if I do one good deed in my life, I will save my soul from eternal domination in the “Fires of the Dead Flies. “
Lilly thought about what he said for a moment, saying,
“Why didn’t you tell me these 30-years ago?”
“Because,” replied the Feathered Serpent, “If I would have, it would not have been a service from my heart, that is, unconditional, it would have been based on you knowing I was getting something out of it, and that brother does not work with the King of Birds.”
Said Lilly [happy as a peacock with its wings spread], “Let’s go then, what yaw waiting for, too much time wasted already.”
Well, knowing this, Lilly trusted the Feathered Serpent now, that is, knowing he was getting something out of the deal. Yet, at this point of time, the Feathered Serpent did not really want to take her across anymore, but figured he would even though he had lost his chance for salvation, for he had agreed not to mention his reward, and did of course—. Fine, he agreed he would, but added that he was much older now and he might not make it should there be a lot of turbulence and shifting of huge waves in the strait. Adding, his body was heavy and older now; so he explained this to Lilly, adding, he would have to fly low because his body was too aged to gain any worthwhile altitude, and the loss of strength after 30-years of waiting. He continued to try and explain to Lilly [as she seemed quite bored] that one needs strong wings to maintain the air balance within the currents of the strait, for at times wild waves, and contextual winds can bring the best of a flying bird to his death—moreover, not gaining or maintaining the proper heights for flying could be disastrous.
[Appalled at his whimpering she said] “Stop your belly-aching and take me.”
“Oh,” he moaned, “…the problems of getting older are frightening at times.” He tried to persuade her not to go; yet Lilly would have nothing to do with it.
And so without any more a due, Lilly jumped on the Serpent’s back and insisted he start flying across the strait immediately [rushing him before he had second thoughts again].
As he could not fly high some of the waves were starting to hit his wings, and the winds were shifting his body up and down, making him dizzy, but he fought the currents of winds and put all the strength he could into his flying, as Lilly sat back enjoying the rocky ride.
They were now halfway across the passage, and the Feathered Serpent looked in back of him, he knew now he was at a point of no return, and should he try to return, would make no sense, yet going continuing was becoming alarming, for the winds and the waves were worsening. Intuition told him, it could not be made unless the weather lightened up. Now in thought, as he coasted just above the waters of the strait, he told himself, out loud, ‘I should have listened to my better judgment, if so I’d not be in this predicament.’ The mumble was overheard by Lilly, who paid little head to his dismay. At this juncture, he had but an ounce of strength left and each flap of his winds were weighed down with the heavy water being slapped upon them by the shifting waves. He knew he could drop the lizard into the sea by making a sharp turn, thus, saving himself, but after 30-years he got to like the lizard, and so he pushed on, forward, dismissing that thought as foolishness. He calculated he could continue to fly with that little strength he had left, for a short while longer, and both then would drop to their deaths, and so be it, he told himself, at least he had company, and friendship for a period of time, and a last ride across the mighty strait, even though it was not a comfortable one.
The lizard was thinking about his friends and family she had not seen for 40-years, while the Feathered Serpent drastically tried to keep his balance and height in flying. How happy they would be at his sight, thought the daydreaming lizard, resting on the back of the Feathered Serpent. “Yes,” she thought, ‘…they will see me so fresh, refined, and polished, after all these years.’ For a lizard, she was not old; they live much longer than the life expectancy of the birds of the air. She told herself, how she would tell them all—all the great stories she had in her head, if only this flying-serpent could make the flight. Plus, she assured herself, he was bluffing; he was just trying to get revenge because she didn’t accept his offer sooner.
The Angel
Then all of a sudden an angelic-creature appeared and told them to turn back, that the winds and the high waves of water were even worse ahead; that there was a rock they could rest on about a mile behind them, that he could possible glide his way back with the currents of the wind. But the lizard insisted on going ahead, and threatened to jump into the water if the Serpent turned about, saying,
“You will not get your good deed if I jump into the water.” Not realizing the good deed was not part of the dynamics anymore, for the Serpent had told the secret, and was not given blessings on that. In consequence, the Serpent was no longer worried about the good deed, rather his friend’s life was his concern, realizing the angelic being was being kind, the Serpent excused himself to the being, and continued to fly straight into the vortex of shifting winds.
The Feathered Serpent got several sharp pushes of air in his face, whereupon he lost his breath, as his wings started folding, and as he coughed, trying to empty out the water from his lungs, trying to get his breath back, he lost height in his sailing across the water, and in a matter of seconds, ended up diving like a fallen pillar 25 feet down into the waters of the strait, --at the same time the lizard fell off his back into the turbulent waters as they both shifted with the waves, limbs and wings dangling above the water’s surface.
Then out of the clouds came the angelic-creature, grabbing the Feathered Serpent by the wings and saving him from a watery grave. And with a whisper to the Serpent’s ears, the angelic creature said,
“You are saved, not for your deed, but for your intent, for we are judged for what we do and leave behind for history to record in its feathery book of foot prints.” And with some kind of magical wind, the Serpent went ascending up into the heavens.
The Angelic Creature
Lilly’s head was bobbing up and down, emerging from the sea, resembling a turtle, or whale, as if spying on who were above the waters. She was not able, or capable of doing much else. There she rest, lost in its waters, with only the bobbing against her body, and the shifting waves in the sea, to amuse her. Her eyes looking up at the Angelic Creature, hoping she would be saved also, that the creature would save her. But the Angelic Creature simply didn’t; a paused and silence took place, as the Angelic Creature looked down on her, and then said,
“I shall make you the same deal that I made with the Serpent, should you find a friend or foe, and do a good deed, unconditional, I will bring you to the heavens. Should you not you will remain in these waters for eternity.” Spitting water out of her mouth, she agreed, and that was the last time she was ever heard of.
Note: This story was originally published by the author’s book; “Everyday’s an Adventure, 2002; revised 2003 and republished again in this book. This is considered by the author’s wife to be her special little story; for some odd reason, the author can’t figure it out.
Dracula’s Ghost
]
Preface: For intent and/or purposes, it might be fair to say, Mr. Bram Stoker, the creator of “Dracula”, whom died in l912, and created this story of horror in the late l890’s, possible had in mind with all its fascinations, to leave behind tales to be told, or for other writers to completed the chronicle he started, to fill in the holes left behind. But in this story, it is the holes he may not have guessed at, the ones created for the future, the 21st Century, which affects, in this story, a man to no end.
The spirit that lingered from this person’s cradle to his grave, is none other than Dracula’s spirit; his name being, Vlad Bran; --for him, Dracula is more than a ghost that lingers out, and throughout the atmospheric countryside for those who are looking for superstition to take over. At length, it is his demise, a life—horrifically lived because of Mr. Stoker’s creation. This is the story about one man’s struggle with the Ghost of Dracula. It starts right where it should start, right where Dracula, the real Dracula was born.
∑
Instead of an introduction, which this story really does not need, let me just update the reader to the far past of this tragedy [of whom many have called simply a misfortune], which leads up to the present [2002], that is my present, when I went to Wales and met this man prior to his death. Yes, I do say, prior to it, for his death was a weigh lifted from the world, thereafter. Before he died though I got to explained to him his twisted past, where light was blown out of his unforgiving brain and he was brought to despair; and he got to explain to me his out of shape present, along with the gulf between him and the vampire. This monstrous thing, and soul reduced creature through dread, strength and protest, brought terror to a city.
As I explained, I told him he was the residue from some demonic genetic pool [a collection], that existed around 11,500 BC, better known as the Watchers, or Angelic Renegades; good angels turned bad, of which God sent to watch over the earth, but whom took it upon themselves to commit the unpardonable sin, in angelic form, by cohabitating with human females; thus, producing a gene pool we have not been able to rid ourselves of to this very writing, a pool that produced several different species of living creatures, mostly called demons, hybrids. This gene pool as I explained to Vlad infected him, being the 7th son of a family in Romania. In that area of the world, it has infected many in the past in a like manner. But this is the story of just one it infected, my friend Vlad. Again, the story of Vlad Bran, otherwise know as Vlad Hoof starts back in 1969.
He had a small tail at the end of his spine, and a hoof for a foot, when he was born. He was to be what no one wanted to be--‘draco’, meaning dragon. But to his family he would be nothing less than a freak of nature, a vampire by folklore.
His family named him Vlad Hoof, although their name was Bran. He was born in the region called Transylvania, in Romania, in a city called Bransav.
At an early age Vlad read and heard Bran Stoker’s Vampire stories, although to be quite honest, the book was never seen or translated to Vlad’s home country language until 1990. That is when he became even angrier with his ugly looking body. Yet he covered his tail with pants, and no one was the wiser, for he neither dated female nor male. And his hoof foot, he put on an oversize shoe, and walked with a cane to maintain balance.
He was 21-years old when he first read the book Dracula, and its myth. He seemed to fit the nature of this creature, that is, everything but the blood craving, which the creature liked of his victims. He laughed at it. But he understood everyone’s fears. Was he the vampire Mr. Stoker’s book said he should be, proclaimed him to be? No, he wasn’t though a little odd maybe, but not the vampire. To Vlad Bran this was very unfair. Matter-of-fact, if he was alive, he’d have liked to kill him, slowly, very slowly for defaming his life. For making the world think he was a freak. The word ‘Kill!’ went through his mind like water down a dam, like water that busted open a dam.
All in all, Vlad was a silent kind of lad, that is, he kept to himself. He liked to drink when he could, --some folks would say, associated to a good Welsh trait or Celtic at best. But silence is not what was going on inside of him. He wanted to break out, not hide, break out and create a storm, a typhoon. He had something to say, to scream, to announce. As I suppose, like anyone with a long line of ongoing pain, and hurting; --yes, oh yes, he wanted the pain to stop, or at least, revenge for this misfortune. “Why me,” he said standing in the middle of the street by his house. But he didn’t ever get an answer, and today would be no different. But today would be unlike any other, in a new kind of way. He had in his hand a small suite case, and $2,000 in his pocket. His father had given it to him when he was 15-years old. Told him to take it when he decided to leave home, and never come back. And today was that day. And he knew where he was going. To the train station to get a train at dock #4, 13:50 PM for Cardiff, Wales, where he would become a manager of a hotel-restaurant, he was unsure, but it was either a three or four star. He was already given the job, yet how long they’d let him work there was another question that rested deep within his conscious, surely he thought, after they’d meet him, things could rapidly change, change for the worse that is. Nonetheless, it was a beginning; a new beginning is exactly what he needed. And so at 13:10 PM, Vlad sat at the station waiting for the train.
Cardiff, Wales
Upon his arrival in Cardiff, he established himself at an apartment overlooking the new Millennium Stadium along the city’s river [the Taff], and not too far from the Cardiff brewery. And within the following first few days, he secured his job down at the Hotel, one of the local hotels by the Cardiff Castle.
After working there a few days he discovered to his amazement, the employees and employer did not make fun of him publicly because of his leg, but rather gave him sympathy. And in addition, he soon found out he was well liked by his peers as well as his subordinates. But none-the-less, it didn’t heal the long scars he had within his belly, and throughout his hot-blood running veins.
As several months passed, he established himself as a serious and mindful manager in the food department, the headwaiter, with several under him. Plus he would attend weekly meetings concerning improvements, in which he gave good advice; never showing his discontent for the world outside his mind, his damaged soul. Yet, it was justice he yearned for, for an undeserved, unwarranted life he had to endure. When he walked by city hall, he spit out at it. When he walked by the National Museum he stopped and would always wondered if there were any misunderstood freaks of nature like him in there. He liked walking the riverfront and watching the alcoholics as they’d get drunk sit on the benches, overlooking the Millennium Stadium, a wasted life, yet they were more fortunate than him he’d conclude. He felt if anyone, any person, anybody, someone, knew what he was thinking—which was killing--, if they really could read his mind, if they were half sober, they would realize he could and would carry it out, and henceforth, by and by his secret would be nullified. And just what he was thinking was revenge, retribution, and payback. Yes, payback on the world. Someone, --anyone would do. But he was not a vampire like people thought him as. He was just misunderstood. He didn’t need blood to cure him, to sustain him, only blood to wipe the dirt they threw on him away, off, and off for good, it was an invisible stain that penetrated deep, one that he did not make, nor one that he did not capitalize on, it was Stoker, and his monster Dracula. And so, as spring came, he drew up his plan, his payback plan, going over it a hundred times a day to insure all would go well.
The Secret Plan
From this one day, this day on, he made a pledge to himself; he would carry out his revenge plan, his payback plan: --he called it, his “Blood Plan.” Now that it had all been thought out, written down, he commented to the passers by who could not see nor hear him as he stood peering down from his apartment window, “Who will it be –you? Oooor you! Orrr maybe you [?]” He smugly hissed, pointing his finger at them as they waked by unaware.
His first victim was selected while visiting a local café and coffeehouse. One he had never visited before. He had found the staff to be very friendly, and so he sat towards the back unnoticed, smiled lightly when looked at, and drank his coffee as one would expect, and ate his doughnut.
He overheard two women talking, but a short distance from him, both around 30-years old; it was 7:26 PM. They talked about cheating on their husbands, they both implied their husbands were [and so he gathered] some sort of computer troubleshooters, whom were on the road, and presently on a train going to London to fix some problems for their company; --evidently both husbands working for the same company, and both women knowing each other because of this fact. One of the women was tall, about six-feet the other, about five-foot, four inches. Vlad, figured he could handle either one, but the shorter one would be easier of course, plus she was the one bragging, for the most part that is, doing the most talking, ‘full of you crap.’ In length she talked about how fine her ass was and how it could attract any man’s eyes, once she caught them, that is. And then, it was simply a matter of when and where they would get it on. The taller one blushed and told her how about them two getting it on. The smaller one didn’t go for that, she preferred men to women she inferred; nor was she ‘bisexual’ she sternly commented.
It was about 8:17 PM when the taller one got up and left, Vlad just glanced from the side of his eye, his peripheral vision caught every movement, which was normal for him, a survival technique learned long ago, for often his father would slap him in the back of the head out of spite as he walked by his freaky son, and Vlad would use this skill to duck, avoid the physical abuse, contact; --another ten minutes went by, the small one now got up catching Vlad’s eyes. And yes, showed that ass. He smiled, and so did she, teasing him bit; she picked up her purse and went out to her car. Vlad followed behind, with a tranquil-silence. She didn’t turn around, and therefore she didn’t see Vlad’s leg being pulled along like a dead-log, rapidly being pushed down the river, --his eyes were getting bigger and bigger, wider and wider, as he pulled his leg along, trying to lift it a slight, as not to alert her of the dragging sound, --his mouth slurping with discharge as a wolf would creeping behind his prey in preparation for attack, and his upper lip wanting to swear at the bitch before him to get his inner animosity out, yet he held his countenance firm in place, every thing he held back in a perfect balance, knowing his plan called for it; for if she yelled it could disrupt his arrangement, and he had worked diligently to have it ready for this moment, this very instant. Wanting to tell her how cruel she was had to be packaged tight within his chest, so it would not escape, he would get his vengeance soon, so very soon, within seconds he told himself; yes, o yes, she was unfair to her husband, this also bothered him, and confirmed to him he was picking the right prey: --and in less than 10-seconds he’d show her, just a matter of seconds. It was only fair, justice if anything, justice catching up to where it should have been long ago; --everything had a price Vlad told himself, and this was her price, her fee to play you have to pay, he convinced himself; for this reason, he would set the husband free of this unholy-bondage; matter of fact, he should be thankful to him. And he had the guts to do, he assured himself, the stomach for this atrocity about to take place, he had it, he cherished it, had no misgivings, none what so ever: --and as he told himself before, he reminded himself again, the number one asset in this situation is having guts, mettle and iron nerves.
He walked behind her as she went searching for her keys in her small purse, turning around, hearing that dragging noise of his leg, as she made a 45-degree turn of her neck, Vlad pulled out his 16-inch knife strapped to his leg, and with one sweep, a slash, going the same way of the cool-wind, decapitated her within a millisecond, --her body still standing, her head now under the car, and her blood spurting, profusely shooting, all about. Then like a tower crashing to the ground, after a demolition group had set charges, her body fell onto the asphalt street, lying desecrated for the entire underworld to see. Vlad jumped back, as if a curse was on the knife, then without hesitation, cleaned it with a white scarf, as if it would tarnish the blade, and attached it back onto the outer wooden part of his leg, and started to walk home.
As he walked along the riverfront, there was that drunk again, the blond, the one he had seen number of times, that is, more so than the others who gathered in the river walk park area, and mumbling to himself.
He stopped by him, looked, then the drunk said, “What the fuck you want mister?” Vlad started back walking, said nothing out loud, his heart pounding, whispering a curse to be. His facial expressions: cool, dim yet highlighted with applause, as if he had touched euphoria’s face; then when he was a distance away from his massacre, he shouted, “Number one, number one, I like the blood. I got number one;” having said that, he then dashed to his apartment building.
Number Two
Two weeks had passed by since the murder, the first murder that is, in the interim Vlad, on a daily bases, would simply pick up the local newspaper after work, read it while walking down Castle Street, and marvel at how easy it was to murder, once you had a halfway decent plan. It didn’t take a lot of money he thought, to kill, just guts, lots of guts and a fire inside of you, one that even Greece or Romans could not put out. And he had that fire, and felt better after the kill. He felt relief; justice had taken its course, righteousness had prevailed. It was his justice though, but who cares, it was fair. That is, fair to him. She had everything he had nothing. No one ever laughed at her, he told himself; for the swiftness of heaven did not come to his rescue, or the kings of the world, or even his parents. He told himself, he comes to make injustice right—to push back the shadow of incompetence. He knew within his heart he had a sea of phantoms, ghosts from his past, and he needed to remind the world it was not just made for the beautiful. He even looked at the possibility of what the papers said, that being, she [the victim] did the murderer no harm, ‘so…what was the motive?’ Cried the paper. “Motive,” he asked himself, “What are they talking about, motive,” adding, “Who needs a motive?” And so he remained with his scored view. But so what, he thought. It wasn’t done because she was innocent anyway. It was done because he was harmed. That was his justification. Not innocence. If that was the case no one was truly innocent. He just happened to find a person who could trigger his internal-fire, and help out with his motivated plan.
‘I want a clergy for number two,’ he told himself as he stood silently-still at work, staring out the big window in the restaurant onto the street, then it came to his mind again, during his walk home after work that evening; --it was 6:30 PM, as he passed a park with ancient looking stones in the center of it, he was taking the long route, down by the museum, on his walk home, at length he pondered on how he liked this city, and its architecture, culture, history. But all the facts and figures in the world—he told himself—would not stop this second killing. He couldn’t get even with God, but he could with one of his believers, he told himself. And it was God’s fault he was like this anyhow, he reflected. He could have made him different at birth, he told himself. Maybe make him the 6th son, not the 7th. Why him? Why not one of the families who lived down the street from his family? Why couldn’t one of their children be born with a tail at least? God was nothing but an unfair big shot, he told himself: --one that nobody could hurt, but if hurting was possible, I mean really possible, it must be through his clergy, he told himself.
He mumbled to himself:
[In the plainest of words he commented] “I hate those Jews, God’s chosen, God’s beloved. And I hate those Christians, howsoever; they think they are the only ones that will go to heaven. Yes, yes, and I hate those indigent Muslims, those radical freaks.” As he knew, he really hated the world, and hidden under the surface, someplace, --the stirring of these roots never suffered for nourishment.
As he continued to walk he was trying to program himself to murder whatever clergy he found first, for he hated them all equally; to him all were simply creatures that walked with an empty soul, --heads slanted back with arrogance, as if they had a special, ticket to heaven, image of God no one else had, some secret insight. Thus, he proclaimed, the rift of hell was going to land on one of these lofty creatures, “…and let’s see if the Cosmic Council of God protects him,’ he commented to himself.
And there he stood at the Cardiff Central Station. Nearby he approached a preacher, saying [with a pale low voice], “Sir I have a severe problem, it has to do with knowing who the slayer is of that woman who was in the paper a few weeks back. I need your advice, I really, really do, but I fear for my life, should I tell the authorities.”
The preacher looked into his eyes [as they were deep and small and pushed together]; --then he looked at the ticket the stranger held in his trembling hand, and then around the train station, “How about a police officer, son,” he told Vlad, noticing there was one available. “Possibly, but I still need your advice,” replied Vlad. Then Vlad asked if they could talk somewhere quite, so no one would overhear them, possible over by the loading dock, an area not far from them. And they proceeded to walk. At this point, they both could be seen by the public, until they got to the other side by the loading area; ‘here’ thought Vlad, with only a shadow blocking half their view, but this was he best he could find in the whole station, it would have to do—at any rate, the preacher seemed to feel safe enough here, and so Vlad consecrated this spot for his unholy act.
As the clergy gazed, and scanned the station, he could see a police officer over by platform #4 not all that far away, and this man who walked with a bad leg was surely not harmful, at least not in the open, he concluded. Vlad asked if they could pray together. And the preacher said ‘sure,’ with hopeful and joyful eyes.
As the preacher shut his eyes lowering his head downward, he started to pray; then Vlad pulled out of his pocket a wooden spike, and carefully aimed it, and forcefully drove it through the preacher’s backbone like lightening hitting a tree, the preacher fell to his knees.
As he was about to scream with pain, Vlad shoved his glove into the preacher’s mouth; terror and agony took over his composure, something he fought off, yet he innately begged to get his revenge first, to witness if he could, a dying breath from his victim. To him it was all academic, --and consequently, being the underdog all his life, death was no worse for him than living a life he had already lived; --he conjured in his mind, it was no worse than being poor, or starved to death, or scorned endlessly, day after day, hour after hour, his whole life; as a result, trying to hide here and there. In his village he could not find any satisfactory distraction from his pain. He concluded it only bothered those who had a ‘melting pot’, for a future; and this was Vlad’s destiny, or so he felt.
The policeman now was looking at them both, but did nothing, as Vlad got on his knees as to pretence as if to pray. Then with a solid push, the preacher fell over the ledge of the dock [some four feet down], falling to the dark unused train-tracks that lay below, where cargo sat. Vlad knew he had missed all the preacher’s vital nerves, for it was planned that way, he wanted the preacher to suffer for several hours before death took him. As one might figure, Vlad was a stranger to his cursed nervous system and vengeful disposition; he only knew it was hardened by time. At large, he showed little emotion as he watched the preacher trying to get up from his position, crooked position, ----wrapped around a few cargo boxes, lying over a railroad track, and face in the dirt, back exposed to Vlad’s eyes; Vlad had tied his hands behind his back, and his legs together. Then backing away from the platform, into the light, he noticed the police officer was gone. No one really noticed, he assured himself; then one last glance at the preacher, and Vlad was off to his apartment, mumbling out loud, “Number three, number three, number three-e, now I got to get number three-e-e”
Number Three
When Vlad got home that evening he told himself the third victim would be a tourist. They got lots of money to throw away, he superficially convinced himself, in lack of a better reason. Plus they used to come to Transylvania looking for Dracula, when it was simply a myth. They wanted blood. Dracula was nothing but a Romanian ruler of the 15th Century who ruled by force. Matter-of-fact, he was well liked by many. And then comes along this writer, this Stoker guy, yes, who comes along and distorts everything, everything and everybody, and gives him a bad name. He had told himself a hundred times if not a thousand, they look for a ghost, nothing more, nothing less, and that is what they will find, a ghost, that never was. Matter of fact, he mumbled to himself: Mr. Stoker was not even from Romania, yet he writes about a monster that never was from his country. And the tourists come looking for bits and pieces of this fictitious monster, in particular to put the Stoker’s vampire into a little frame, to tell their family and friends back home, they went to the ‘vampire land’; oh yes, trying to put in a box the world of Stoker’s Dracula and carry it home; --they’d, the tourist that is, would look in your eyes, ask questions, personal questions on everybody, things, personal things they had no business to know. “Yes, oh yes,” he would murmur, mumble, complain: “… it brings in a few, just a few, and only a few, and only a few dollars into the economy, but it brings also madness,” and this madness had been thrown upon him. They do not even ask about the true Dracula, Vlad would question this [the once well liked hideous and vengeful king who ruled this land hundreds of years ago]; how misled people can be, he told himself. But he would iron this myth out, once and for all, for all times sake, he told himself. So saying, “If they want to see a real vampire in action, a real live vampire, I mean one with blood, hot blood… [Then he’d stop, pause], I am the one, the action man to see.” And because of all this hostility swept upon him for so many years, he came to expect recurring nightmares, and got them. The torment was not the nightmares though, not in particular; that is, not as much as the expectations of them.
Vlad waited for another month to pass before he implemented his new plan, then after work on the 32nd day after the previous murder, after work at 6:35 PM, he went up to the hotel room #304. He knew the lady had been there only two days and that she knew no one in particular, she was alone. She was just vacationing from America, and came to Cardiff from London, bored with the city she had been to several times before, or so she had told Vlad on one occasion during brunch. She was in her early 40’s, a divorced woman; this was his new selection, he told himself, his new number #3, third-victim to be. He was very seldom questioned—at this point of his working career—by the other co-workers, or staff at the hotel, on his movements throughout the hotel; thus, by and by, he had formed what one might call ‘quiet friendships’ among his comrades at work. He even borrowed out, and accepted books from his colleagues in the hopes of building an unquestionable solidarity amongst them. This actually was quite hard for him, being he was ill at ease with them. On the other hand, his solitary life produced many odd voices in his head and insomnia, voices and faces and nightmares; too many voices to where at times they were indistinguishable. And so at times even being ill at ease, the company could be a good distraction, but in the long run it was never adequate.
As he knocked at her door, she asked, “…Who is there?”
“The Captain of the waiters,” Vlad replied, adding, “You left your scarf in the dinning room.”
The voice behind the door said, “Dinning room, dinning room, of course.”
Vlad had stolen it, while she was in the bathroom, for this very occasion. As she opened up the door, she took the scarf from Vlad’s hand, putting a smile on her face with a big “thank you.” Then like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, he hit her in the left side of her jaw, knocking her out, and to the floor she dropped like a sack of potatoes; thus, he quickly entered her room, closing the door behind him. Finding she was dressed would make things smoother, quicker, --he took out a small bottle of whisky, poured it down her throat, as she spit some up and out, and swallowed the rest of the pint, gagging a bit, she quickly came to her senses. By the time she was fully awake, she was fully drunk, commenting, “You can rape me, I won’t resist, or scream, but please do not hurt me, get it over with.”
“My dear, let’s go to the river walk, and there I want to rape you, and there get it over with, and I shall set you free, yes, free, free, free.” She nodded her head, not wanting to cause any problems, not provoking him, or for the most part, cause him any troubles, to where he would not have pity on her; yet had she known, he had already made up his mind, surely such thinking would have been, thrown away, yet womanlike, she kept to this philosophy, thinking she was a small woman of about five-feet, and if worse came to worse what could she do, therefore it was better to go along with the situation, plus, if this was all he wanted of her, life was more important, therefore let him have it. But this was only her deduction of the situation, not his.
And so he took her down the back steps, arms around her small shoulder, she stumbling a bit, his leg dragging, thumping down each and every step as if a drum were being banged on, then out the back door they went, his solid shoulders, and chest and upper arms taking most of her weight. Walking slowly but steadily down the sidewalk, he continued the threatening, that he could kill her with the knife he had in his pocket, which he did have, if she tried to scream or run at any moment.
And so by and by, they walked the several blocks to the destination point, and ended up standing silently in front of a double-gated fence; with peculiar surrounds. The first thing that came to her mind was a ‘junkyard,’ of sorts. Vlad told her to be quiet, still, if reconciliation was to be her desire, and of which he assured her would be met with equal desire on his behalf; --insofar as, not to wake up anyone [or thing] so he could proceed with his rape. And so they snuck in through a narrow opening between the two gates, finding themselves behind a building. He told her a second time not to make a sound. Her life depended on it –as to not wake up the owner; but there were other reasons for the silence-unspoken reasons at this point. And there on the ground, he pulled his pants down, and her dress up, and jumped between her legs. That is what she expected, and it would be his first time having sex. As she felt him entering her, she put her hand behind him, feeling his tail accidentally, and started to pull on it, no quite knowing what it was. He stopped quickly—his eyes opened as wide as golf balls, and with a low rustic, revengeful snobbish voice, said: “And so you have discovered my tail, bitch?” She looked shocked [tail], and then out of nowhere started screaming [thinking she was with the devil himself]. Vlad jumped up ran out to the gate, could not push himself quick enough through the opening, so he climbing over it then stood quietly looking through the fence as her shadow stood up. And behind her three dogs were walking slowly, creeping slowly, intensely toward her, he could see them, but she could not—they were focused on her, and her alone. She turned hearing the dog’s nostrils breathing in oxygen, and the sound of the dogs’ growl a horrific sound which echoed throughout her bones, as she froze in stance, the hot breath of the dogs you could see and almost smell, it was coming out of their mouths as well as their nostrils now, --as she blinked her eyes and took in a breath of air, as if to say something, the dogs were on top of her like vampires, chewing her flesh, ripping at her throat.
The papers read the next day, “Woman mulled by dogs, while being raped.”
Number Four
It was not over yet. Vlad wanted 7-dead, for his seven deadly sins, and for his curse of being the seventh son. And his next victim was to be an old man, one in his 70’s. He lived in his apartment building. He bragged, and bragged and was envious of everyone; he was intolerable, sighed Vlad often when he came home to his quiet apartment, intolerable, yes how he failed to see it before was beyond him, but he was a nuisance to mankind; intolerable was not even a strong enough word, rather, the old man could be impossible to talk with. Never had a smile, and when asked a question, he’d turn his back and walk away: --rude and without a solution. He made lies up about everyone, told them about their sins, but never about his. He’d gossip to the Landlord, trying to create a scandal, not sure why, Vlad would conclude, possible for attention; if you had your music up too loud, or if you had unusually guest not belonging to the apartment building living there free; yes, oh yes, you’d think he was the Caretaker, but he wasn’t, he was just a noisy, selfish, busybody. He would be the one to be sacrifice for mankind, the pure one; he called him; the one who did it all, the old man. What more did he need to live for? Just taking up air and space, resources ‘surely,’ he tried to convince himself, life was no more to him than a drop of water in an almost a full bucket.
And so it was two weeks after the last murder, when Vlad went to the old man’s room, knocked on the door, with a pizza in hand, offering it to him, saying, “Sir, I know you have a hard time getting out, and so I thought I’d offer you a pizza out of friendship, you know, trying to be a good neighbor [putting on a smile, and having a hard time keeping it].”
In good spirits, the old man took it. Looked Vlad in the eyes, and shut the door as if it was owed to him. Vlad, stood there for a minute, thought how rude, assuring himself, this was surely the right selection: then went to his apartment waited two hours and went back to the old man’s apartment. Knocked on the door, and he didn’t answer, as Vlad expected for he had put sleeping chemicals all over the pizza. Vlad quickly took out a master key of sorts, he had made out of a nail by carving the end of it to a funny looking ‘t’-shape type, and open the door; put the old man’s arm around his shoulder and walked him slowly but carrying him mostly down to the Cardiff Castle [the Keep], several blocks away. There he opened the heavy gates again with that key he had made months ago, and snuck through into the grounds to the Keep the castle part on top of a small hill. He had to walk up some 30-steps after going through another set of iron gates, and there it was, as if it were tower cliffs looking down on you, the mighty fortress made of brick and towering stones, solid as if giants had placed each brick into it place; then after reaching the top step, the castle door ahead of them, to the left of him was an old well, with water still in it. He took the iron platform off it, and with a powerful thrust, threw the old man in it. As he hit the bottom, he awoke screaming in his watery coffin, but no one could hear, that is, no one but Vlad, and then with his piercing eyes, he looked down into the darkness of the well, heard the splashes and pleas, the crying of the dying; then the thump of the cover went over the well, as if the tomb was now sealed.
It was two weeks later before anyone had discovered the old man dead.
Number Five
And now he told himself, ‘Comes my mercy killing.” One he would do for mankind even though they would not thank him for it. He would kill the young drunk blond; that one that told him “Fuck off,” the very same one that looked at him angry every time he walked the riverbank, as if he was the responsible one for his misery; as if he was the only one with misery. His days were numbered. But again, he told himself, it was for mankind really and truly for the betterment of mankind. He didn’t work, pay taxes, he was simply burden on the economy, society—a nuisance to every good and sober human being.
And so that Sunday, Vlad took his usually walk down by the river, but this time when he walked by the drunk, the blond drunk, he pulled out a big bottle of Scotch Whisky, inasmuch as, he felt, live by the booze, you shall die by the booze, and therefore, what would a drunk like his last meal to be, and he answered himself, “uneventful, and full of booze,” and so he shall have his wish. And none other than Vlad will grant his wish. It was 6:15 PM. There they both sat, both talking as if they were friends for twenty years, drinking, laughing, and joking, as passersby now and then looked their way, but paid little attention, and simply went about their business as if the river would swallow them up. That is to say, most of the onlookers, kept their distance, showed very little—but some—direct eye contact. They both, matter-of-fact, waived at a police car driving by, Vlad saying to the blond drunk not to make any loud noises or scenes that would cause the police or anyone to make a complaint of them, thus, stopping the liquid feast, and a new friends, a new drinking companion.
For a few hours they sat on the bench along side the river, then for an hour or two they leaned over the railing looking into the river. Then back to the bench. It was 3:00 AM. The blond was now passed out, eyes closed, slumped over the bench, hand stretched out on the railing of the bench, snoring like a boar, and at times choking on his tongue, or so it seemed; Vlad then got up, took a shovel he had folded up in a paper bag that looked like another bottle of whisky, walked behind the bench and started digging, digging and digging. The bench seemed to produce some kind of shadow, a cover for bad deeds, to envelop him in, so the eyes of the curious could not see his ghastly deed to be done to his blond drinking companion, as he remained stationary during his rigorous feat, of balancing himself on the edge of the park-bench.
As Vlad dug the hole, with hidden fury, impervious to the world around him, the hole materialized at 4-foot deep, three feet wide, and 6-feet long, it was to be the blond’s burial site, so saying at its eventful completion, ”Well, right enough”.
Then turning his observations upward and over a bit to the right, where the blond was still incapacitated. Double-checking his prescribed dimensions that circled his brain, his ‘blood plan’, it was going on 4:15 AM. He looked at the blond as if to memorize his face, then picking up the drunk, seemingly as dead weight, sucking in his chest for more strength [soundlessly] and clumsy at that, he laid the blond to the edge of the hole, then he tied his legs to his arms binding him like a cow to be branded; after that he put duck-tape over his mouth, rolling him slowly, and gently, and placing him in the dug out grave, saying to him as if it was his benediction: “I should tell you, least it come some other way, that when you open your eyes, sober up, you shall be in hell, let these words circle your subconscious forever and ever, and ever,” and then he buried him alive, again slowly, as if he was cooking a frog alive, that is, by way of turning the fire, the heat up bit by bit, unnoticeable, until the frog is cooked; thus, shovel after shovel covered his body, until he was completed buried, with suffocating dirt. He thought this was no different than his ancestors of 500-years ago, that is what the real Romanians did, not go out sucking blood like Mr. Stoker told the whole, the whole damn world. It is only the modern world that will think this a barbaric thing.
And like nothing happened he walked home chanting, “Six and Seven next…”
◊
This is where I come into the story.
The Visitor
I had met Vlad at the hotel, where my wife and I were having spaghetti, and he introduced himself to us. I had told him I was a writer of short stories and novels, and a poet of sorts, and he seemed quiet interested, in his globed silent manner. I also told him we were up from London for two days, and this was our first trip to the city.
Having said that, he told me he had a very interesting story to tell me, but I would have to see him at his apartment. I told him this was not possible, it would have to be in my room; my wife would most likely be present. Having no choice in the matter, after a spell, he said ok. That very evening he came to my room, and explained to me this story you have just read. Then he said, tomorrow we were invited over to his house for dinner to get the rest of he story. In my mind I said to myself, you mean he is going to kill two more people, and I know about it. No way. I told him I’d have to go to the police. He smiled at me simply saying, “Do what you think is best.” Adding, “I’ll see you at 7:00 PM.” Most assured he seemed of himself, and to be quite frank, I was curious, but not sure at that given moment how interested I was.
Well, Vlad left the apartment, and my wife and I just kind of sat thinking about what to do. I really didn’t want the story, but for some odd reason, wanted the information, or to know the ending, if there was one, or at least where the next two victims came in, except I did not want them to be me and my wife. And I wasn’t sure if I believed him or not, maybe this was all bogus crap. But at this point, my vacation was lost to his will.
The next day was Thursday, and at 5:00 PM, I notified the police of what Vlad had said, or what he had told me; so saying, the authorities then checked to see if he was at work, whereupon the police asked his employer why he was not at work. The police were told, as I stood by listening, he had called in sick at 6:46 PM.
My wife, two police officers and I arrived at his apartment. The police knocked at the door, and no one answered. But the door was not locked, and so the police proceeded to enter, as I followed them in. The apartment was small, and so we did not have to go far to be in the living room, and there on the floor laid Vlad. He had shot himself in the head with a gun, killing himself once, and then as we had opened the door, we heard a “thump” sound, it was a wooden spike with a 10-lb weight behind it that fell from the ceiling chandelier, going through his heart; thus, killing his spirit, so a note said. And so as I stood there absorbing this scene, he got revenge once more, he found his way out of the jungle, the one he was alone in.
[Note: Originally first published in the 2nd part of the book, “Gwyllion, Daughter of the Tiamat,” 2001, a short version [as ‘The Seventh Born Son’]; revised the 1st time for publication in the book, “Death on Demand” 2002; revised 2nd time making it a longer version, 2003, for the book, and its own title, “Dracula’s Ghost”.]
End of the Stories within the Book
An Afterward
In Poetic Form
Death’s Cocoon
I lived in a time
When people died—
Really, really truly died…
In a time when people
Buried their Dead
In their backyards:
Cut off their heads—,
Or flushed them down,
The toilet instead;
--Let them rot
In the woods,
Like old stale bread; --
Forbid the household
To talk about it/them…
Death, death, it was a time
When people pretended it
Didn’t occur, happen; --
Always saying—not yet;
Believing in their immediate,
Subconscious—that they were,
They were no more than a
Dead battery in a Flashlight,
No more light, no more flash; --
Just a dead, dead battery,
Battery acid.
Then in the mist of it all,
They turned on baseball
Or some other sport: --
Read the paper,
Watched a T.V. talk show;
Went to a movie
A thriller, horror, suspense
[All in pretense];
Took a trip—as if, no one died,
So they pretended and lied,
No grieving that way,--
Only tomorrow, another day; --
Now, all the ones that pretended,
They’re all dead, really, really, truly dead
[I wonder what they’re thinking
Now in their heads].
Dlsiluk, 9/03
◊
*Chapter excerpt from the book:
Stay Down, Old Abram
[Through the City and into the Woods]
Remembering Vietnam
I’ve never tried to look back at my Vietnam experience, which many of my comrades at the 545th Ordinance Company were most interested in after a time, that is, after I had been there for a while. I am getting a little ahead of myself, but allow me this for the moment. As I was about to say, not sure why I didn’t talk about Vietnam, other than there really wasn’t much to tell, and I had learned from the past, when you tell nothing they think you got something, and when you tell something they think you are making it. So it boils down to telling them nothing, or what they want to hear. And you just simply get fed up with the crap. For all I care they can get self-educated by going to the library and finding out all they wanted to, such as,
the war lasted 10-years, 3.5 million Americans went to that war, of them 500,000 needed psychiatric treatment, and I was not one; also, it cost somewhere around 500-billion dollars, or better put, 12% of our economy back in those far off days between l964 and l972; I was there in l971 [205,000 troops were there, then]. Most likely their question would had been someplace in that corner, why wasn’t I one who need psychological help. There were more suicides committed by the soldiers—that came back home after the war—than soldiers killed in the whole damn war, and there were some 56,000-Americans that were killed. Funny, now that I think of it, there was only one general ever killed in the war, and eight Full Bird Colonels. And out of 2000-officers that were killed, 600-were by GI’s, the other 1400-have yet to be explained. Not many officers compared to soldiers, I think they were all hiding. That comes out to about one officer for every 28-men killed, or better put, one officer for every two platoon’s wiped out, plus 2-left over. But back then we were low-paid draftees, thinly paid, and thinly trained.
Oh well, Vietnam to me was fun in a way, although the battle environment was less desirable yet still a kind of high, if you know what I mean. Most disturbing was the loud noises, the vibrations, and at times the lack of oxygen about the bombardment area, especially when the dust started flying, and dirt—the earth shook, as it throw-up its guts here and there, believe it or not, it made the heart beat 200-times a minute, a natural high when all the rockets were coming in, within a measure of feet, landing, blowing up, some duds, most were not though. Some of my friends got addicted to that high, addicted to killing, that is.
In a similar manner, the stress that went along with this environment, made me alert, my muscles somehow got stronger instantly, within the battle-mode. Oh yes, oh yes, not quite like the Hulk, but strong. One actually looses the ability to think clear for a moment, some longer than a moment, especially during incoming rockets. You got not to panic, because you got to let yourself think. The quicker the better I’ve seen many a man freeze, I never did, not sure why. I was a natural it seemed; my reflexivity was good. It was like walking the streets of New Orleans, all you see are faces, eyes, necks, backs, and a hot flash can appear in a second, not neon lights. And in Orleans people walk, in Vietnam, they run, run and run for cover, dig holes in the ground like dogs to cover their faces, their sides.
To my understanding there are only about 2% of populations that can kill and not have it affect them, you know, throw up, and get dizzy after the killing, stuff like that. I think I was one of them, possible one. No effect on me, none whatsoever.
If I told my comrades at the 545 this—what, what would they think, I often asked myself that question, and then I answered myself by saying: would this be an attribute, or a postponed consequence?
My alertness and responsiveness was highly developed, not only from Vietnam, but also from my Karate days in San Francisco, before Vietnam --and the constant training. You train a soldier like you would train a dog, over, and over and over, and over until his front-brain and his mid-brain work for you, meaning, your mid-brain is saying ‘don’t kill,’ and your ‘front-brain is saying, ‘kill, save yourself,’ or if you are addicted, your mid-brain is most likely being suppressed. For me it was a matter of environmental conditions to where I’d shift my front and mid brain waves to work for me. In any case, this was all I was going to tell them, should they ask, --that is, should they ask and I feel like talking, and telling. But they never did ask beyond the simple, ‘How was Vietnam,’ and I never went beyond, ‘It was fine,’ and walk away. That actually stopped the asking, so as to leave well enough alone; actually I left them with the mystery, the one they, they really wanted.
◊
About the Author’s Books
Tales of the Tiamat: This is a trilogy, consisting of “The Tiamat, Mother of Demon,” the second book, “Gwyllion, Daughter of the Tiamat,” and the third, “Revenge of the Tiamat”. All three are full of adventures and travels by Sinned, the main character of the three novels, as is the Tiamat involved yet we see many other antagonists along side of her. The series takes you to Malta, Easter Island, ancient England, and Avalon, where the Tor is being built, Asia Minor, where Yort is, Sinned’s home, and a half dozen other places. In addition to the main story of each of these three books, which is being put into one, in the “Tales of the Tiamat,” a fourth book was added, called “The Tiamat and the King,” on which is the “Short book,” added into the series, it is really the conclusion to the trilogy never put into the book. It was, for the most part, written during the same period of time the three were, and revised recently. It will be put into a forth-coming book in the future I hope.
The Chick Evens Sketches: In this trilogy, we have sketches of life that incorporate the late 60’s to the early 70’s; the hippie generation, the new era, the awakening of Aquarius, the peace era, it has been called many things. In his first book, his sketches, take you on a romance of a city and era, the book being called: “Romancing San Francisco” [l968-69], he introduces us to karate’s famous Yamaguchi family, to include Gosei, and his father Gogen “The Cat”; along with the famous Adolph Shuman, the once owner of the line of Lilli Ann cloths, along with other sketches. In the other two books, “A Romance in Augsburg,” and “Where the Birds don’t Sing,” the sketches start where the first book left off, from l969 to l970 and to Vietnam in l971. Here you go to Europe for a Romance with a Jewish German girl, and on to Vietnam where there is a war going on. Mr. Evens will also end up in Sydney, for one week of some great adventures, what the Army called back then R&R; Mr. Siluk spent 11-years in the Army, being a Staff Sergeant when he was discharged, and has lived all three books.
Short Story Collection [s]: this is not a trilogy, rather three books, of which two are similar, that being of Suspense, “Death on Demand,” of which there are seven stories, and “Dracula’s Ghost” having eight; and the third book, being a mixture of short stories, called “Everyday’s an Adventure”.
Spiritual: The Author has some strong religious and spiritual views. Having studied and done graduate work in theology, and missionary work in the mountains of Haiti, and being at an earlier age an Ordained Minister, his two books, “The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon,” being his first book in this genre, talks about experiences of the early eighties, where he had visions concerning end time events that are coming to pass right this very moment. In his second book, “Islam, In Search of Satan’s Rib,” he talks about the ongoing subject of terrorism on America, and the world as a whole, but in a different manner; instead of trying to figure out the mind of the Islamic-Arab, he looks at this god, enmeshed with Islam today.
Addiction: As of this writing [August, 2003], Mr. Siluk is still a licensed Counselor in good standing with the State of Minnesota. He has also held international licenses in Drug’s and Alcohol, and has worked for hospitals and clinics in dual disorder facilities. In his book, “A Path to Sobriety, the Inside Passage,” which is a common sense book on understanding alcoholism and addiction, the book is an ultimate guide to substance abuse, a powerhouse for preventing relapse and curing the disease. The book you are now holding in your hands called “Prevention…” is his follow up book [companion] to his “Path to Sobriety…” on addictions. Which he was not going to release depending on the need for it; but after the death of his mother, who helped him during his early stages of recovery, has chosen to finish it, and now release it. As in everything in life, school, the Army, training etc, you need a book to learn from, and one to practice with. This is the practice book, the hands on book you might call it, “A Path to Relapse Prevention.” He is also, half way done with a book on “Aftercare…” which if published, would be his final book in the Chemical Dependency area, and series.
Travels: Mr. Siluk has travel, or has been traveling I should say for some 37-years out of his 55 ½ years of his life to this date. He has traveled 24 ½ times around the world. And in most of his books you can see, and feel and almost taste this [to be more exact, he has 613,000-air miles, not to include ground miles]. In his book, “Chasing the Sun,” he takes you to a variety of places, by showing you some forty-pictures, --giving you an overall view of his story on how he got started. Each picture has its own caption, and is read for ‘a want to be traveler’, or one who would like to reminisce.
The Beast Books: I wasn’t sure what to call these three next separated books, so I named them, the “The Beast Books”. For in their own way, they all have their own beast. The first book being, “Mantic ore: Day of the Beasts,” which is the author’s favorite of the three, you step into the demonic underworld. A lot of him is in this book it seems. A touch of Vietnam, a touch of his home town, St. Paul, Minnesota, and the invisible shadows that change shapes into animals and human forms; visions upon visions. In the second book, the “The Rape of Angelina of Glastonbury, 1199 AD,” which is also in a revised version, in the book “Death by Demand,” you are involved with a suspenseful story of revenge, and at the end of the book is a nice surprise, another story. And for the third beastly book, “Angelic renegades & Rephaim Giants,” you get just that, no more, no less. It is a book on the ancient dictators of the world, the ones who have cursed God, to have man worship them; for the most part is it sketches, impressions, and glimpses of this world.
Out of Print book: For the curious reader; although they are out of print, the author has a few left in storage. “The Other Door,” was his first book published, in l981, a book on poetry. It is a Volume one, of which he is working on volume two, yes, 22-years in the making. This book is so scarce that only 25-copies are left, at a price you most likely you would not want to pay. Second, is the authors 2nd book, “The Tale of: Willie the Humpback Whale,” which got much attention in the year, l982, although it did not get a Pulitzer Prize, it was an entry, and considered. At present the author is considering a 4th printing, and revised edition. He does have a number of copies available for interested people [a limited number]. And the book “Two Modern Short Stories of Immigrant Life,” that is more of a chapbook that came out in l984 as a trial run. Only 100-copies were ever printed, of which one of the stories were printed in the, “Little Peoples Press,” and then the book was pulled back for personal reasons, and off the market by the author. This very limited book of which there are possible 30-copies left can also be acquired, but again, this overview is more for the inquisitive than for selling these very rare and hard to find books.
Visit my web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com you can also order the books directly by/on: www.amazon.com www.bn.com www.SciFan.com www.netstoreUSA.com along with any of your notable book dealers
Back picture on of the book is of the author and his wife in Northern Peru, about 125-miles from Iquitos; about 118-feet high [above the ground], in the middle of the Amazon, on a canopy.
[And other peculiar stories]
By Dennis L. Siluk
Copyright© Dennis L. Siluk, 2003,
“Dracula’s Guest”
For
Mr. Joseph Dudley, who likes a good suspense
Novel [or story]; and my lovely, encouraging sidekick, and wife, Rosa
٭
Books by D.L. Siluk; check at your local books stores, and at:
www.amazon.com and www.bn.com
Out of Print
The Other Door:
Poetic Exhortations Volume I [l980]
Two Modern Short Stories of Immigrant life [l984]
The Tale of Willie the Humpback Whale [l981]
The Safe Child/the Unsafe Child [l985]
◊
Presently In Print
The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon
Angelic Renegades & Rephaim Giants
Tiamat, Mother of Demon I
Gwyllion, Daughter of the Tiamat II
Revenge of the Tiamat III
Mantic ore: Day of the Beast
Everyday’s an Adventure
[Short Stories]
Chasing the Sun
[Travels of D.L Siluk]
Islam, In Search of Satan’s Rib
The Rape of Angelina of Glastonbury 1099 AD
[The Green Knight]
A Path to Sobriety,
The Inside Passage
Volume One
A Path to Relapse Prevention
The Inside Passage
Volume Two
A Romance in Augsburg
[Volume I of III]
Romancing San Francisco
[Volume II of III]
Where the Birds Don’t Sing
[Volume III of III]
Death on Demand
[Seven Suspenseful Short Stories]
٭
Dracula’s Ghost
[And other peculiar stories]
The Mumbler
[Murder by the Second Self]
The Fruit Cake
[A Romantic Comedy-Tragedy]
Curse of the Viper Family
[The Abyss Worm Virus]
٭
The Mystery of Death
Oh, the mysteries of death, unfolds,
One by one—Until, I am told
Time no longer exist;
Then the soul finds it character—
Reminiscent of battle scares
Left behind of an existence
Now gone, awaiting
Judgment time…
Dlsiluk 7/03
Introduction [About the book]: In “Dracula’s Ghost”, Siluk’s second book of suspenseful short stories captures at least one strenuous element in each story if not more, be it an emotion, adventure or a character, all will torment the reader, if not leaving one spellbound by its expressiveness. In “Shadows in the Wild,” the mysterious shadow of a stranger conjurors up an untapped emotion, ‘the unknown.’ In “Sjorfaa! Sjorfaa!” you become enmeshed in an Arctic adventure. In “Death in the Dust,” you end up at a bullfight, with a character unforgettable. In “The Plane from Iquitos;” an adventure in the Amazon, emotions crawl; and in “The Diamond Caddo Estate,” dreams do come true, but often time’s emotions can dissolve them. In the “Feathered Serpent,” a quest is sought, and in “The Quiet of Quiahuiztlan,” the quiet is short lived. In “Dracula’s Ghost,” you find the legend has more than fictitious elements on the mind of certain a person with a pronounced inherited trait, and is haunted by the Ghost of Dracula, and its creator; a most ghastly unwavering affair.
Overture:
The Turtle’s
Sleeping on Heaven
Said the Geologist, to the King:
Buried under a thousand tones of Gold
Rests a turtle--, and
Under the Turtle,
Resides a thousand pound diamond--, and
Under the Diamond
Sleeps God!
So says the King, to the Geologist:
Leave everything set where it be…
Least we seal our fate, and
Awake—an Earthquake; --
And Release a thousand-year
Regime…
9/29/03 dlsiluk
Index:
1) Shadows in the Wild [*Minnesota]
2) Sjorfaa! Sjorfaa! [*The Arctic]
3) Death in the Dust [*Mexico, City]
4) The Quiet of Quiahuiztlan [*Gulf of Mexico/Veracruz]
Interlude: notes and a poem: “At the Old-folks Farm.”
5) The Plane from Iquitos [*Peru, Amazon area, part one of two]
6) The Diamond Caddo Estate [*San Francisco]
7) The Feathered Serpent [*Strait of Gibraltar]
8) The Seventh Born Son [Dracula’s Ghost]
An Afterward: in Poetic Form, “Death’s Cocoon”
* Chapter excerpt from the book: “Through the City and Into the Woods”,
‘Remembering Vietnam’
Poems throughout the book:
1—Death’s Cocoon
2—At the Old Folks Home
3—The Rainy Place
4—Shadows in the Wild
5—The Traveler
6—The Mystery of Death
7—The Turtle’s Sleeping
on Heaven
*Note: The author has been most all locations he has written stories about.
The Traveler
The world was his city—
So he said, in many of:
Books, statements and alike; --
And was asked:
“Then where else is there to go
Within this city
[Knowing he had seen it all twice]?”
Then he looked up, in reply,
Saying, “More roads are coming,
Just a matter of time!”
Dlsiluk 9/03
≈ ◊ ≈
1
Shadows in the Wild
A Suspense Drama in the Shadows of Minnesota
In the Great Lakes Area
Shadows in the Wild
In fall by a forest,
He stands alone
Against Lake Superior; --
And trees of stone.
At the hour,--Midnight,
[His shadow aglow]: links
Land, Lake an’ road—
He sees his foe…
They
Also see him,
As they drive on by: --
A living force,
They can’t deny….
Dlsiluk
Shadows in the Wild
November, l988
It is the hour before midnight; on this harsh, gray flat asphalt road along side the banks of one of the Great Lakes called Superior, in Minnesota. A truck is racing down this dark and shadowy road; the moon glowing behind a small house appears. The truck swiftly goes on by, passing the small house, the dim lights from the truck, disappear into the hazy night: --the moon’s light is penetrating through the fog also, onto the truck and house, where a man is standing by the road, not on the road, but by it, for the most part, he is more a shadow than a physical being at this point, a shadow in the fog as the truck races by, as time erodes this foggy man, this shadow will become more noticeable [somewhat]; --music is heard coming from the truck, Rock & Roll, as this stranger continues to stand by the road, this man in a red plaid shirt, who stands erect, as if he was Paul Bunion; standing in-between the road and the small house; the house is green as if it grew amongst the trees and woods and alongside its inhabits. Even its roofing is green. It has a window for each side of the house a small brick chimney. The truck races by, only showing the shadows with the moon’s light, it seems to stretch to all three elements, man, truck, and house.
Now, it is an hour past midnight, and the truck is far beyond the small green house, --the soupy sky is blocking more of the light from the moon [that is, what little light there was, is less now] yet still it is bright enough, bright enough for the shadows to look like shadows; to emanate amounts of light as so to seep through the branches of the trees; and to follow the stranger as they could, and at times it light got lost some place, in saying this, I can not, or dare not say more. By and by, it created a supernatural era of spiritedly, on one hand, and lifelessness on the other, making the man figure a little more clear, intermittently, but not too clear, to see his real self, his face in particular [you never see his face clearly, yet you know he is handsome], only his height is quite obvious; -- his broad and thick shoulders are noticeable, his solid stance is terrorizing if not magnetic; as he still stands between the lake, house and road. Yes, oh yes, he is still there, and yet the, the truck is far down the road. He stands as if he knows something ahead of time, as if time was not part of the equation to what deception may be ahead, far ahead.
The music, that once was, is no longer heard, only the sounds from the waves of the Great Lakes are audible now, slapping against the bank, but try as they may to reach the little house, they can not, and continue to slap harder the banks, and harder, as if a storm was on the horizon, or could be. The big man doesn’t turn at the sound of the waves, it doesn’t bother him, or the reflections of the moon through he branches of the trees, nor did he even move a muscle [so it seemed] when the truck first drove by. Now the truck again, the very same one that went by before is going by again, but this time slowly, very slowly, almost to a stop, you can hear the engine, it’s an old engine, it is a l952-Ford truck, green, yes green as the house and the trees, it fits into the environment quite well.
A huge rat runs across the street, grinding his teeth, small eyes, fat body, long tail, in-between the wheels he darts, dodging death by the skin of his soiled feet; the truck goes over a bump, you can hear the thump, it hit the rodent, the ten pound rat, --it squeals, screeches, cries of pain [kee, ahhh caw…], it has no language, it has no real sounds that make any kind of rhythm, just throat sounds that surely their ancestors used a million years ago; there is no message other than pain; someone in the front seat of the truck, passenger side, looks back to see what that annoying sound is, where it is coming from, what did they hit [?] The rat stares at the looker [the passenger in the truck], for a second, just a blink of an eye, the passenger saw the dark eyes of the creature, as if it was hypnotically placed into his memory bank; almost humanistic that is, a reflection of the dark eyes of the beast penetrate the back window of the truck, as if the eyeballs themselves followed them going down the road slowly, slowly, the rat eyeballs that is, --stuck, laminated onto the glass of the truck, that is what it seemed like for the passenger. With pain, the rat hisses, its back is crushed, and he is pulling himself off the road with his front limbs. The Ford-truck was a spotless antique, and clean as a whistle, that is, it was before the rat put his blood on its wheels.
The dark figure, shadow if you will, continues standing, staring by the street onto, and down the highway, he is noticed by the two men in the front seat of the truck, they stare back, but keep going. They are not sure at the moment, why they didn’t stop: --a pretense that they didn’t see the man, yet they did.
[The Stranger] Trees are blowing to his right and left, the waves of the Great Lake Superior, is making a humming sound, still slapping the banks, still trying to suck up out the little house from its foundations, sweep it into the deep of the lake; a pounding sound as the giant waves hit the shores can be heard far up the road into the quiet compartment of the truck; the pandemonium, is as if --you were in the middle of a hurricane [or at least the makings of one].
The stranger stands erect yet, never much moving. He sees the eyes of the passenger in the Ford-truck, a small figure of a man, a man of about forty, he figures [the second time around], the driver calls him Skip, and he hears that. The taller man at the wheel, his arms are solid, and frozen to the wheel, is called Amery, for some reason you know the stranger knows that. He, the stranger in the shadows knows his name.
Skip:
“Yes, yes, I saw him! D’ did you? He was by the trees, or was it in front of the house…? No, by the road; gee, maybe it was both; he seemed to be in both locations at once. A shadow effect I suppose.” [He talks with unsteadiness].
The moon is almost covered now with the fog and darkness of the empty sky, and night has completely taken over the north area of Minnesota. The birds in the trees, and there are only a few, can be heard, most have gone south as there is a little time left to build a home without freezing to death in this pre-winter season, for there is snow here and there. The fall leaves are all about, lying in all directions, with their beautiful fall colors, all over with their many flags-of designs, shapes and gradations. If one was to walk across the road into the woods you would spot a few deer making a bed for the evening within the confines of the woods all around them, within a nest of leaves, as the little green house, and the man shadow stand along side by side in the still of the night.
The rat now is laying on its side across the street as if this dark-gap [period of time] existed just for him to move [position himself] for the truck driver, yet he is dying, and reeking with sounds of pain still; none the less, he is compelled to accomplish some kind of mission, and remains there. You can hear him twisting about in the leaves. A deer in the woods is awaken and runs deeper into the wooded area behind the rat; as if nature was about to have an abruption; birth pains, the deer goes deeper into the woods yet. The few birds that were close by the house, in the wooded area, leave the branches; they also know something is wrong.
Amery:
“You’d think that man, that man, the one by the house back south…” [He doesn’t finish his thinking]. He stutters a bit and is silent as he slows down the truck to ten miles per hour. Amery hands a knife to Skip, who puts it next to his groin area, underneath his left thigh. The truck stops, they both are thinking, --looking at one another, their eyes are not blinking, you can see the hairs of their eyebrows as if the eye is attached to it, the lower lip of the eyelid is almost stuck to the eyebrow from staring, --they’re listening to the waves, for that is the only sound now that is optional, except the humming of the truck motor [which can be barely heard], the waves of the, the Great Lake Superior seem to be upon them [Amery is thinking out loud, talking to himself,
‘I d…d… don’t like it, get me out of here’.
Skip sees the thickness of the woods next to him, as the headlights reflect the fog-lit moon, with all its glaring shadows creeping every-which way. In front of him there are hundreds of frogs crossing the road [gooey and slippery looking], driftwood had reached all the way from the lake up to the road, and, is laying all about also, as if the big lake threw up its insides --it is strange they both think [but say very little, talking seems to stress them out now, or at least for the time being], and thus, they now are thinking more with their body expressions, their faces, eyebrows, the way they look at each other; --they turn their heads sharp as if they sensed Lake Superior was right next to them because of the pounding sounds of the waves which are becoming louder, and louder… but they know the lake is really some two hundred yards to the side of them, or at least that is where it is supposed to be—where it was last time they could see the water, where the road was, yet all this driftwood laying about, and frogs, and some fish, just scattered about like a drunken party took place-- they seem to be fixed on this moment, as if they were on a levee that was ready to sink, in a state of horror.
Amery puts the weight of his head on his hand as if to support it, --not sure of what to do next, and then he puts his hand flat on top of his head: -- as if he is fed up with it all. Skip gives a headshake as if to say no, but says nothing. He turns his head from side to side. Then out of nowhere he puts his hand along side of his face as if to slap it, giving stupid looks!
Skip: “That house--you know, that one we passed by, for some reason I’m interested in that house, as if I don’t have enough mystery in my life—like I got to know something I don’t want to know, --and that man—that shadow of a man, and d’do-oo, you-u-u [stuttering-helplessly] think we should go back and …” he leaves it an open statement-question, instead of a question.
“M-m-m-m,” said Amery [with a query looking face as if to request for clarity], his cunning look, staring eyes, -- staring at the frogs. Adding,
“We can circle around and go back south to the stranger’s house, if that is what you want, if that is what you are thinking about? I like the house idea for some reason; yes I do, but… it just… [He puts his fingers both hands on his forehead simultaneously, one above each eye, and puts pressure on them as if to say, this is crazy], it’s just bothering for some reason, the house, the house, that damn house, that—that man.” [He is kind of feeling at this point, possible this is an unlucky thing to do, as if there might be no escape once done, and so is unclear with his mood. And pauses to answer, or ask.]
‘…Foolish of me to think like that [ill-fated if he goes back]’ he tells himself. Skip does not say a word but with the tips of his finger and thumb in the center of his forehead he pinches himself to see if he is crazy himself, still alive,
“Weird…” he mumbles.
[Back to the House]
Slowly they drive a little further up the road, find an area along the roadside, they can do a U-turn with the truck: --cliffs being on one side and an embankment on the other that leads down to the lake itself, but they’ve found a good spot to do just that. As they make their turn slowly, the driver pushes on the accelerator like a mad man, straightens out the wheels, and the tires start to squeal as he pulls out of the turn, going as fast as the truck will take them down the road pressing on to the stranger’s house.
As they drive Southbound to find the house, innately Amery’s solid arms are becoming tighter, his muscles can be seen gripped and sweating on the drivers wheel, along with the sweat on his brow; his face showing stress, eyebrows are rapidly being raised and lowered as if to say ‘no, no, no’, being annoyed with himself and Skip for turning the truck around [wanting to do it but not sure why]. His whole body is becoming agitated.
Skip:
“You need a drink, Amery? [A pause] …pull yourself together; you look like you’re under some acute anxiety attack.” Pulling a bottle of wine from under his seat, he opens the bottle and takes a good size drink from it, right out of the spout, then hands it to Amery. The tall lean Amery, drinks it down like soda, and then puts his hand through his flattop hairstyle, knocking his hat off his head as he does it.
Along the roadside you can see the shades of dark-green and black shadows sowed up into the grass, and the crossing of shadows along the forwarding black asphalt road, as the Ford-truck glides along.
The truck now becomes more manageable, as Amery takes a second swallow from the wine bottle [staring ahead, out the glass windshield, on the verge of a tear]. Although his body is starting to loosen up --he pulls on his eyelid somewhat, as if he is more alert, or he thinks it will make him more alert, or is trying to be.
Skip:
“See? That was all you needed, a good swig.” Skip has a pair of small framed glasses on, reminiscent of Ben Franklin, --as he speaks he looks over the top of his glasses at Amery. He notices Amery is more settled now [with brows high], and therefore, allows he to lean back more into his seat, lowering his guard, and brow for a moment to rest.
“We should be getting closer to the house, slow the car down,” says Skip.
Amery: “You mean truck.”
Skip: “Whatever, -- but slow it down…!”
He now takes a look about the area, it is not the house, it is the top of trees by the lake; --the shadows are forming the likes of a house. They can scarcely see in front of them; --as he catches his breath, they speed up, continuing forward, down the long curvy asphalt road, with the towering sandy cliffs to their right.
Everything is quiet outside of the truck now, or so it seems, yet some Rock and Roll music can still be heard from within the car, but it is being kept real low as if they want to understand immediately of any changes in the situation, environment, sounds, if need be, when need be [they are both showing impressions on their faces of, ‘why are we going back here; what for?’].
Again they slow down, and then stop, look about, they hear the water slapping the banks of the Great Lake again, but cannot see it. The breeze from the lake is picking up along with a chillness to it, as the window is rolled down they can feel the breeze as it slaps their faces, there is a chill in their breathing, their breath is releasing fog to the fog, so they roll back up the window, a little, just a little. Trees are swaying.
Amery:
“I can’t see a damn thing out there, and it’s getting cold…!”
Skip shakes his head [as if to say, I’ve got to do everything] and opens the door to see where they are at [in particular, if the house is visible], he does not want to pass it up so he looks in both directions, north and south, as he steps out, completely out of the truck; -- stepping down onto the road, he steps on several frogs, “…god…birchen frogs every place!” He jumps back into his truck [utterly disgusted].
“Damn things are all around; I hate swarms of things like that.” Amery simply looks at Skip, not saying a word, a flat affect.
Skip and Amery start to make funny faces as a putrid smell fills their nostrils.
Amery: “What on gods-earth is that stink…?”
Skip: “Not sure, --maybe a skunk, dead frogs, the water smells sometimes; maybe shit, who knows up here, could be a combination … [he hesitates] let’s shut our windows—completely.”
As another mile goes by it starts to get a little fogger looking out the windows, shadows seem to be everywhere. Amery raises his head, he sees the house, and pulls the truck over to the side of the road. The house is across the street, now to their left, or East. The big man, the stranger with the red-plaid-flannel shirt, is standing by the porch of the little green house --just standing there. Skip rolls down the window, gets a bit of fresh air, and notices the frogs are gone.
Skip: “Hay Amery, the damn frogs are gone, gone, gone, yippee!”
Amery: “I just got thinking, what are we doing back here, this is the third time.”
Skip: “What do you mean?” Skip stops to think what Amery said, “Yaw, you’re right, the first one was by necessity, the second by curiosity, and now the third, oh well, maybe by something symbolic, that man, yaw, that man, we need a good fresh mystery in our lives like we need a hole in the head, but we’re here none the less—are we not? I suppose no real reason to this otherwise; --can’t think of one anyway, I actually think this clown moved a little; must have gotten tired standing like a fool.”
Skip looks over Amery’s shoulder out his window, toward the house; he is somewhat leaning on the steering wheel.
Amery: “He’s just standing by the porch.”
Skip: “Yaw, I can see that, let me yell at him: --‘Hay stupid, yaw you, what you doing…! -?”’ Amery looks at Skip as if that might not be the smartest thing to have done.
Skip: “Something on your mind, Amery.”
Amery: “I would like to go, get rid of this cargo, and have breakfast.”
In the back of the truck the sound of a gunny-sack [as if it is full of potatoes] is rolling back and forth…
“Let’s pass this up Skip, I don’t necessary like this.”
Skip: “Morning will not be for a few more hours, we got time to fool around, and then get back to business.”
Very quickly Skip opens the truck door—his heart hammering against his chest—as he steps down from the truck onto the side of the road, the asphalt solid and firm on his feet. There is still a chill in the air, --he coughs, buttons his sweater up a bit, tries to focus his little round eyes, position his little fat neck, adjusts his glasses on his nose.
He is 5’4” inches tall, about 160 pounds, so he is having a hard time seeing over the hood of the truck, he starts to walk to the front of the truck, close by the front tire, hugging the fender a bit with his left leg, so he can feel the truck, he cannot see well in the fog, the dark, and the head lights of the truck are only visible for several ahead, the side of the truck is dark, he leans a bit on the hood. Spying about, he is now trying to see in the forest, he hears something, a squeak, looks down, and there is that rat, that dark-eyed big, full-size very husky rodent is, viciously looking up at him, the size of a medium dog; --the rat is a foot from him, and with what strength the rat has in his crushed and mangled spine, he uses his back feet to dig into the asphalt, and jerks his body forward, and up, as a result, bites through Skip’s pants with his saber-teeth like fangs, taking a good gash out of Skip’s leg. Skip now falls back, then turning a 45-degrees angle, he quickly jumps up on the side of the truck [hand through the window, feet on the floorboard], almost backwards he forces himself to fall through the open door back into the truck; the door swings as he positions himself, then he grabs it in panic locking the door. You can’t make out what he is saying but he is yelling and swearing as he feels his leg touching it, trying to investigate the damage, survey the injury, at the same time blood is bucketing out of his wound, reminiscent of a boxer who just got his nose broken, and split open. He pulls out a scarf from under the back of the seat of the truck, and ties it lightly around his leg whereas a tourniquet is created for the moment. He is fuming, very angry, as he balances his focus toward the man standing in the fog, and thinking about the rodent that has just bitten him; --his face gets rage in it as if it was the stranger’s fault, as everything is the stranger’s fault for the moment: why he is back there, the rat, everything. He tightens his teeth, grinding his teeth as if his jaw is going to crack any moment from the tightness.
Skip:
“I’m bit, the rat, that shit-ass rat…it tried to kill me…I hate rats, I really hate them.” Amery backs the truck up, then goes forward running the rat over, and does it two more times for good measure, to assure his friend the rat is history. But now the truck is stuck in the side of the road, a hole for some odd reason appeared out of nowhere, or so it seemed [the whole evening seems to hold a combination of coincidences they are both starting to figure out, or better put, sense]; --his front right wheel is in mud with a sheet of light ice, he tries for a few minutes to rock the truck out of the mud-hole, but it is not working, it will have to be pushed out, while the other remains in the truck rocking it with the clutch and accelerator—otherwise it will be impossible to get out of the hole.
Amery: “I told you Skip, this was not good, and we should go, go when we had a chance, now look, we can’t go anywhere?”
Skip: “I got to get to a hospital.”
Amery: “What about the cargo?”
Skip: “Get the gun, go in that damn house and kill that sun-of a bitch-en stranger and we can bury the body there, and get a doctor out here”
Amery: “I don’t think it’s going to be that easy.” Amery then pulls a gun out of the glove compartment, a Three Fifty Seven revolver. He checks to see if it is loaded, knowing it should be, and it is. Putting it in his right jacket pocket, he grabs the wine and gives it to Skip to drink. Skip drinks half the bottle down, leaving only one forth left. He is borderline drunk now.
Amery: “I hear another car coming, funny isn’t it; way up here in no man’s land, by the great Lake Superior, did you know that people can see this lake from outer space?” He hesitates, looks at Skip, “Maybe we can go to that lighthouse, you know, the one we saw on the way up here, I’m not sure, but it’s about a hundred, or is it fifty miles from here.” Then he looks around, “Where is that car…must be hearing things also.”
Skip: “It’s too far, why not stay here?”
Amery: “This guy is more creeper than you and I are. That’s why.”
Skip: “Now listen [Amery being with a lack of credulity], we don’t need to be put off by this guy, we just kill him like we’re going to do with the girl … you know, that girl in the gunny-sack in the back of the truck. The one we rape, and rapped, and, and she tried to get away, so we cut her hands off, feet off so she couldn’t, and we rapped her again. She’s most likely dead by now.”
Amery: “I hear a boat whistle [a long pause]… I heard that gunny-sack rolling back and forth before, when the truck was stopped, she’s still alive.”
Skip: “These are The Great Lakes, what do you expect, ships go back and forth all the time. You’ve lived too long in North Dakota. But if we do not get me a shot of something to counter this rat poison, I’m going to die; this fucken rat most likely has rabies, disease, everything under the sun. I don’t want to die like this, not with a rat bite.”
[The Deck]
On the deck of the porch the stranger with the red flannel shirt is standing looking at the truck. Amery and Skip get out of the truck, Skip getting out the same side by Amery, not trusting his side, thinking as he looks back, ‘is that damn rat still alive.’ Amery is holding his gun is his pocket tight, and Skip is limping about six inches to the right of his shoulders. They see the stranger, and he continues to stand there, there remains a chill in the air.
Skip: “That damn fool, he never moves much, I’ll move him with a bullet up his ass.”
As they get closer to the stranger, his sleeves are rolled up, his jacket is off and his tattoos are showing on both his right and left arms, along with several scars. Skip is a little tight, not quite drunk. He has a knife in his pocket; he is fondling it as he is walking. Now they are twenty feet in front of the stranger. The man is about six foot six, two hundred and fifty pounds.
The Stranger: “It’s a horrible death to die with a rat bite,” he comments to Skip, as they stand frozen in the dirt. Adding,
“The booze will not help you. You best get to a hospital, and make peace with your Maker.”
Amery: “Who are you, some damn preacher, or the devil himself?”
The Stranger: “I come for the girl.”
Skip: “What do you mean, you come for the girl, you got it all wrong, we are the ones who came back, yaw, just for you. Or do you think we came all this way just to give you her. And just how do you know we have a girl anyhow? Amery, you got the gun I hope, he knows too much, odd [shaking his head] we’ll have to kill him now.”
The Stranger: “I don’t like waiting too long; the girl will die if you leave her as she is. Let her stay here and you can leave;” Amery looking at Skip now, shaking his head ‘no’.
Amery: “I never liked coming back here. I told you so, and I don’t like this creepy guy…” --Skip looking indigent and nervously moving his knife in his pocket.
Amery now is looking at the stranger out of the side of his eyes, as he checks out Skip’s leg.
Amery: “It doesn’t look good, you’re going to need help soon?”
The Stranger: “I want the girl.”
Skip: “I want the girl too, is that all you can say, ‘I want the girl, I want the girl,’ fuck youuuuuuuu…shoot the crazy bastard, get rid of his big ass, we can bury him here [hesitation] Amery, are you sleeping.”
The water from the Great Lakes start to drift up to their feet, both Amery and Skip look, as it does, ---the waves are sounding louder, and the fog is getting thicker, almost hard to breath. The man now was not as near as he was before to them; he’s farther to the east, toward the water [but he’d have to be in the water if that was so, thought Skip]. As Amery looked back, after checking both the water and Skip’s wound, and Skip putting his eyes back to where the house was [a little to his right], they both were surprised to see the house was no longer there, plus now the stranger was three times farther away [both thinking the house must be by the stranger, but how did it get away, drift away, what’s going on]; both show signs of confusion now [he would have to be farther in the water if this was the case thought Skip].
The Tide
Amery [almost in tears]: “What’ll we do, the house is gone?” But the stranger was now even more to the East than a moment ago, so they both walked another fifty feet [both feeling they were somehow lost in the sky, not knowing up from down, or here from there]. The sounds of the waves got louder, and the light of the moon is starting to open up just a little, reflecting on the waves, showing a portion of all three of the men. Again you can hear the sounds of a boat in the distance—far off; the waves now sounded –this time, as if you were right next to them.
Furthermore, the pain of the rat bite now is starting to annoy Skip to the point of it taking his focus off the situation, draining his strength, and he is profusely sweating. His face is deeply sinking into its bone area; there is also loss of color to his face, almost a pink-white paleness, with reddish spots. As he starts to speak [Skip seems to be ageing quickly with illness] the sounds of the waves drown his voice out, they are so loud he has to hold his hand over his ears, Amery has to hold on to him as the wind picks up and pushes them to and fro. They both look forward, a long glance and a huge wave hits them in the face, drags them like a rat into the water. Matter-of-fact, the wave looks like a rat. They hadn’t realized it but they were actually in the water waiting for the current to come back to them. A wave of some twenty feet high grabbed them, and another pulled them under, --both went under into the deep waters, --from underneath their feet, they never touched land again. The only thing you can hear is the sounds of the waves, with intermittent bug-sounds of: ‘h...e.lgggg...p’, sounds from their voices, no language, no rhythm to it, just ancient throat sounds; the wind carries their echoes to the woods and through the dark shadows of the forest, as the deer and birds started to return back to where they were originally, awhile ago; they seemed [the birds] cheerful upon their return with their, ‘coo-coo’s and caw-caw’s,’ a happy song of returning.
[The next Day]
[Sergeant Thompson Police Department]:
“Good morning, Gloria, funny seeing you way up here so early, what you doing by this truck?” In the front seat is a young girl with her feet and hands cut off, still alive. Gloria points to the front seat of the truck, Thompson looks, eyebrows down,
“What’s up Gloria?”
Gloria [Detective for another police department, out of her jurisdiction.]:
”I wish I knew, in any event, I called the hospital, you will not believe what happened. I found this girl, not sure how to start this, again, I found this girl, she’s in shock in the front seat as you can see, hands and feet cut off [they both look toward the truck they can only see the top of the girl’s head, she has a black hat on]; --looks like she’d been rapped off and on throughout her captivity, --unbelievable. She evidently was with two guys – I, I think two guys, the, the ones from the Twin Cities, you know, the ones that kidnapped a girl a week ago or so, but I can’t find anything of those two guys. Not sure what happened to them. For some odd reason they stopped here, walked over to the lake, some of their cloths are there, I found a gun lying on the beach, a knife, and some cloths. I got them all in plastic bags in my car I’ll give them to you. Crazy as it sounds, I dare not try to put the puzzle together until I talk to the girl, she’s in shock, but ok, I mean, doing as best one can do in such a situation; but I found nothing else. Not sure what made them abandon the truck; it looks like they would have gotten away with the crime had they not come back from wherever they were going. They must have had a reason. The truck is half full of gas, their intentions were surely to continue up…possible to the Boundary Waters, kill the girl, and bury her there. They have some wine under the passenger’s side of the seat. The girl keeps saying something about a house and a stranger, but I couldn’t find the stranger, and you and I know there are no houses within twenty-five miles of here.”
The Sergeant goes and looks at the girl. She’s about fifteen years old, bright red hair creamy white completion, pretty, about 5’2”.
The Sergeant: “What a shame. Not sure if I should even say this, but the waves were pretty high last night, do you think for some dumb reason, they got drunk, walked down to da lake, went swimming, yaw-know, and got pulled out with dhe tide? Yaw knows, dumber things hav happened?”
Gloria, [With an ironical grin, looking at the Sergeant]: “Sergeant, maybe that’s the best we’re going to get, I’ll buy that; unless she can tell us otherwise, if she lives to tell us that is.”
Then as they finish their last words, the ambulance pulls up, takes the young girl out of the front seat of the truck.
The Sergeant: “Funny, the girl smiled when she saw that nice looking big guy bring her to the back of the ambulance [the medic], I wonder why [?] She acted as if she knew him.”
Gloria: “Yaw, one of them angel things, haw! Anyway, he reminds me of Paul Bunion,” [The mighty ax man of the north]. But then, this is his country, right, Paul Bunion country…Sergeant [trying to get his attention].” The Sergeant smiles but tries not to make too much of it, for a serious crime had been committed, yet it seems fate may have caught up with the assailants. The ambulance then pulls away with the young girl, and so does Gloria in her car and the Sergeant in his.
2
The Long Solitary Journey of Tipi and Ursus arctos:
The Great Tibetan Grizzly
Sjorfaa! Sjorfaa!
Œ
Every time I kill a bear I mourn, I don’t’ really count the days, but no more than two, sometimes one, it is not a show of regret, the reason I do this, oh no, I have no regret, or pleasure for the most part, I am a hunter, I eat to survive like all people do. Wait a little, I do have pleasure, for the moment anyway, it is a reward. I’d rather kill a bear than a rabbit, no joy out of such a light kill as a rabbit, only meat, but it tastes good. Nevertheless back to the bear, to survive you must be more powerful than the bear, or wiser. When I kill the bear he has a blue tongue that protrudes between his teeth, and he will collapse on the ice. I kill him silently, and silently and sadly, very sadly, and lovingly, so gratefully I observe his outstretched body. I am one of the few, no, no: -- I am the only one [left] now who kills the bear on the ‘Great Solo Hunt.’ And the only one I know of, who, who jumps onto the back of the bear and kills him. This is true, and each time I do this I die a little, rapidly die, but I come back alive again. My whole body, being, mind, is devoted for that moment to the kill. The kill engrosses me.
I am not dark-skinned, I am lighter than my native kin for the most part, but I have cold blood, --meaning, I am at peace with this, for with it comes faith, solace and never failing joy, and you may want to mix a little revenge in there possible. I am a bear hunter; it is what I do best. And the bear is warm and hungry, and brown, the one I am looking for in particular is so, and as blinding as snow can be, I never miss him when I spot him. But again he is no match for me. I will kill him, like I have killed other bears in many ways. This bear is very strong, strong and cleaver and can take an animal or man and swing him like a bird and throw him far distances. I have seen this happen. The bear can take gigantic leaps, and can disengage himself. His claws are sharp and can dig many inches through ice, if need be to make an escape, or dig a hole and grab a seal for dinner. Yes, oh yes, he can do this in a matter of minutes, and if the ice is thin, seconds. I have seen how some of the hunters have many dogs and they surround a bear, who cannot escape them, yet I tell them all that during this phase, or better put segment of the kill, this is the time to be careful, for they have been bitten in such events, even a small bear can be dangerous. You should know the bear-spirit does not lie down and die because he sees dogs or a hunter, he will not skedaddle–move over, because you say so. He goes back and forth, makes you dizzy, makes you lose your way; besides, after roaming aimlessly you die not the bear, in a frozen stance, by a cliff, or plateau, in the blizzard you didn’t notice was coming because the bear got you dizzy. I know, as I talk on, I talk about my bear, and with bears I’m fussy, but let me do this, my life will be short lived anyhow, and I have chosen this exacting life, so I can not blame anyone for my hardships.
My father was a white man, my mother, an Eskimo. They are both dead now, he was an Arctic explorer, --she, oh yes, she was a Thule woman; she was born to the Arctic, in Greenland. I am her only child she carried me in her amaaq, yaw, this was me, laying tight against her back, as she went about her chores; I remember her well; --she had long hair, thick to the skull. Wore a necklace made of walrus seal ivory. Many little things were on it, little figurines that represented her life, such as the igloo, the woman, kayak, walrus, the dog, salmon, the bear, and seal.
She would say,
“Tipi, are you ok back there,” and as I’d feel her back and the warmth of the fur around me and against my body as her back supported me, I’d touch her shoulders to let her know I was all right.
This is my given name, --this is one thing the bear didn’t know, the Great Grizzly. As I was raised like most in the Arctic, a native, I was never touched harmfully by my mother, or father, --never disciplined in a physical way. It is the native way, --the Arctic’s way. Often times my tribe I used to belong to, but I have left them since adulthood, would allow other tribes to take wives from other camps, or tribes, if you will—no real husbands and for awhile, none really belonging to any certain person or forever, if that makes sense. It was the way it had to be. Or we would have no tribe at all we would die out. And so a woman may end up with a stranger from another tribe to mate with her. And children were very precious. I have slept with woman, but I have never had a wife, or chose a special woman to remain with, and I assume I may have children in a few tribes. In their summer tents, I would make love to them. Listen to the drum song [Ingmerneq]. I think a bear would like to sleep with a woman if he could steal her long enough. They have secret spirits inside of them. I have not seen a bear harm a woman maybe that is why. And they are close to our ancestors—but I could be wrong, maybe a bad spirit makes me think that.
But once when I was learning how to make water—you put three great stones together and a heap of snow on top; under the main top stone you put another one under that, make a fire, and slant the upper roof stone, so when the water drains, it will drain downward to the container, and fill it with water—a great white bear came; he stood no more than twenty feet from me. I was with my mother; I was but ten years of age. The bear lay down, eyes cast upon my mother, and she continued to show me the bucket full of water. And she said “Sjorfaa!” and the bear left her. But my spirit doesn’t connect with the bear like that. It wants to kill it. Conquer it. Why? You tell me. It is who I am, that is the best I can do for such a question
bear, --bear, who you think you are [?] – You are dead, dead, dead...
I have killed many bears with furious looking hatchets, knives --along with using sharpened stones to keep them deadly. I learned from the Canadian Eskimos when I was young, the many forms of hatchets they had, therefore I could select, which one I needed, and which would work best for me. They were what I called Polar Eskimos; --they knew very little about wood, but the Whalers and the Thule traded information.
The Chain
Death to helplessness, to the born and the dying, the aged, for first you are born, --helpless, which is natural, ----are we not, and by way of instincts, we say to ourselves we must smile, or cry to get our way, to survive. You must learn who is your mother and father, for the bear can fool you and say he is, when he is hungry, and you do not know the difference, and you willingly go to him, and he devours you. If you asked the bear, “Have you done this bear before?” He will say, “--oh yes, I have, many times…” and he has, he will not lie to you unlike so many humans.
As a child we don’t even know what we look like, only what we see. So we think we are similar to the bear—only the bear knows we are tiny. Then you grow old and again, now you are resembling the old grizzly, the polar, the panda, the Russian bear-Tamens, they like to play; but in all cases, they grow old, weak, tired just like us; yes, we are much alike, are we not. And even the dremo the Tibetan Grizzly [also known as Ursus arctos], he may be the exception, for I have looked for him for twenty-years, but only one…it is he, the Great One…I seek now.
I have never known a person to have seen a Tibetan Grizzly other than my family, to include my father, grandfather, my uncle, my mother and myself, but that is my heritage the, “Great Grizzly”, he has in his veins our family, he has chosen us to be his destroyer, as he has been ours. He is as tall as a mountain, and as strong as the ice. He has no equal, no fear of death, for he is death --Ursus arctos.
The Nature of Things
I am the greatest hunter of all the Northland. Who has been to Melville Bay, and all the way over to Point Barrow? I have an uncle, Makpo, he is old now, but he lives there. I will only visit him when I have killed the Great Ursus-arctos, and bring his fur, teeth, and head to him. As I was about to say, I have been down to Churchill, and to Disko Island. And many other places, so you see I have no choice --it is the Great Grizzly and I. Yes we have met before, have we not? I have seen him from a distance roll like a ball, to the bottom of a slope, tumbling like an avalanche, no, like a glacier rat, from miles away that is. That is how huge he is. My grandfather said he was old and his teeth were of holes because of age, his teeth must have ached, and yes I know now he has holes. I saw him in a vision; --he told me that Ursus had to eat animal’s whole, swallow a marmot and herbs whole. Yes, I can imagine, he has a big stomach.
I have hunted the walrus, even though I am a bear hunter by name, and reputation. But nonetheless, I like hunting what the bears hunt also. They hunt the walrus. But I do not necessary like hunting with other hunters, although I have many times done so; the division of the walrus among several gets to be severely small portions for the effort.
I have many dreams, like my grandfather used to have, --but then, many in the Arctic have dreams, it is not uncommon; --for the real hunter must plan his moves, absorb them, perfection and balance is number one. Or you will be a dead man. If you live long enough in the Arctic you will discover a natural order to all of this, all things connected to one another. Akin to the bear and the walrus, and yes, then there I am. Things must live on, and so there is a season for most things. The more you look at order, the more you see and become part of its habitat, it is engulfing, slowly you become frozen alive, and you can’t leave this land of ice.
A shaman, like my grandfather was killed by a throat wound; the big bear knew this, and when he was asleep [my grandfather] he came over the top of his igloo, and with his weight, he climbed on top of the igloo, and it cracked, then with a sweep of his paws, cut his throat with his claws, and left him there to bleed to death. Yet he never ate him. You see the order of things must remain as it is. It is told that the Shaman can only be killed this way; and so he was.
When this land has come to its end, my grandfather like Makpo, who now is old, says, the ice will melt, and swallow up all the land, and the weight of it will break the earth’s foundations, and what is on the bottom of the ocean will rise to the top, and be land, and what was land will be the floor of the ocean. And there will no longer be need for a cold land like this; like the North Pole, and it will go away, --as will the Thule, for Greenland will also disappear. The warm airs will sweep over the lands once again; Greenland stops the warm airs from doing this, my grandfather told me. Strange as it sounds, I am glad I am living now, so I do not have to live in such a climate. I like this one this is my birthright.
But I am the greatest of the hunters, as you well know by now; I need not tell you this anymore, but simply follow me and you will be gripped. I am like the bear that makes a hole in the ice for the seal to come and pop his head up for air, and with a snatch, pulls the seal out with his claws, and sits down for dinner. Yes, oh yes, this is surely me. I, in a like manner as the bear, find the hole, or make one, and wait for the prey’s head to rise from it, --like the bear hiding under the snow, so am I, and with my harpoon, yes, then I go for the kill. You may as well ask me, why I sometimes hide under the snow, just like the bear, I will say to you, so I can’t be sensed, just as the bear would say to you if asked.
By the North Slope, the winters are extremely cold, and it looks like flat land, but the bear knows better. In the summer ice wedges make the terrain crack. Oh yes, the winter cold is the beast more so than the bear, even stronger than the bear, and me. Very few people are constituted for the open Arctic life. If you do not acknowledge this, you are a forsaken man; or for that matter, a dead bear. You can turn in any direction and journey, skirting great mounds of snow—crossing the great ranges of permafrost, and ending up on the coast, no trees in this land, only winds, caribou and passions of my forefathers that are imprinted in me. As I was saying the winters are very cold, very, very, so very cold, and the land contracts like a woman having birth-pains. I have walked its mud in the summer, and what is called permafrost, as I had mentioned before, I call it permanently frozen ground, of a color made by the great treeless Architect. Impressions, as I was saying, are stamped into me as it seems to be a second me inside of me, a second personality. There is no way to obliterate that, in point of time; I must go on to the rest of what needs to be said.
Perhaps you know, or have heard about the great phenomenon called The Aurora, or, otherwise known as the Great Northern Lights; you should, they are like your blankets. Makpo, who was with my father when he was killed by the Great Bear, Ursus, told me the Great Spirit, took particles from the sun and threw them at the earth’s North Pole, there were many colors that he threw, and the Pole being a magnet field of sorts, and consequently, this caused the particles to shift, and the colors similar to a winding, or wavy long tale of a whales in motion, shifting to a side, it created the lights in the sky. I sleep under these colors, these God made features. Where else can you find them? Not in a city, I’ve heard of those places, bigger than Barrow, one hundred times bigger, unimaginable. You live and die in those big cities, and never get cold, or see the lights, or feel the nearing of the bear. How unfortunate. When I return from my journeys to a village, and I must do this now and then, it is a matter of survival, in any case when I’d arrive in the small isolated villages I’d look like a mere perambulating skeleton, --you see, the Arctic is not a happy abiding place, for anyone, the raw cold wind can suffocate you, just one of the many dangers.
Let me tell you some more about me, and my journey in life. For the most part, the bear is/was my life, after my mother and father died, my quest is to kill the bear, but to be patient about this task…no hurry for my spirit inside told me so; saying in essence, ‘…all things in good time,’ [my father used to say that also]. I often times know where the great bear is and how to get to him; but again I hesitate until the time is right, until I am wise in my ways, strong in stature. It is the Great One I have always told myself I wanted, not his siblings; they are not worth the challenge, not worth my time. And I’m sure he has many children by now: but again I do not care. I have seen the Great One a few times with his children, many years ago. They are huge now, but not like him. No bear is like him. My uncle told me that this bear, one dark Arctic night, a still starless night, when this beast put his hand through the igloo; let me explain: his hand crept up near the top of the igloo and killed my father with one sweep; yes, he smashed a hole through the blocks of snow, in the upper part of the igloo after looking through the ice window below, knowing exactly where he stood, and like snatching a seal popping his head off at an ice hole, this bear grabbed my father with one sweep of his paw and broke his neck, while grabbing him by the head with his other hand, laying now on the igloo, he decapitating him instantly, as the igloo started to cave in, knocking my uncle unconscious; hence, the bear grabbed the remains of my father, dashed off some place and ate him just like the seals he’s killed. His, his was a trophy for a while, and then I’m sure he ate that also. Yes again I repeat, he has enormous paws that can smash an igloo into pieces, and, and leave it open for the rest of the scavengers. Makpo [my uncle, my mother’s brother] was there, and remained alive to tell the story, how he got away from the bear I’m not sure, but he did, I imagine as he said, he was simply left there, buried under the snow, and when he woke, a few of the dogs came back, and he made his way back to Barrow. He is a cleaver bear, and not greedy in his attacks, or so it would seem for he could have searched for my uncle and did not.
You may not believe this, but my father in l908, when I was but three years old met Mr. Cook, he had an expedition. White men come and go. Write their books about this land, get what they call money, and go back to the big city and stay warm. They take many pictures to show how brave they are, yet they hire us to guide them, protect them, find food for them, not sure why they don’t take our pictures and tell them they were useless without us. To be quite frank, without the wisdom of my mother, my father would not have lived as long as he did in the wild cold of this Northland. I loved my father, devoted my heart to him, was happy with him, but I never had peace with him, or faith in him. It was my mother who gave me comfort in this area. But my father was successful in his own way, and back in the big city, he is a hero to many, some place far to the South, god only knows where, I can’t remember the name, or how to pronounce it. He taught me many things though, how to read and write I can speak two languages, English being my father’s language. And so I am not angry with my father for being a reader of books, and not a hunter of bears. I hope he feels the same way, wherever his spirit has gone, his soul, as he called it.
White explorers do not structure and trap fox. They don’t even know how to do it. You take stones and build a three-sided hut, put a piece of meat in it, when the fox comes to eat it for he has smelled it long enough, and cannot resist, for the pain of this waiting causes anger. It is psychological, like wanting whiskey; they want the blood they smell. Then as he creeps in, and he grabs the meat, the stone on top falls on him, and pins him to the ground, it crushes his ribs, he can no longer fight, or run, even if he lives, he is dead, no means of escape. He is like a seashell, empty. It is the order of things, the nature of the land, I know you know this, but I feel good when I say it. Maybe you forgot it.
Many people build igloos, but do not put ice in them for a window; you must do that to see the bear coming, and sometimes the bear sees you also, yes, not like my father, one must be aware of the window of ice, the window of ice, the window of ice. And the sledges of wood are no good, yet that is what the white men from the great cities bring; they must be made out of whalebone, joined together by sealskin. No nails, no wood. I, like my people, make my own sledges; it is the only way to do it, --if you die in the wild you cannot blame anyone because of a broken sledge, it is your fault if your sledge no longer can go. Long life depends on the pride of your sledge. The runner’s muse is of bone, whale, seal or walrus. Then you will be safe, I assure you.
Makpo was my mother’s youngest brother. He will live a long life, he is a man of many means, --I should say, was, for he is old now. That is why he lives in Barrow; I miss him sometimes, talking to him that is, but not too much.
My mother was a small woman, but not for a Thule I suppose, of which she was one half. She was born in l885. I was born l905, in a cold month, so my mother told me. She carried me all around. I remember her rounded cheerful face, a long pretty bridged nose --long thick black hair. Her eyes were not round like mine that is all I can remember. Her skin had a glow to it though. Very strong, she was so very strong, oh; she’d carry me everyplace on her back, in her sack. She told me, “…Each person is made for some reason.” They are wise words, but dangerous ones, she implied, she also said, “…if you do not follow through on a life plan, what is life then, what is it for? Plus what is a person with no history? He is nothing, nothing at all.” She told me my father and I was her life plan. For my father, he wrote books, and that was his. My plan has always been to kill the Great One, and then I will have shown my mother I am a man of history, and possible my father’s revenge will be settled, but it is not so much this anymore, not like it used to be, it is more now a challenge, a game almost, a death game we have both played, even our spirits are involved; all of the North Slope knows this. Then my desires will end. And although I will survive in spirit, even if dead, my desire --like the whiskey who makes one oblivious--will rest in peace, and I will have accomplished a life plan. Life is nothing if not lived, nothing at all. To die loved, is one great thing, and to die accompanied with accomplishment of your quest is the second great feat in life, and the third is to die in peace having found your Creator. I will have all three.
You may be asking yourself, ‘why is he telling me all this,’ it is because I must. Someone else must know this. It is like the writer, why write if you do not have someone to read it. In a like manner, why talk, if you do not want it to live on, for it to be heard. I am sitting right at this very moment in an igloo; I built a few days ago. I have six dogs outside, with orange looking eyes, the cold has melted the orange into them, they are fierce; I can see them through my ice window. The Arctic sky is lit up tonight with the miracle lights, they are white, yellow and green. I have five white dogs, and one black and white dog, with tints of brown, interweaved throughout his frame, he is the leader. I am a little hungry with all this talking, I’d take pleasure in a piece of black bear meat, I like that, and it is tender and well flavored. In the past, I have mostly found them in the Canadian area of the Northlands, in the forest south. I was going to mention it before, but I didn’t, that is, my grandpa took me a few times to warmer climates south of here, or better put, for short periods of time. And this is where I learned a lot of my hunting skills.
He once took me down to this cold, dark subterranean tunnel, whereupon I discarded many objects, old torches laying about, found access to a crypt, skeletons of children, women, all skeletal remains laying about. He said they, -- referring to the people of the bones ‘…these bones belonged to a time, and a people who used their own kind for sacrifice.’ This underworld chamber was of a maddening culture long gone. That is when he called me The Great Bear Hunter, Tipi. I killed many black bears in that land, back then. Back then I ate whale meat also, it is delicious, long slices of thin meat, with a gravy over it to take the wild taste out of it somewhat, but I like the wild taste a bit.
But let me not forget what I was about to say, I am in this igloo I have made.
The Great Hunt
Gigantic-a, that is what I should call you; --The Great Tibetan Grizzly, or should it be the Great One; --all thirteen feet of you standing erect. Will people call me ‘Tipi, the Great?’ I fear not. Are you 1700-lbs? I have no way to weigh you.
The snow was frozen, the cliff fifteen feet up, I had rested, waited for hours for this moment --thinking about my fight. I had my harpoon by my side all day, tight. I had left the dogs back by the igloo, hungry, so they would make noise for the big bear, and this would fool him. Thus, assuring the bear he need not be guarded. It was the dark season, and everything resembled gray dust, but my eyes adjusted, they always do.
I had killed one of my dogs, placed him in an area where there was a cliff overlooking where the big bear would come to me, but first I had built a fire. I cut the dog open, and let the fire warm his blood; the bear would come, and he did, and seen the food was easy pickings. He could not resist the meat I knew this. He will stay thinking I went to get my dogs, and I would come, come back later; this is how the bear thinks. But I have already done that. I did not want to kill the bear quite yet—let him eat, get full. When he positions himself perfectly I will jump on him with my harpoon, onto his back, and kill him. I have done this many times, and sometimes have fallen off, only to run and get out of the bear’s sight. Once I rolled off a bear’s back when I startled him, he and I both got scared; I could not get my harpoon in him quick enough. But over twenty bears have fallen to my deadly act of jumping on the back of a bear, from a great height.
◊
I was lying down covered under the snow now, whispering to myself as I witness the bear. “Your head is as big as my mid section, I told you Mr. Bear all this just before I killed you; --your fur as thick as my upper legs; your eye sockets as big as my fists” I’ve seen the bear, and he’s seen the warm meat, his face brightened, desire shining frankly forth. I knew he was very hungry. I was clinging on to my harpoon, layered within myself—I said, “Just you move a little to the right, and you’ll see me, big bear,” least I get scared at the start, but I will not I told myself, standing up, my feet weak, I told myself, --be fierce. It was cold my hands were shaking. Then reminiscent of the calm before the storm, I stood there on top of the cliff, my plans were as I had predicted, the first few seconds I stood up from laying secretly in the snow watching him, I now got my balance.
As I stand up, the from a laying position, the bear did not see me, here [I told myself], it makes me think when he first came here, how excited I was, I said in a whisper, “He comes, he comes,” and now I see him down below me on all fours. He does not see me above him. The wind has stopped; he cannot smell me yet, not with the fire. His eyes are old. Fearless animal, my head told me, nothing could harm you, but here I am, and my spirit tells me, I can, I “Tipi,” the great hunter, 20-years to get to this moment. I will put my harpoon in your …wait he is
…Wait… sheeeeeeeeee…
Qui…et…let him eat, eat, just a little more…a little more, he is ripping the meat from the dog’s skin…off
I have to take a bi ggggggg…leap—NOOW: -- I’m on his back, he’s in disbelief, I’m…………..≈≈≈≈
pushing the harpoon into his thick fat, muscle-bound neck, blood spurting in big blots, like a whale spouts water, the bear is shocked, disorientated; ≈≈≈I’m░ trying to find his inner part of the neck √, the harpoon went right through the upper part of his shoulders √ by the spine √ close to the neck, but I have the round knife, it is hard to get it through the fur, but I cut, cut, cut-ttt…I can feel it enter his body. He is making one last attempt to get up, his blue tongue came out of his mouth, and I almost rolled off his back, if I had, I would be crushed, --now he collapsed. He is shaking; I have never seen this before.
“Die, die, die-di-di…ee” I cried and cried with elation as the blood drops fell on the fire -- his big snout, silently, and sadly trying to see me.
٭
As I looked at the old, tired bear, I could see his spirit leaving him; I finally got off his back, I was like a fly on him, not moving more than three inches any which way, he was winding down his life. Like a white mist of warm-breath, it was leaving him, there, it goes --his spirit. Stripped, I put ¼ of him on my sleigh. I buried the gall in the ice, padded my sleigh with meat, and headed back. I will keep his claws for my friend’s wife in Barrow, and his teeth, they make for a good gift. There is no hospitality out here only the hunt.
Œ
As I headed back to my camp, I thought about you, Mr. Grizzly, if you would come to dinner. I have searched for you for 20-years now. I have killed many of cleaver bears, it is up to me to survive, nonetheless, for some unknown desire, and I sought you out, even before you killed my father. When I jumped on your back I must have not trembled anymore, but you did, you knew who I was, and you let go, you did not fight as I thought you would. You gave up the good fight. You had your reasons. Maybe you have a secret waiting for me. The more I think of it, you are old and will have died in a few more winters, anyhow, maybe…or maybe it was your way of getting me to come to you. You are cleaver. I do find myself in an odd situation now. Are we to die together [?]?
Ill-lighted, I can still see my igloo; it is close now, the midnight sun. I came short of your neck, but it –nonetheless—worked out fine. The kill spot in front of my harpoon, with a stretched out arm in the air I heaved it through you, like a thick fog, I’ve seen it come out the other end, I knew then I had you.
Let me rest, I like looking at your head, it is huge. Morning will be dark, but it is getting warmer, it is only 35 below out now, or so it seems. But you and I have adaptability, the essence of survival out here. Your sons, where are they? They will want their share of what you leave them, so I will leave the other meat of your-body back there, they will come, I’m sure, and eat what they can. They are spoiled; I’ve seen you spoil them. The question is, ‘…will they honor you?’ --and if so, ‘…h.mm…how.’
The Igloo
Now I must say what I have to say, or should I say, what I was about to say, as I find myself in this igloo, like my father did so many years ago; I must tell you all this, it is my story, it is because I have killed you. Yes you are by my side in my igloo; I am done with the Great Hunt: I mourn you now. It is my great day. And it is starting to get colder again, maybe 40-below zero out there, and the winds are wild again, it is your angry spirit I think. And I hear silence. I have been talking for a long, very long time telling you my story oh Great One, like the mountain. Your spirit has been patient, but angry, so very angry, but you found peace. My dogs are silent, it tells me as I look out my ice window, and see your sons and daughters out there [for they have come suddenly] I counted an hour ago, four of them, and I think more are coming; was this your plan, your revenge? For they have eaten my dogs, I’m sure of that all of them now. And the meat I’ve hidden, that once belonged to you, they ate that also I fear. You see, they do not have the respect you and I have. Unless you told them they could. They are from the younger generation; they will create a disorder to things. I think it is the end of all the Northland, the Pole. It will come it is ahead of me. They wait for me to leave; they will not come into my igloo like you did to my father, because they know I have you, your fur, and your head. And they fear your spirit.
They will wait for me to starve, then for the ice to melt, and then drag my ragged body out; or they will tar down this igloo when they get angry enough, and say hell with your spirit, when all seems well. I will not run, but you know oh Great Spirit I have no place to run to.
Loud Thoughts—
I was happy most when I could simply stare in to the sky, into its world of stars: --happiest indeed I was, like a child in his mother’s amaaq [back-attachment use to carry a child].
“I know ‘Spirit Bear,’ the time is too serious for joking, I will not worry about setting the record straight; --before I thought in years, months or days, now it is seconds. Time is very short. Thank you for your concern.”
I used to measure the temperature, no time now to. Everything is collapsing. I now seem to have a picture of my mother in my head; it is like it has been there a long time. This feeling I cannot explain—the bear spirit hears my voice: --I know,
“My sacrifice is meaningless to your children out there. But if I would not have killed you, I would not be able to deal with such a disappointment in life. And now, yes, I know, I’m pending death.”
Pity I am not a writer—I could describe how the bears wait impatiently for me out along side my igloo; --pacing in the 50-below cold, I think it is that cold now, I feel my bones, and 25-mile an hour winds. In circles they go these impatient siblings. Waiting for my flesh, my warm blood, listening for any sound: --moreover, I will receive their welcome with my harpoon in my hand, soon! The land will remember me, and say I went by the order, their rules, and the nature of the land. Not like the standbys in the great cities my grandfather told me about. Today the cost will be my life.
“No, I will not remain here, great bear, not here in isolation. It is useless to fight I understand, but I will. Unflinching I will have to be not to allow misery, hunger, cold, doubt or despair subdue me. That would be a horrible death.”
I will say no more for the moment. “Don’t forget me bear?” It’s getting colder out there, more snow I see. I will fight, just so I do not fall………. Here I am…they see me in my ice-window.
Back to the Igloo
It is no one’s fault but my own, I know I have chosen life over death, but death was part of the order of things, the nature of the land. You gave me my desire; I cannot be mad oh Great Spirit. How could this be? Even in the waiting, I got to tell my story; it was my way of respect for the Great One, my testament, if you will my grieving for you; maybe for me, to the bear that was honorable, Ursus-arctos. Like all children, they have gotten their prize, their wealth, and the meat he offered them of his old body, as they wait outside my igloo for me, they are much like other children, greedy, are they not. I hope they choke on me, I hope I do not taste good: its wild flavor they are after and I suppose I have that in my bones. As far as you go, old bear, you are too old to taste all that good, anyways, so I shall not eat you as you ate my father. I had good dogs, but they killed them, I know, for they are gone. I am starting to repeat myself, death lingers that is why. I will not survive in this land without my sledge; I see that it is busted up. The bears are cleaver, they learned from the Great One, you.
I hear the wind the cold is seeping in. A bear is looking in my window; he sees the Great One and me. I have won the prize he says with his eyes, me; but it is I also who has won the prize, I just hate to get killed by such scavengers. That is the joke, if there is to be a joke of this whole matter. I’d rather die by the hands of a great bear.
Oh Great One, let me step outside a moment with my harpoon, for what do we live for, is it not desires, not for this last battle, you have fought yours well, and so shall I [?] Oh yes, and you and I have no more: --yes, there they are, and here I am:
“Sjorfaa! Sjorfaa!”
Œ
Note: Perhaps I should thank the folks up in Barrow, Alaska that shared their warmth with me, their dance, their graveyard of ancient bones [l996]; Point Barrow being not far from the city, they shared their two approaching seas; --and perhaps the pilot who flew me around the surrounding area, on a ‘mail run,’ [750-miles]. I also should thank the natives of this beautiful Northland in the lower area of Juneau, who taught me how to fish with my hands, and the ones who took me whale watching, and on to its glaciers, of which I landed on one; along with the journey down the Stephen Strait with its beauty icebergs, --and the towering trees that reach over 200-feet sky bound; and the hundreds of bears I saw climbing the cliffs like monkeys; ----and the giant white bears of Barrow. And the great taste of whale meat in Iceland; --and so, having said that, I finally put into words my adventure as I’ve seen it in my imaginative mind.
3
Death in the Dust
[A Bullfight in Mexico]
Lee Lopez and his wife Dalila, along with their friends George and Nancy, climbed down the stairs of the bullring, on the outskirts of Mexico City. The heat of the day was slowly taking Lee’s breath away, he managed to lift his heavy legs up and around, and over people, and over the arena seats to find his and his wife’s numbers painted on the cement in patched red, trying to focus and gain his balance, in the process; his wife watching him, in fear, of his health issue, he might stumble, or become too short of breath and not stop to get his needed oxygen down into his stomach and lungs; he was not the healthiest person at the arena she knew, this day, or any day for that matter; --this was her first time to a bullfight although, as it was also Nancy’s. So finally Lee sat down on a cushion he was given when he entered the walkway to the ring, not uncommon.
There was little talking between the foursome, Lee had a quest, to get centered and set up his body for the great fight that lay ahead,
----Standing up straightening his cushion out, making sure his fifteen-feet from the arena was not too far to jump up and around a few people if need be to get closer to the ring, insuring himself he would have at his disposal the spirit for the bull and/or matador. Depending on his moods, and the way the bullfight went, he could be cheering for the bull more than the matador; it was all a matter of valor to him, or for the most part, a fair fight, or what he considered just.
It was Sunday, 2:00 PM, and the heat was so penetrating, Dalila wiped the sweat from his brow. Lee felt an impulse to jump up as the band started playing, and the matadors came out to parade around the ring. The doors wide open, the sun baking the ground, the few clouds in the sky brighten up the arena [nothing new, he thought, nothing new, just old things; yes, yes death was waiting]. All was set for the ritual, the skill and the dance of death, the dust was being spiraled all about, but Lee knew there was much more to come; --he had just talked to one of the picadors; he was proud to make his acquaintance, and get a picture with him, he was checking his Polaroid—
[Pelicula instantanea] instant film –picture out as it materialized like magic in front of his eyes on to the paper, --then out came the picadors, one was his man [the man he had taken the picture with]; he quickly nudged his wife, so she’d look, and she smiled agreeing it was the same person in the picture. Like always it would be a quick showing, for everyone wants to get to the bullfight, the kill. If life had dealt him a different deck of cards, he’d have been a bullfighter, a matador, picador, or banderillero [bullfighter’s assistant who sticks ‘banderillas’ into the bull]. No questions asked.
It was man against bull, the man-beast courage against the breath of life. It was… was all or nothing, like a love affair. Every bullfight has its price, he would tell his friends, and today would be no different. George and Nancy looked at Lee to try and gain his excitement, but Nancy was more in the corner with Dalila, not sure where her moods would be once the fight started…she questioned both George and Lee on all the details of the fight, until Lee had to look away, not returning answers to her questions so he could get himself focused; rudeness was a virtue at a bullfight he told himself:
“If women can shut their mouths at a bullfight, well done,” he’d say, adding, “Otherwise leave them at home… --I’m here for the man-beast and the matador, not to baby-sit anyone; --it’s a man’s game anyhow—” he’d convince himself, then would stop mumbling and set his eyes on the dust flying about the arena.
Nico—the bull—was the chosen one, the big bull; the one Gerardo—the matador—would fight today. He would be reborn again; Nico was a good bull, Lee told George, and Gerardo a good Matador. As Lee waited impatiently, sweat coming from his arm pits leaving huge wet dark stains, --forehead and crotch sweating the same [profusely], he grabbed some more air pushing it down through his lungs to his stomach leaving out a long sigh; he was situated finally, took a pill [nitro for the heart] and watched the arena resembling a cat waiting for his mouse.
The ground was soft from the heat, allowing the dust to fly about as the wind was picking it up, ‘…let it come …let it come…’ mumbled Lee, he didn’t feel the wind or the heat, although his body was responding to it.
He mumbled again, ‘…the battle might take place more in the shade, who knows, that is the wonder of the whole fight, the unknown, who knows.’
He told his wife many times upon returning home from a bullfight, that it was the human-dilemma, to survive in the bullring, for the opposite impulse prevails there —he would tell her; adding, that one fences himself into death, to free himself to live. Yes, he’d say, we must all face death; you will never appreciate life until you do. He would argue with himself while his wife looked on after the fights, listening to his analysis, “…will man have the capacity to survive his own measures?” He’d continue to question himself, adding, “…What degree of civilization is this, to watch a madman fight a mad-bull?” [Then laugh]. He was no philosopher, just a realist, next to war this was after that, the best event in town.
₪
Lee could scarcely wait. He was asked by Nancy, who he was voting for, the bull or the matador to win, but Lee said nothing, for he could careless if the bull won or the Matador, it wasn’t what the fight was about to him. It was the ritual that was important, the sacred sacrifice to the gods that didn’t exist. It was the last of the great invisible journeys; like being lost in the great ocean of thoughts dreams, or trying to walk across the Arctic in the middle of winter and never touching the snow, or trying to walk on the moon without a space suite. This was the last of the great feats of man. Where else could you taste a bit of Rome, at its glory, like in the battles that took place at the great Coliseum? This was it there was no more.
“Death,” said Lee to Nancy, “I am looking for death to win…when it has lost its sting. I want to see death at its best…who will be the coward here?”
“Will the bull be spared if he wins,” she asked.
“I hope so, but not always…sometimes the judges are cowards just like the bulls who stomp their feet, or tremble at the Matador’s presence, and the roar of the crowd; sometimes the crowd is the coward for applauding the un-brave.” He leaned over Dalila closer to Nancy’s face and said softly, “Death my friend is a rare thing to taste and still live to talk about it; that is what we shall get today, you will look it in thy-eyes,” he laughed, and Nancy sat back closer to George, whispering, “I think Lee has lost it…” George laughed.
Lee had been to a cock fight in Lima, Peru, prior to this bullfight, he wanted to compare the two, but even though he liked the cockfight, it was too one sided, too un-daring for the onlooker he told himself. He said to his wife when they had left the small-enclosed arena [at the cock fight], “It is chicken against chicken, not like the bullfight, man against beast.” He couldn’t get involved like at the bullfights.
And boxing, he loved boxing, he had seen a championship fight in Buenos Aires, Argentina, earlier that year, and made comparisons with that also, telling his wife, “It is man against man, not much blood, no death usually, and too much this and that…” he walked out enjoying the fight, even met the champ, but it was not like at the bullfights, when man has to face the beast, and the beast is five times your weight, reflexes and instinct needs to be at its very best, in place. There is no flexibility for instinct; you have to have it or perish. It is mind and skill of the man; some say an unfair comparison, meaning man had the advantage, but then why did he see people die in the bullfights if that was true, he asked himself; both the boxing and cock fight, was too weak to arouse him, so he stuck with the bullfights. And so unfair or not, it was the price one paid to see the dying. He had even went to Kyoto, Japan to compare the Sumo Wrestlers with his death against death agenda, and again, it feel short of his approval of being worth the salt of his time to see it a second time. Not like the bullfight though.
Lee explains to his wife and Nancy:
“Fantasies, which are what we are after, a fantasy—that is what makes for this bullfight, in the beginning at least; matter of fact, even before I come to the bullfight, I get my fantasies. The bull and the Matador will have a romance, but love will not conquer…--the contest is not about love, it is about beauty, and beauty is about fantasies. I dream about how to make love to my wife as much as I dream about how I will kill the bull—they are both highs… or would kill the bull.”
“And what is beautiful about this blood bath that is going to take place,” said Nancy.
“Beauty is clean, as clean as the bull will first be when he comes out of the gate, either fast or slow, it doesn’t matter, you will see him clean—he will be clean, washed up, and the sun will reflect on him, we are going to honor him as he enters the arena with our roars, and the Matador he will be clean, it is this place, this arena, and the flowers being tossed about by the lovely ladies, and the colorful painted areas of the arena, the band with its brass and strings, the standing of the people, the picadors, the bull, the everybody and everything; --the cloths the Matador will wear, show off, --the peril, danger both the bull and Matador will face. That is the damned, which will have its beauty.”
Then he added, “…but then, beauty is similar to values, they are different for each person.”
Nancy looked at George, --said Lee,
“You see George is beautiful…”
She smiled, Lee thought, I hit it on the nose for once, and then looked away back to the bullring, as Dalila was carefully checking Lee out to see how his breathing was, for it all related to his heart she knew, his breathing. He had had a few strokes and heart attacks in the past, and at times was careless, but the beauty in Dalila, or one of the beauties was her cherished devotion to Lee, he knew it, as pretty as she was, her higher beauty was in her respect and cherished look she gave to him. He could be anyplace and know exactly when her eyes would check him out. She was his sidekick.
The Fight
“I can’t see, --the bull, --the bull, no, the… the matador,” he said, watching every move in the arena, “… the matador…he, heee’s is too close’. [The matador is going to be gored by the bull.]
“You’re right…he’s too close,” said Dalila almost hiding under her forearms.
“What did I tell you…yaw—see—”?
“His horn is very close Dalila…look, looookkk… there is a blind spot –yaw…and he is too fuck-en close, he’s going to get it…damn…”
“Calm done, calm down now, --take a pill…. please!”
“I’ll miss it…hell with the pill…loooooooook will you, he is so close… the horn is goooo…shit—”
The roar of the crowd started up, the judges leaned forward, the heat kept coming, coming, coming as if it was trying to watch the bullfight also, on top of Lee’s head almost, his heart started to pound faster and faster, pumping more blood to keep up with his excitement, rapidly and more rapidly like a clock out of whack his heart raced; --you could see the bull’s veins sticking out from his eyes, he was fearless, no trembling, no caution, he didn’t hit his hoofs to the ground, he just tore in after the Matador- Gerardo.
“I thought you’d need this pill,” Dalila holding it in her hands as her husband was holding his chest, watching the bull.
“Get the damn thing away from me…look, again, [a hat was in the air] the cape, it’s going over the bull’s head, blind spot, blind spot, yaw…ya..Ya… can’t he see the Fu-… blind spot, get aaaaa
AA
Away!!!...”
Lee jumped up quickly …
“Ouch…what happened,” Dalila asked.
“Horn…the horn… in the
AIR-air….the horn…shit—” [the bull gored the matador].
“Oh god…Lee, is he…”
“That’s it…be quiet, please… I don’t know…”
As Lee sat back down he looked upward, stretching his neck, as if to get air, shaking his head. He had seen this before, but he wasn’t expecting it. He was really a promising Matador. Another Matador stepped into replace the wounded matador--and dying Gerardo, as did the picadors…who also came in, two men grabbed Gerardo, put him on a stretcher as Nico was kept busy. Lee then quickly took the pill from Dalila’s hands and stuck it under his tongue.
“Now you see Nancy…life is short at best, who will die today…?”
Nancy said with a sigh:
“This is exhausting….”
“Six times they stuck the sword in Nico’s backside—he has a thick neck…what they trying to do.”
“Thanks for taking the pill Lee,” Dalila said.
“Yaw, I can’t believe it…six times, and the banderillas [long decorated barbed darts] three times, and the picadors. Nico won, not the Matador. What is the problem here let the bull live.”
“Cigar, light it pleases—.” Dalila pulled out a book of matches and lit Lee’s Cigar, wiping his brow thereafter. Dalila then sat back watching him smoking, slowly releasing the smoke as if it went in rhythm with his observations.
“They’re taking him to the hospital, I think he’ll live, we’ll find out later, in the paper tomorrow maybe…” then came two horsemen dragging out Nico by the back legs.
“He won, he was the champ, and I can’t watch the next fight Dalila, this one was too disturbing, let’s go.”
As they walked down the steps to the outside of the arena, Dalila noticed to the left some movement by the side of the bullring; as they started walking up the ramp to go out to their car through the gates,
“Lee, what’s going on over there?”
“You really want to know…?”
“I think so,” replied Dalila.
“Let’s go check it out,” Lee knew what was happening behind the dark curtains, but he wanted to surprise Dalila, plus it would only anger him more, and he wanted to get his blood up for the Matador lost, and he wanted to protest the death of Nico, this was a good time to do it, let off steam, right in the back of the curtains.
“Look,” said Lee with a smirk.
“Oh…my god, what --they…!”
Dalila held her hand over her mouth, as Lee held up the heavy curtain made of thick rubber, --that exposed the visual butchering of Nico. He was being cut open as the shadows of the men blocked some of the black blood spurting about. He was now being hooked onto a meat cleaver, and there was red blood dripping all about as they skinned him. His carcass was in red flames.
“It was a good bullfight,” Lee cried, “It should be the Matador up there not the damn bull.”
The butchers looked at Lee—anger showed on their faces.
“Go señor,” said one of the butchers.
“I know,” said the other butcher looking at Lee, “It isn’t right, too many pick’s, swords,” he smiled at Lee.
“Not an even fight at all, but the bull won,” said Lee to the two faces looking at him, with knifes in their hands.
“Señor,” said the butcher who had asked him to leave, “That’s the way it is, go now, we got work to do,” and so Lee and Dalila turned about and walked out of the enclosure meeting Nancy and George as they walked up the ramp to the entrance gate of the arena, again—Lee is thinking as he tries to catch his wind climbing up the embankment, looking at the merchants selling marble bulls, and hats, and other gifts.
He thought how different the bullfight was compared to the cockfight and the boxing matches, he liked both, but the bullfight was more masculine; not like two birds picking at each other’s eyes, and cutting up one another with their tied on meat cutters to their legs. For some reason he couldn’t get a personal feeling out of it, no beauty to it, how could there be with feathers flying all about, and the smell, the lights dim, and the iron cage separating man and foul. It was almost like two boxers, they were skilled and could punch one another, but again, it didn’t match the bullfight, where the beast, the ritual and death all met face to face.
Lee was a fighter, a war veteran, a man’s man one might say, and he had the broken up body to show it. The cracked knuckles, the scars and the wounds that only time gave; that only man acquired when he had a history.
The car was parked around the corner, Dalila stayed with Lee as Nancy and George got the car.
“Was it a good fight hon…” he asked Dalila. She smiled, and said, “I like being with you, that is why I’m here.”
“Thanks for being patient with me, and for those pills, I meaNNNN A pill, you got to grab the moment Little One, oh yes, the moment and we did. I kind of liked Nico you know, he was as I’d like to be upon my death bed, brave, he was so very brave… it’s funny, isn’t it; courage—where does it come from, it’s kind of like you got it or you don’t—that bull showed us all a little today—besides entertaining us….”
4
The Rainy Place
[Quiahuiztlan]
Walk softy on my Sacred Ground
Where once I was king and crowned—
And look unto the valley below
Where the Toltec lived and roam
Where the Olmec marched
North to South
From Quiahuiztlan to Tajin
How beautiful, beautiful, beautiful—it is
Stand firmly now—by the tombs
You see; prostrate please
These were my people
Of Quiahuiztlan—the Rainy Place
My people, my people, my people
Now they rest in peace…
Dlsiluk
The Quiet of Quiahuiztlan
[The Nose-less One-1905]
I seem never to get the good stories, if anything the odd ones, and for some odd reason an American living somewhere along the Mexican coast, by Veracruz, was to become a legend in his own time. My name is Nick Farrow, and the man I’m talking about is Christopher Hawk. And the story you are about to hear is the last story before I retire. Although it is interesting in its own right, it is also sad in a more meager way; and most of all it has been and will remain misplaced in the annuals of reporting.
I had heard of a man in that area, the jungles of and around several archeological sites, such as Tajin, and Quiahuiztlan, which was located on a mountain top, and Cempoala [sometimes spelled with a Z instead of a C]; --all within twenty-five to one hundred and twenty five miles of Veracruz.
It was the spring of l905, and when my paper sent me out to meet Mr. Hawk, for some inquisitive reason, I seemed to have not searched that hard to find him. He was actually sitting in Cortez’s old house, believe it or not: amongst the old tree roots, which wound around its foundations, such as doorways, windows frames, and sills, of which they were huge and opened aired [like an out door museum]. The small town that surrounded the area was filled with want-to-be, tour guides, --that is, kids who wanted to make a peso for showing you the one-acre fortress.
There was a cannon situated outside of his house, a wooden bench made out of treed logs. I introduced myself to him, and of course he needed no introduction; the locals called him The Lunatic. He was naked for the most part, and I say that only because he carried a carved wooden helmet of sorts, with two big teeth, similar to fangs, you could screw them in place, or out of place. The mask was painted resembling a jaguar, red, yellow and black spots, with a fierce looking face. He had black circles representing hair in several places of the wooden sculptured mask.
He also had a pair of gloves of sorts, with which he had long finger nails attached to their ends; in addition, he had a thin belt around his waist that he tucked the gloves around [into]; --and his helmet, he could tie to his side if need be, or with the string he had attached to it, plus wear it as a hat [or sombrero] if need be, or let it lay against his back.
That first night we camped out right inside that fortress, the total area was the size of a small park, that being, the grounds. It consisted of possible two acres or three. He spoke English as well as Spanish. Although he was what you would call ‘a gringo,’ fair skinned, blue eyed, and light blondish hair, his skin was more tanned, bronze one might say. His hair was a long, snag to it, and it seemed to reach to the bottom of his neck, of which was short, and thick.
He was for the most part a tall person of about six foot, I noticed as he would get up and search the area for wood for the fire, the length of his torso was long and slender, making him look even taller, as was his waist, smooth skin lean, with nice looking stomach-muscles. His legs were like runners, solid and armored looking calves [back part of he leg in particular]. He had blondish hair on his chest, underarms and groin area, but not much. I also noticed which was more than noticeable, he was not circumcised, and had thick and full looking testacies, as well as a thick penis, and its length was what I might call average to above average. I suppose being in the army one sees many men in the naked form, and it is neither here or there, it just is. So I make no misgivings about describing it.
I seemed to enjoy his quiet company, although he knew I was there for another reason, for him, he never made a move to announce it; nor for that matter, did he try to grandstand his ideals or persuade me in any philosophy. By and large, I was there for a reason, and somewhere along the line I either needed to inform him what I hoped to discover, or learn it on my own—that being, why he does what he does, and does it naked. I think I had other questions, or things I wanted to know, but for the moment that was what I wanted, first things first I told myself. Maybe I’d see him do it, the thing he was becoming famous for. Other people had seen him do it, but no one, and I mean no one had interviewed him. And I was not about to start an unwanted interview if I could simply tag along for a spell, if so, I could learn more about him this way possible. I did know he was seen in these parts for some three years, and was originally from San Francisco. Evidently it was no secret, he told several people from the past that. But when I had first met him, I had never known his name, only that he would say, “I’m going to kill the nose-less one,” and at times he’d referred to them as the “Snout-less ones.”
I had learned his name after I had left him, and I returned to San Francisco to cover the Great Earthquake. At this writing, I am 57-years old, it is the 2nd of April, l907; it took place, this meeting I am talking about, in l905; it was the beginning of spring, I do not know the exact date, I’d have to review old newspapers. But for posterity I feel I need not write it down, the future will not care about such trivialities. My son says some day I will pass on and he’d like to remember the story. So I told him he could publish it at a later date, for myself, I handed in a report to my newspaper, which cut the 7000-word report to two paragraphs, of 10-complete sentences. It just didn’t make news after the l906 earthquake.
Cortez’s House
As I was saying before, we had a fire going in the section of the fortress that was used to carry prisoners to a back room, a few hundred years in the past. To the side of me, was where they kept the horses. That is where we didn’t sleep or have the fire in, neither did we in the house section simply because the rooms were too enclosed, and the roots were all over the ground, and climbing up and around the mortar and bricks the structure was made of. And so again I say we simply picked out a good spot, in the main area, free of all these intrusions, for our nest.
He was shameless in his nakedness; his hands were big I noticed as he laid the broken branches from a near by tree onto the fire; --veins sticking out as if he had hot blood. His forearms were like ‘Popeye’s,’ huge as if they could snap a person’s neck in a second, or for that matter dig into the depths of an octopus or squid and pull out his heart. But that is what he did best, I was about to witness I hoped, and the only person alive, the one and only, who could do this feat, and I wanted to see, if possible, how he did it. I had heard how he did it, how he told the people when he came out of the waters, but no one seen him actually do it; but then how else could it have been done, but the unbelievable way he said it was done. That was the only thing he was willing to tell the by-standards, the onlookers, and he was quite graphic about it. It was if anything, his legacy, his history, his claim to fame.
Again, as the first night passed into morning, I would find out later my explanation needed for me to make my report, but first things first I told myself. I had lived in San Francisco also, just like my celebrity, I lived on Dolores Street, it was a big house my mother inherited from her parents, and built around the time I was born to my understanding. Christopher, --I would find out, had lived in a small house down on Mission Street with his ageing mother; his father had died many years before Christopher came to manhood.
Quiahuiztlan
It was warm along the coast of the Gulf of Mexico, the spring of l905. I had followed Christopher for several days walking here and there, to the grave temples of Quiahuiztlan, about twenty-five miles from the city of Veracruz. He took me by the hand several times, --as we climbed the mountain to get to the top. He explained to me it was called “Rainy Place.” He also explained it was an ancient city at one time with some 15,000 inhabitants, but now a cemetery where 78-tombs were lying about. And as I stood there on the hilltop, in this stronghold of defensive walls, I seemed to have a shadow of peace come over me.
We both lay under a tree looked up into sky, and just absorbed the day. The site he said dated back to the first century B.C. That the Olmec people influenced this area, and somehow that produced what was considered the Totonac Culture. All this was way over my head. One thing this all told me was, was that Christopher being whom he was, was not a crazy man; if anything, quite cultured, and educated, but then why did he do what he does? But why does anybody do what they do I suppose; such as Climb Mountains, swim the English-channel, or roam the Arctic Circle as if it was home. Again, this was my secret to find out. And somehow I did not get the idea I would be told the reason, but rather I’d have to cultivate it.
As we walked around some more I noticed there were terraces about. We spent three days there, I was about to ask him why, but I got the reason, it was his sanitary. I had not seen one human being come up here in the whole three days. There were several dwellings about; --a stairway that led from one section to the other with temples in both locations, and the third location being the hilltop where we rested. I was told the Aztecs had an invasion in this part of the country around 1200 A.D. Possible that might be why the buildings and mausoleums were given their distinctive stucco coatings. Like Hernan Cortez’s house, it was in-between Veracruz and this site. So everyone had something to build around here, Cortez, the Aztecs, and the Totonac with their links to the Olmec culture. In all cases, it was most likely his seeking, and now sharing his place of peace with me, a trust, if not friendship gesture if you will; his hideaway; a place for him to regenerate; yet, let me not lull you into a pretence, it is not his peacefulness I was seeking to tell you about, but rather, his restlessness, and wild side.
The Coast
I didn’t know what part of the coast I was at, on, or by, to be quite honest. But as we walked about the beach area, he said,
“This is it, this is the place, the one and only, where it will be happening Mr. Farrow [he commented with an elusive smile.” As he made that statement, he pointed into the dense jungle ahead of us and the Gulf next to us, --I followed him into the wooded area, and there was a shack. Inside he took me, and there was a hammock, dead fish bones, and other parts of creatures from the sea lying about with flies everywhere. He quickly swept everything out trying to be a good host, airing the small 200-square foot, dilapidated shack made of sticks and stones. I had come too far to call it, ‘quits’ or the end to this mission, for the stink would have been enough to turn most men back to San Francisco. But this was my last official assignment, good or bad I had to make it through, plus I had to see it in person if I could, witness the unbelievable, the mind-boggling event.
“Mr. Farrow, in the morning you will see me do what you came for, that is, if you still wish to see at first hand” Having said that, he smiled and walked away. The sun was hot, very hot today; I told myself looking upward toward it outside of the dusty window in his hut, yet avoiding it directly. So hot, I went outside the shack to rest, and catch a breath of nice, beautiful fresh air, not the decayed air inside the hutch. As I lay back against the shack’s foundations, I noticed my beard was growing, as I rubbed the palm of my hand across it; I looked like Christopher now, unshaven. His growth was about a quarter of an inch long, a little longer than mine I figured it to be. He then came out with a razor, soap, and a bucket of clean water he had in the back of his hut. The water evidently was in a 20-gallon tank above his hut, in which he used as a shower, or better put, for showers. A ladder reached it, used for filling it, he had to walk down to a creek about 1200-feet from the shack, and carry five gallon can’s back to fill it up. If it rained he said he’d take the top off and let the rain fill it, thus, saving his strength for other chores. He then sharpened his razor on a belt, and took to shaving, as I did after him. Then we both took a separate shower, and walked to the creek to refill the water, three times each.
Morning
[Meeting of the nose-less one]
Morning came quicker than I thought; he waited until 11:00 AM to prepare for his exploit [achievement, feat], saying he wanted the sun bright, real bright, as bright as could be, --so it would shine through the water, giving him luminosity, the right kind of glow, radiance. He was about to dive some 50-feet to the floor of the sea, where he said he knew there had been two squids spotted. He wanted one, but would take both, should they wish to fight him. He alleged he could last between 3 1/3- minutes to almost 4-minutes underwater. A feat in itself few could claim, I told myself.
I was told I could dive to a safety bubble under the water, where there was an air pipe sticking out of the surface of the water with a hose that pumped air into it [this had to be done prior to the dive although, and then locked and sealed before anyone went into the underwater chamber], he pumped air into it for observation purposes he explained, but never used it otherwise. Matter of fact he explained, he’d go in areas where he did not have the observation bubble within range for him to get to, and perform his ritual of sorts wherever the prey was. I was not much of a diver, but I could swim twenty feet I suppose, and so I accepted his invention, for that is what it really was. How he was going to go forty to fifty feet was beyond me, but this is what I came for, to see the unbelievable, the implausible.
We took a boat out to where the air pipe was, and I dove into the cool water with him; as I got to its structure he had described to me, kind of climbing down a rope to get to it, the last ten feet, I went under it, and thank god, air was plentiful when I popped my head up. It had a ladder in it, and I climbed up into it and witnessed several windows. The sun was shining, as he predicted and reflections in the water were all about. If anything, this water was very clear, free of pollution.
Now I’ve seen Mr. Hawk swim by me with his mask over his head, and his long fingernails, the rest of him was sleek like a fish; he went by me like a shark. Before I knew it he was way below me about 15 to 20 feet. An octopus or squid was coming out from a cave like entrance. The eyes behind him, behind the monster leaving the enclave, told me there was another one ready to join his scoutmaster; sure enough the other one joined its mate, it took less than a minute. Slowly they jumped as if a kangaroo lived inside of them; --they jumped within a few feet of Christopher. They looked as slimy as slimy could look, slippery akin to a snowball. By the looks of those two-creatures they were hungry, after pray, a dinner; --the first one was a little over 14-feet long: two of his tentacles were longer than the other eight. His head seemed to be somewhat fixed to his mantle. He looked aggressive, but then I told myself, why wouldn’t they, they would scare the shit out of anyone, even with a smile, if they could smile. All of a sudden the smaller one, about seven feet long, leaped to the opposite side of Christopher.
The big one had a slender body [visceral sac], well enveloped eyes, I could even make out with my small binoculars it had rows of suckers along those long arms extending beyond the other eight. They were the ones most mobile, and trying to capture Christopher, but Christopher for some odd reason moved his face right next to the creature’s greasy looking body. The two squirming masses moved their tentacles wildly trying to grab Christopher, entangling one another somewhat; he was too close for the beasts to grab onto him.
What was he up to, I asked myself? He took his fingers, which were placed into wooden claws and opened up a section into the monster’s mantel, as if it was a person’s chest. Then taking off his wooden mask, he unscrewed the fangs he had used on his fingers to open the beast up with, screwing them into the wooden mouth piece of the mask, --thereafter, he put the mask over his face again, as if it was part of him, --as if he was the monster. As I looked on, I wasn’t sure whom to feel sorry for, the water-beast or the man-beast. I was counting in my head two minutes had gone by.
Then like a shark, Christopher pushed his head into the opening he had created within the creature, thus, opening the wound even more-so, and deeper and wider this time, ---then abruptly, he pulled out his heart with the screwed-in fangs on his face mask—his head had gone right into the belly of the monster, incredible, it was hanging in his mouth, his heart, the monsters heart in his mouth, Christopher’s mouth. Amazing, just amazing, I told myself, other than that I was lost for words, and amazing seemed to dominate my mind set for that moment. It was all-true, he could do it: --he did it! This was what I wanted, what I came to see, ‘witness’ all so very true, true as true can be. I would have to figure out why later, but now it was the epitome of the show—that is why he did what he did, what I’ve just seen. A spark of a volcano seemed to erupt inside of Christopher, he had lost all control of the humanness I think inside of him, and transformed into none-other than the beast he was after. The creature sunk like a dead mammoth, and the smaller one just stood in shock backing away. I now counted to 3.5 minutes, he had to make a decision to kill the other one, or go for air. I was hoping he’d kill the beast so I could leave this bubble in peace, but he didn’t, he quickly chose to grab his helmet from the crust of the earth below him, which must had fallen off him during his jubilation period, after the kill; and like a shark made it to the surface with the heart of the beast still in his mouth. This is what he was famous for, known for…he’d walk out of the water like Neptune, with the creature in his mouth, its heart that is.
The Earthquake
After I had gotten back to the surface, which was some twenty minutes later, the reason being it took so long, I had to get enough courage to make the short journey to the surface, then the boat, thinking every step the other monster would come after me for revenge, Mr. Hawk was on the bank cooking the heart when I arrived: --I joined him. Again I never asked a question, I had seen it for myself, no reason to question, ‘…seeing is believing.’ And I guess in my own way I knew I would answer my own question of ‘why’ on my way back home to San Francisco, somehow. And that was the last time I saw him, Mr. Hawk --but not the end of this story. I figured as I journeyed back to San Francisco, he must have done what he did for some kind of high, challenge, as I have already mentined, and I really wanted to get some insight into this mystery. He seemed to be testing God’s patients, possible His grace. He had a fever in his blood, an unquenchable one. He wanted to be a legend in his own time and he was, not sure in his own way. Just why he selected this kind of life to prove he had courage or whatever will be left up to the reader, but again I felt on my way back to San Francisco, dollars was not part of his make up. He was naked because he was free. He was a monster like the creatures he killed because he had to be, I suppose like anyone trying to invade another dimension. He gave them as fair a chance to kill him as any man would, more so than even a Matador at a bullfight.
I heard he had come back in l906, to San Francisco, and made headlines. I had done a 7000-word story on him, and only a few sentences were really published of it, the reason being, the l906 earthquake, that was international news, an so my story ended up on the back page somewhere; and I had retired. Mr. Hawk, Christopher that is, died in the earthquake, he was sleeping at his mother’s house, which was 82-years old. She survives that earthquake, as she was in her garden caring for the plants at the time, as her house was demolished behind her. She lived to be 96-years old, some 14-years after her son had died. It’s funny how life plays its introspecting game. It has very few exceptions, when it is your time, it simply is.
Interlude
I thought I was done with this book on 9/14/03, taking out one short story, ‘The Tiamat, and the King,’ and adding the ‘Vietnam’ extract [a week ago or so]; --but I wish to add these notes and two poems into the book while it is fresh on my mind; --one being into this ‘Interlude’ or pause between short stories, of the book, and the other in the ‘Afterward,’ part to the book; it is only relevant, in that they are connected [both]—to death.
[The Farm] The second thought on my mind is to explain the poem you are about to read. As a kid [l958-59], I’d go to visit what I referred to back then as the “Old Folks Farm.” The building was on an old farm, at the ends of the corner of the city. It was actually a farm bought for this purpose, as the city was growing, and the farm land was being sold off, there was a few aches left, with a few of the building on the site in pretty good shape. And so during these two years of my life, about monthly I’d go with a friend of mine, and his mother to visit the farm, we’d run around, and then catch up with his mother, whom was visiting someone, and of course, we’d get to know that someone, along with many other people throughout the facility.
In l980, I was dong some research at the University of Minnesota, working on my Masters Degree, and in doing so, decided to go back to that old farm for it was still being used as—let me update the terminology—Long Term Care Facility. And there I met Oscar, in which I did a poem about him, and added it to my first published work, or book, in l980, “The Other Door.” Now, having said this, here is the entire first poem [of the two], the second you will have to go to the end of the book to read.
At the Old-folks Farm
There was those days—,
I’d roam throughout
About and all over
‘The Old-folks Farm’
Watching them play pool;
Spit, in the ‘spit-toons’;
A poker, game going on
Here and there, and there;--
Chess and checkers
[Everywhere, everywhere]
Old grinding jaws—
Tight with frozen stress
From years, and years gone-by
[Everywhere, on everyone,
almost everyone]
An old lady who, who
Knew President Ike, Roosevelt,
[Had pictures to prove it]
Hid in the basement
By the warm furnace
Rocking, in an old rocking chair
[As if, without a care]
Dust and dirt everywhere,
So many memories left to bear …
To dress and undress.
Elbows and knees at
--The Old-folks Farm—
Bent out of shape, never, oh never
To be replaced.
Discharges in their pants,
Yellow pale eyes, --
Decaying teeth, a few teeth
Here and there, and there: --
Some missing, some replaced;
Some had none.
Everybody today is waiting
For tomorrow
‘At the Old-folks Farm’,
As was Oscar yesterday—
And today he is gone…
Somehow I miss him;
But he liked the ice cream
I bought him.
My mother never did go there—
To the, ‘Old-folks Farm’—
That is,
She chose death instead.
5
The Plane from Iquitos
[Iquitos, Peru- 1959]
Iquitos & the Amazon
It was December 2, l959, I was sitting on a small prop-plane leaving Iquitos, Peru for a trip down the Amazon toward the opening, the mouth of the mighty Amazon, --to Manaus. As we flew low one could see the waters of the Amazon, the city always impressed me, but more so from this birds-eye view the Amazon, which you could see the mighty river in its squid like form, with all its tentacles—its tributaries [so very much water linking to the river, it was enormous]. It would get smaller, and then wider as you flew along its stretched out body, it was four miles wide at one point, and that was nothing compared to other spots of the Amazon.
It was all jungle by the banks of the Amazon, a sea of green, nothing but towering green, 115 to 130 feet high. And there again was the Amazon on all sides, everywhere pink-Dolphins jumping through the waters as if it was a playground. It was said; the Amazon could produce as much water flow as any seven rivers in the world combined. It is also said it is the longest river in the world, seemingly always debating it with the length of the Nile, though. As we continued flying down the Amazon, I looked at the other seven passengers, I made eight, and the pilot and co-pilot made ten.
I thought about Iquitos, as we sailed along the edges of the left bank of the Amazon, especially the Iron House, the very place made by none other than Mr. Eiffel, the one who made the tower in Paris; it was all made of huge iron beams. I had eaten for the first time Piraña Roja, near by there, it was delicious, except for the many bones, and the fish wasn’t all that big, especially with its head cut off. But its teeth lived up to its reputation, they looked like a baby sharks’ set of teeth, for the most part.
Some years back I had been in one of the tributaries of the Amazon, had gone fishing, and caught a few Piraña Roja myself. I used a stick for a fishing rod, and tied a string on it with a semi-big hook, and put a big piece of meat on it, raw beef to be exact. Then when the fish took hold of it, the ‘Piraña’/piranha that is, he doesn’t chew it, or even bite into it like other fish would, he rips it outward, and so at first touch, the fisherman has to yank it upward to hook the fish right under his upper, and next to his teeth. It took me a while to learn how to do that well, but I remember the first several I caught, --in any case, they had a big low jaw, but a small upper portion to their head so if you do not do this right, pull quickly that is, he will not be hooked. Actually you may hook his upper teeth for they extend out as does the lower one, but it is better to hook in the skin.
As we continued to fly down the river about 125-miles to the east we started to go inland from the river. The view was tremendous, the height of the trees, continued to amaze me. With my binoculars I could see what the co-pilot called The Big Lazy Birds high up in the trees; we were less than 100-feet over the top of the trees, and some of the monkeys were going crazy. Then all of a sudden I heard a shot; it hit the wing of the plane, and then another shot.
The co-pilot, Henry, ran back by me looked out my window didn’t see anything unusual, then Captain Derry, came,
“We’ve been hit by something, we’re loosing fuel, not sure exactly where we can land but I’ll see,” then he went back to his cockpit where the co-pilot was. All eight of us now were looking out the windows. There was Dana and Kim, from Hong Kong, both spoke good English, and then there was
Lora from someplace in Florida, she was an accountant on a single trip, leaving her boyfriend and women friend who both did not want to come on the trip for personal reasons with her, behind, --she said she had just left Iceland, and ate whale there and really enjoyed it; explaining, just because her friends didn’t want to come she shouldn’t have to stop her trip, and she didn’t. Then there was the man from Budapest of all places a professor of some kind, I just called him Professor, and he also was alone. Then there was the three women from someplace in the South West, they were on a world tour of sorts, and had left Barrow, Alaska. Martha, the elder of the three women [of which all three were in their 60’s] was most chatty, and talked about her walking 500-feet out onto the ice, and standing on a frozen wave. She was courageous for sure. I never did get the other two women’s names. And knowing that area personally, I knew there were huge white polar bears in that vicinity, and they can run like hell.
And now the plane started to lower itself, I’ve seen an opening, several huts; one big one was below us. The pilot circled the area. In the center was a courtyard, like a ballpark, or simply a wide open space, but it looked accommodating for a crash landing if need be, a rough open space. As a result, the pilot was going to try and land the plane there.
Twenty Minutes Later
The Village
Somehow we had landed, but the front end of the plane went head first into one of the several huts, one wheel broke off and no way would we be able to use this as a runway to escape, if even we could find a way to repair the plane. We were all shook up a bit, but no one was hurt.
As we all stepped out of the plane, it looked like a deserted village, --no one seemed to be around. As we all started going our own ways kind of walking in a dizzy state of shock, we found ourselves in two groups of five. The Captain’s group was headed towards the big wooden hut of sorts, to see if he could talk to any of the tribe’s people. I was walking with the other five to the smaller huts. As we went from one hut to the next, it seemed there might have been several families to a hut, I noticed sleeping rugs, made out of sticks on the floor. Then on tables I noticed cameras of all kinds, watches, rings, jewelry.
Then being more curious I made my way with the following five, the three women from Barrow, and the Professor. The others were with the Captain and co-pilot; --we went into three more huts, they all had these little treasures of sorts, cameras, rings and watches, etc. It was as if they were prizes, or for that matter, trophies of sorts collectables.
Then I got thinking we needed to catch up with the Captain, so I directed the people with me to the big hutch. There was a dugout, or basement section to the hutch, that is, within the hutch, and I noticed the others were down in it. It was much cooler in the lower section, and the square footage of the upper was the same as to the lower section, quite big I thought, compared to the other huts, maybe 1600-square feet for each level.
“Troy,” said the Captain to me, “It looks like these inhabitants are not friendly creatures.” Three hours had gone by for him to figure that out I thought.
He added, “Let’s take our jewelry off and leave it down here so when they come they will realize we are friendly.” Everyone looked at him, and then started taking it off but me.
“Troy,” the Captain said, “You going along with this or what?”
“No, sorry Captain, but you’re not the Captain anymore, only while I’m on that flying ship or yours.” I was an old soldier, and I didn’t stay alive by giving up. I was 39-years old, in the Korean War; this was not the way things were done.
“Listen,” I said, “I am not going to leave them anything for a trophy, and I do not see any live people looking like me walking around. Matter of fact, I see a hole in the wing by a gun, and it is most likely theirs. Second, they are most likely looking for us, but went further East thinking, possible, that is where the plane went down, because that is the direction you went into, when circling around this spot, looking for an area to land. Third I suggest we go west 150-miles back to Iquitos. It should take 15-days, at 10-miles per day in the jungle. We should also burn this village so to let them know we are not going to be easy pickings, plus they will need to re-supply, and this will damage some of that. And we may need our jewelry to keep us alive, if we find some nice natives in this beastly jungle.
I wasn’t real sure if we should burn the village, but I said it, and I thought it was the wise thing to do, but once they see we were not in the plane they’d come looking for us one way or the other—so why not, it might give us a running start.
Said the Captain,
“It sounds better than my plan I have to admit, and so, where do we go from here?”
I had thought we needed to go in two groups, if one didn’t make it through, possible the other group would. And although I didn’t say it, I felt the natives would seek out one of our groups, and that in killing that group, figure that was that. Allowing the other group to go free, not even knowing there was another one.
We put torches to the village, grabbed some meat that was hanging in one of the huts; I grabbed a gun from the plane, the Captain said he never shot one, so he’d have no use for it. It had six bullets in its revolving chambers; it was worth its weight in gold to me. Then with some skins tied to our backs, we found in the big hutch, to use for sleeping, and some skin-water pouches, filled with water, we headed west.
The New Journey—the Amazon
The five that were with me seemed to want to say with me, and so we both already had our teams figured out. And so into the wild we went, tracking the deep rooted jungle with all its extending roots, and hanging leafage, and untiring creatures that crossed our paths. If anything we got sore feet the first six hours of walking through the jungle, trying to get to a location in the Amazon which would be easier to follow, if anything a road possible, thereafter [hopefully] we’d find a boat somehow, or make one and possible someone to help us on our trip back to Iquitos. I told myself anything was possible, and you had to have a plan for the group, and we could modify it along the way.
I had already broke a toe-nail to my big toe as I had fallen a few times on this shallow looking path of sorts, water getting into my shoes didn’t help either, yet I dare not take them off, too many stones, roots, and those big tarantulas, hairy similar to a dog; for the most part they went back to their home, underground by the tree trunk, nesting within the gamut of the roots. But a few jumped toward us as if to give us an everlasting massage, evidently we were rather close to their studies. After a bit more walking, I had taken my shoes off for awhile, and walked barefoot over the mucky and slimy patches jungle leaves, along with sheets of vegetation; jumping over old moss ridden trees laying in our way; some of the trees were so huge I looked like a grasshopper standing next to it. And everywhere were ants of different design, many carrying leafs home, ten times their size; some so large, they had a hard time balancing them on their backs. Some ants were huge, others just in a marching mode with a few million more behind them, that stretched for quite a ways. And butterflies with eyes in their winds, I thought how my mother would love these, her liking an assortment of butterflies that is. All in all it was becoming a jumble move right out of National Geographic; I compared it to in my mind. As I’d step over the many pools of water as we hiked through the jungle I had to put my shoes back on, they were sore as hell. The roots of the trees, that extended out and above the swampy mass pulled my toenail out more, and it was bleeding now. The Professor fell and broke his nose trying to climb an embankment, over roots, roots and more roots. The three older women were quite tired, and so we stopped to make camp, and I tried to make a fire but everything seemed damp, too damp for the moment. After an hour I did succeed.
Then about 10:00 PM, I heard some sounds in the nearby density of the jungle. I grabbed a burning stick, and my revolver in one hand the fire in the other, thinking animals were a bit cautious with a flaming piece of fire about. And then appeared a native, he stood at the jungles edge to our camp, with a creative smile, he then came walking into our camp, I lowered my revolver,
“No vant dtrouble,” said the native, he was almost completely naked. He had explained he had seen a few white people before, learned several words, like trouble, no, yes, want, eat, hurt, kill, but that was the extent of it. He expressed he knew of, or heard that the natives, that I had burnt their village down, were looking to kill me. That we were brave to do that, and he added, they [his band of people] had thought many times on doing just such a thing, when they were gone, but they had no place to go but here, and it seemed to me they were afraid they’d come back to hunt them down. Well, we got acquainted quite well within the next few hours, as he –this evening invited us to their village as guests—and it couldn’t have happen at a better time. It was past midnight when we started hiking through the jungle. He didn’t need the light, but I did.
When we got situated at the village some 45-minutes later, he gave me some ointment for my toe, and reset the Professors nose somehow. The women were given hammocks to rest. And as I looked about the five huts, I noticed on top of a tree there was a man looking about, as if in a canopy that circled his village for any trouble.
“Ma n…ame Mana,” he explained.
The Tarantula Hunt
Mana was very kind, we expected to stay there two days, so he would not get in trouble with the other tribe, but he personally extended it, the reason being, his tribe took a profound interest in us. As it was, they had a great celebration for us, and cooked a boar, and fish and even allowed the guards up in the trees, or I should say, the one guard they rotated 24-hours a day, to get involved with the celebration, and festivities, his name was Kana.
On the forth night at his compound, Mana, and one of main guards, Kana took me Tarantula Hunting. Fine I thought, but it wasn’t on my priority list, we didn’t kill any, just went into the depths of the jungle and he took [Kana] a long stick, and found holes by some big trees and poked it down into the under bellow of the roots, waking up the tarantulas, and they’d come out to see the mysterious invader’s intentions. He did this several times; most were larger than my hand. I stepped back a bit, but not too far from Kana, somehow had minimized his character, and mesmerized the creature. They, if anything, seemed to be a little sleepy, enthralled at the stick poking them between their legs, and Kana staring at them as if they were pets. Yet, as we’d walk away, they’d stare and watch us, not go back into their hole until all was safe. Interesting how we all protect our property, I thought.
The Attack and the Painted Man
It was morning on the fifth day, we had outstayed our privilege, yet it seemed Mana didn’t want to let us go. The three older women got along well with helping the youth of the camp, and the Professor was as happy as a baby duck just walking around trying to learn their language and customs. I was more into the adventure part, and took a few walks with Mana, and the night before, we had a hunt on one of the tributaries that lead back toward the Amazon, looking for big snakes, but didn’t find any in some kind of a dugout-boat.
Mana was going to point the way for us this morning back to the Amazon River. Actually he drew a map last night, and we expected to be on our way soon, just needed to get our balance in where North was compared to South, and the rest would click. As we all gathered into the center of the village, Mana looked up in the tree at the spot Kana was suppose to be guarding, and he wasn’t there. He then looked at me, he looked a little ill, and then looked about, into other areas of the high trees, some reaching over 115-feet high, but Kana was nowhere to be found. Mana looked at me again, even more ill than before, as if an instinctive death mask was put on him.
It seemed out of nowhere, all of a sudden, all the birds in the trees left, Mana and I looked into each other’s eyes, it was as if bereavement hit both of us at once, and at that moment, at that very moment, before I could let the carbon out of my lungs, and take in fresh oxygen, a spear went through his Mana’s back, piercing his heart, and right on through him coming out his other side, and almost hitting my thigh. He dropped to his knees, then several spears more came, like lightening rods out of nowhere, all hitting the men first, after that the women and kids. I shot wildly two rounds out of my gun, then three more, and I hit all three natives, as they fell from the trees, but it seemed no one else had a chance to get to a weapon, and no one else could see where the enemy was. I reloaded my pistol, and simply sprayed the area with bullets, where the spears were coming. Out of the six shots, I got three more of the enemy. And I stood there, just stood there with bodies all around, one bullet in my pocket left, but I dare not try for it I told myself, if I did, I’d not see the spears coming, and so I looked dreadfully about; inch by inch covering a circle around the campsite. I saw from a distance a tall, very tall lean man, with a painted face. He didn’t come close to me, he kept his distance, possible for two reasons I thought, one I had the gun, and he didn’t know how many bullets it had, which was none for the moment, and two, he wanted to show me what my presence created, possible the disruption of what he considered harmony. The professor and the three women were dead, Mana was now dead, Kana, I really didn’t know, maybe alive, maybe dead, I never saw him at all; to my observation all the twenty or so tribe’s people were either dead, and possibly a few got away into the thick of the jungle. But there was no way for me to escape, I was in the center of it, it was proving to be a hell of a day.
The painted man gave me a bow of bravery, and a smirk of contempt, and then walked away, as did everyone else. And then a spear came towards me, from the tree above, not all that far away, --I thought about the bullet in my pocket, but that was my last thought, I knew I was dead—I wanted him to turn around but he didn’t, he was showing me I was insignificant—and. ………Dead.
Note: Part one of two parts [part two unpublished]; my journey in the Amazon in 2000 was most interesting, and many things part within this story are true, the heavier ones of course are not. But we did see tribes and the big spiders, as my wife would call them, and the Lazy-bird as it was called, monkeys and Pink Dolphins, among other things; the long ride down the Amazon, and into its more secluded areas was also most interesting, and eating and fishing the piranha. Actually one of the party members in a group I was in going through the jungles of the Gran Sabana, hiking up to Angel Falls, in Venezuela, did break his nose, and I did have some trouble with my feet, and toe nails. The three older women I actually met up in the Arctic, in l996, and I walked one out on the Arctic Ice, she was so proud she could do it. We walked quite a ways to be truthful; it could get a bit dangerous with the polar bears and so forth. And the single girl I call Lora, I met on a boat sailing round looking for whales in the waters of Iceland, 9/l999. Fictitious as my characters are, I have put a little realism into them. Although the names are different, yet there lies within the soul of each one, a real heart beating. I met a professor in Athens, in l995, from Budapest, and again I used his character to create a character.
6
The Diamond Caddo Estates
[A Tragedy]
Meeting of the Movie Stars
It is a typical summer in San Francisco, Jessie and Johnny, a married couple, --Jessie a writer, prize wining poet, comedy writer and novelist, have become somewhat known in those fields, in essence, to some extent, celebrated/famous in later life [at age 50 Jessie, and Johnny, is now 40]. They are at a talk show, and meet Russell and Tammy, both movie stars.
During the waiting period [that is, waiting to be called out on stage by the host] Russell and Tammy talk with Jessie and Johnny quite a lot, and a friendship seems to prevail in the atmosphere, and before any of the four go out on stage Russell invites the couple to go swimming at a private beach with them this coming weekend. Not realizing at first it is Friday today, he quickly adjusts his thinking, and mentions the swimming would take place tomorrow, I guess. The invitation is accepted.
Saturday
Jessie and Johnny go to the location given them by their new esteemed friends Russell and Tammy at the private lake area, outside of San Francisco. The area is serene and most pleasing to both Jessie and Johnny. The two hosts are swimming, and coming into greet their guests. There is no one else along the beach: --a little house to the right of them and some trees and shrubbery.
Both Russell and Tammy call as they run up to greet them, with excitement and positive gestures.
Everyone seemed to be in their Saturday best humor, with smiles and kind gestures; and for all honesty, there was no deception.
Tammy grabs Johnny’s hand, all in their bathing suits now, and takes her out in the water swimming with her, while Russell asked the laureate to write him a poem, as they lazily sit watching the girls swim. He does, and when the poet has finished with the poem, and Russell reads it, a tear emerges from his eye. At that moment, he is distracted by his girlfriend [both in their late 30’s] who had run up out of the water, grabbed a towel, and happened to see the tear on Russell’s cheek.
Tammy: “What’s the matter honey?” He doesn’t say a word; she is unspoken for a moment, feeling for some reason, and who knows why, but men seem to shut down when they are emotionally tied in knots, she conjures up in her thinking. Unyielding and still, she puts her hand on his shoulder, as she scans his face, arms and ends up at the poem, and reads it as he is holding it.
There is much truth in the poem, as she reads it, and her mind and face tell her that, “…it is a good poem,” she says. Russell has truthfully swayed away from his faith, by the looks of things, the poem is calling him back, or so it seems as the poem is being read. He is quite impressed with Jessie as now Tammy seems to be also [he lets Jessie know this with expressions] Tammy kisses Russell on the forehead.
٭
[In-between time] Everyone is standing around after the reading of the poem; Jessie not used to famous people, takes pictures of Russell, and has them taken of him with Russell, by asking Johnny to assist. Tammy is also a movie star in her own right, but not as famous as Russell, --nevertheless, within a matter of minutes, they all end up taking pictures of one another. There seems to be a mystic-commonage here.
The Diamond Caddo Estates
Russell and Tammy call Jessie and Johnny up to meet their rich and most famous friend [something similar to the Great Gatsby, as far as richness goes, and mansion] two weeks later; it is a weekend, again Saturday evening. It is simply a get together of the rich and famous. Everyone has agreed to meet at Russell and Tammy’s house.
When they arrive they take Jessie and Johnny by the hand in their car, and their driver takes them to the Diamond Caddo Estates. Upon arrival, they escort them into the great halls of the Diamond Caddo Estates [Russell knowing Jessie would feel a little uneven going in alone].
Harry Goldsmith, the owner of the estates and his wife Juliet sit at the end of this long mahogany French made table, where is seating 25-people. The maids have started to serve the drinks and food.
Harry finds himself staring at Jessie for some odd reason, and Jessie is not looking back, matter of fact, he is to the contrary, avoiding eye contact with the owner, and talking to his wife Johnny.
Harry: [asking Jessie a question] “It would be grand, haw, is it Jessie [a rhetorical question] if you could do a poem of for me, I’d be most appreciative…”
Jessie would prefer not to have made a nod, or for that matter, any gesture, but moved his shoulders in a funny way and continues to eat. A few of the guests started to laugh [although it was not meant as a slight or joke].
Harry takes offence to it, and looks at Russell [who shakes his shoulders, likewise, but in a way of expressing, saying in essence, ‘I don’t know’]; then Russell looks over to Jessie …
Russell: “Why not…” he says with a smile.
You now see a smile on Harry emerging; he has gotten his friend’s support. The whole life-size room is silent and still, until Jessie agrees, and then a sigh of relief is given, from several of the guests at the table, even one maid, and practically Russell [Russell knows Harry has a lot of pull in Hollywood, matter of fact he owns a good portion of it: --and would prefer to stay on the good side of him, as Jessie must have figured out.]
Throwing the Pearls to the Swine
Harry now is reading his poem by himself in his chair as the clean up people are picking up this and that off the long table. Jessie is at the end of the table getting up walking over to the huge bay windows looking out onto the grounds, his wife Johnny remains seated for the moment.
Russell comes up and thanks Jessie on the sly, letting him know, it’s harmless, plus it was a good party gesture to entertain by creating a poem for the host.
Jessie: “I’ve wasted my pearls Russell…” Russell looks odd at him, and pats him on the back, walking away.
Harry reads the poem, it tells him who he really is, as disturbing as it seems to be he reads on, it implies he is: slimy with his schemes, cheating, double-crossing, and doing any and everything to get ahead. The poem points out he needs to put his cards on the table with people, be up front.
Juliet sees the poem then tells Jessie to do a poem of her [Juliet and Harry are at one end of the table, where they were before, reminiscent of a king and queen, they will not move; and Johnny and Jessie are sitting down by at the other end of the table; Russell is now on his way to stand by the other two].
Russell implies [rather informs as he is walking away from Johnny and Jessie, saying to Juliet in so many words] that the poet in Jessie must be tired, inferring to let it be, meaning, not to insist on acquiring a poem, but she insists non-the-less. And to accommodate Russell and Juliet, and possibly himself, Jessie agrees to do one more.
“It’s not worth it, not here, you’re wasting your pearls,” Johnny, says with a concerned tone in her voice.
The few standing is Russell, Harry and Juliet [the poet still sitting down with his wife at the end of the table, somewhat out of the picture for the moment]. Yet, the only ones that seem to know what Jessie are saying, is Jessie and Juliet [along with Johnny of course].
Jessie makes another poem, the guests are gone now, only Russell and his girlfriend Tammy, along with the Goldsmith’s and Jessie and Johnny. She reads the poem, it tells her about getting old before her time [she is in her mid early 40’s], also, too much ahead of herself, that she is getting too far over her head in everything she is doing; in effect, ruining their future, hers and Harry’s business, per se. It ends [the poem that is], implying she’s going to end up being a beggar on the streets, consequently loosing it all with a will to kill.
Juliet [becoming unraveled], showing twitching in her face, holding back her emotions, her repugnant remarks that want to escape her, cannot hold them back any longer, she scolds Jessie for being so self-righteous, for being a dooms- day-prophet. Yet she will not show her poem to anyone [least she be exposed more]. Harry tries to get the poem from her but she refuses, tugging and pushing him away like a mad child; --
now Juliet, [with the people wanting to leave, getting their coats on] runs to Jessie apologizing but wanting a new poem, one of/for the whole group.
Russell: “Juliet, I thank you very much, but you’re abusing my guests,” with a tone of contention, [along with defiance and protection for his two friends] Russell, takes in a deep breath, not sure where this is all leading to.
Juliet: “Your guests,” she implies, “They are at my house.” Russell shakes his head.
Russell: “Why now, why not another time, it’s 2:00 AM?”
Juliet: “Because once Jessie goes he is never coming back.”
Russell: “Oh that’s nonsense.”
Juliet: “Ask him Russell.” Russell turns to Jessie and asks if he is coming back. Jessie hesitates with eye contact as he looks at Johnny…
Jessie: “I’ve wasted enough pearls here, it’s time to go.” Russell not knowing what to say simply lifts his eyebrows, in a dumbfounded manner.
Russell: “Well, I’m going.”
Jessie sits down right along side of the door, leading to the outside area and starts writing, everyone now is waiting, even Russell and Tammy. He writes for about 20-minutes about the group, and then hands the poem to Russell to read at his will. Russell looks at Juliet, and starts to read it right there, knowing Juliet would be offended had he not.
The poem reads they [the group of 25-guests] will not stop at fame or fortune no matter what. Some are good; some are bad [the chasing after the fame is the theme]. But the poem implies the fame has them by the throat, which is strangling them. It has ceased to produce happiness, rather immediate gratification; in addition, it has for many of the folk given way to power which is not under control, but rather out of control. They have their own world it implies. And if anything, he [Jessie] was the intruder and a distraction at best. And yet, he being the intruder with no power bothers Juliet. The poem goes on to explain that it has moved Juliet to the degree of pain [and as Russell reads on, one can see the pain, anger, and hate reeking out of her pours on her face]. It gives her pain that someone else can see her soul, and how black it is. Juliet is furious now, but holds back to hear the rest. The end of his poem indicates someone will try to kill him: Johnny grabs Jessie’s hand and pulls him out of the house; Russell’s eyes open up wide, turns away from the poem, drops it on the floor, and walks out, as Juliet picks it up.
The end of the poem reads:
“Let nothing—no, not even death itself, no matter of whom, take your revenge and you will win.” It was what Juliet was thinking, in her ill-stricken mind.
The Kill
Two weeks had gone by before Juliet showed up at Jessie’s apartment door; Johnny is out for the moment, doing some household tasks, outside of the house. Jessie let her in their small, comfortable, and modest one bedroom apartment and asks her to sit down on the small sofa by the window, as she could watch and see his return, and she waited.
Upon arrival Jessie asks, walking through the door: “And just what is on you mind, what we can do for you Juliet?”
With a strange look on her face, as if to say, ‘…you forgot what the poem said already,’ a longer pause occurs as she stands up, now a deep stare at Jessie, she pulls out a gun and shoots him in the chest, as if she was searching for the keys to her car, next to one of the main arteries of the heart the bullet is lodged.
Juliet: “I don’t need to know my sins, keep them to yourself; yes, you should have saved your advice for those who most need it, not want it.” At that moment, Johnny heard a shot; she was outside of the apartment: --Jessie was now on the floor.
Juliet [peering down to Jessie as he is dying]: “Funny, you forgot what you wrote, haw…” [Jessie often did forget what he wrote, having Multiple Sclerosis].
When Johnny showed up, hearing the shot, running up the stairs, seeing Juliet leaving, running past her, her first view was seeing Jessie laying there dying on the shinny wooden floor.
Moments later Russell and Tammy show up, as Johnny is calling for the ambulance and police. Everyone knew it was Juliet, they all have seen her quickly walking down the few flights of stairs from the apartment, gun hanging loose from her hand, a smirk on her face.
Johnny: “Jessie, ohooo, Jessie, I knew I shouldn’t have left you I told you so many times, so very many times, people just don’t want to know, they just want to walk around blind, they really do, it is like throwing pearls into the swine pit, I told you and told you, you got to tell them something nice, not the truth, it is not what they are seeking.” She is hugging the dead corpse now, not letting go, making moaning sounds, grieving, she adds,
“They only want to know what you know, to see if you really know it. That’s all. They don’t want the truth.” But it is too late for advice, dead is dead, and all the advice in the world will do no good now, yet she rambles on and on.
◊
Now Russell and Tammy knew what was meant by the usage of the word, ‘pearl’. It had made a better man out of him in only two short weeks, he was taking his own inventory; --and the relationship with his father had even gotten better. For Harry, he was thinking twice about his dealings with people, it also was starting to show; he and Juliet were becoming more resistant to one another, someone was wising up; she was no longer getting her way, how could she, she was in prison, and money did not buy her way out, for her husband did not purchase the best lawyer in town: matter of fact, he left town during the trial. Juliet, infuriated, thought she had hid it from the world, all her insecurities, her secrets, and here besides God himself, another man could see her soul, her real character, it was all too much. Yet now in prison, behind bars, she need not hide her other side, and she screamed, and bellowed, and yelled at the guards; fought with the other prisoners. In time she became madder at God than at Jessie, for God had given him the gift in the first place. And for the rest her short lived life in prison, she was a panther waiting to attack, and one day, went to the bathroom and could not stop the waste that came out of her, she sat for four hours on the toilet, until all her liquids were dispersed out of her, and keeled over dead.
7
The Tale of:
The Feathered Serpent
And Lilly the Lizard
Once upon a time, about 7000-years ago, there was a six feet lizard who wanted to cross the great Strait of Gibraltar, otherwise known as “The Pillars of Hercules,” by the way of a barge; her name was Lilly. Knowing this was very dangerous she hesitated, sitting by this huge rock called Gibraltar, which was known as one of the Pillars of Gibraltar, looking more like a mountain than a pillar or rock though.
The Great Feathered Serpent approached her suggesting he could fly her over the strait to safety. Lilly thought about it, and although she wanted to go badly to see her friends and family in the deserts of Morocco she told herself to wait, hesitate, for she was no dummy, that she had heard about this creature, and he was the “Lord of Death,” and would surely have something bloody in store for her, should she allow him to take her without further thought, yet she couldn’t completely say no, and at the same time, neither could she think about asking him why he was so willing to do this. And so she pondered on his offer as they both sat on a cliff up upon this great rock, looking over the strait to the other side which was Africa, and another huge rock, considered the other portion, or brother to this rock.
For thirty-years he sat on that rock-cliff waiting for Lilly to make a decision, and then abruptly, Lilly asked:
“Why would you like to take me over to the other side? Is there something in it for you?”
Said the Feathered Serpent, “I’m glad you asked that question, it is because if I do one good deed in my life, I will save my soul from eternal domination in the “Fires of the Dead Flies. “
Lilly thought about what he said for a moment, saying,
“Why didn’t you tell me these 30-years ago?”
“Because,” replied the Feathered Serpent, “If I would have, it would not have been a service from my heart, that is, unconditional, it would have been based on you knowing I was getting something out of it, and that brother does not work with the King of Birds.”
Said Lilly [happy as a peacock with its wings spread], “Let’s go then, what yaw waiting for, too much time wasted already.”
Well, knowing this, Lilly trusted the Feathered Serpent now, that is, knowing he was getting something out of the deal. Yet, at this point of time, the Feathered Serpent did not really want to take her across anymore, but figured he would even though he had lost his chance for salvation, for he had agreed not to mention his reward, and did of course—. Fine, he agreed he would, but added that he was much older now and he might not make it should there be a lot of turbulence and shifting of huge waves in the strait. Adding, his body was heavy and older now; so he explained this to Lilly, adding, he would have to fly low because his body was too aged to gain any worthwhile altitude, and the loss of strength after 30-years of waiting. He continued to try and explain to Lilly [as she seemed quite bored] that one needs strong wings to maintain the air balance within the currents of the strait, for at times wild waves, and contextual winds can bring the best of a flying bird to his death—moreover, not gaining or maintaining the proper heights for flying could be disastrous.
[Appalled at his whimpering she said] “Stop your belly-aching and take me.”
“Oh,” he moaned, “…the problems of getting older are frightening at times.” He tried to persuade her not to go; yet Lilly would have nothing to do with it.
And so without any more a due, Lilly jumped on the Serpent’s back and insisted he start flying across the strait immediately [rushing him before he had second thoughts again].
As he could not fly high some of the waves were starting to hit his wings, and the winds were shifting his body up and down, making him dizzy, but he fought the currents of winds and put all the strength he could into his flying, as Lilly sat back enjoying the rocky ride.
They were now halfway across the passage, and the Feathered Serpent looked in back of him, he knew now he was at a point of no return, and should he try to return, would make no sense, yet going continuing was becoming alarming, for the winds and the waves were worsening. Intuition told him, it could not be made unless the weather lightened up. Now in thought, as he coasted just above the waters of the strait, he told himself, out loud, ‘I should have listened to my better judgment, if so I’d not be in this predicament.’ The mumble was overheard by Lilly, who paid little head to his dismay. At this juncture, he had but an ounce of strength left and each flap of his winds were weighed down with the heavy water being slapped upon them by the shifting waves. He knew he could drop the lizard into the sea by making a sharp turn, thus, saving himself, but after 30-years he got to like the lizard, and so he pushed on, forward, dismissing that thought as foolishness. He calculated he could continue to fly with that little strength he had left, for a short while longer, and both then would drop to their deaths, and so be it, he told himself, at least he had company, and friendship for a period of time, and a last ride across the mighty strait, even though it was not a comfortable one.
The lizard was thinking about his friends and family she had not seen for 40-years, while the Feathered Serpent drastically tried to keep his balance and height in flying. How happy they would be at his sight, thought the daydreaming lizard, resting on the back of the Feathered Serpent. “Yes,” she thought, ‘…they will see me so fresh, refined, and polished, after all these years.’ For a lizard, she was not old; they live much longer than the life expectancy of the birds of the air. She told herself, how she would tell them all—all the great stories she had in her head, if only this flying-serpent could make the flight. Plus, she assured herself, he was bluffing; he was just trying to get revenge because she didn’t accept his offer sooner.
The Angel
Then all of a sudden an angelic-creature appeared and told them to turn back, that the winds and the high waves of water were even worse ahead; that there was a rock they could rest on about a mile behind them, that he could possible glide his way back with the currents of the wind. But the lizard insisted on going ahead, and threatened to jump into the water if the Serpent turned about, saying,
“You will not get your good deed if I jump into the water.” Not realizing the good deed was not part of the dynamics anymore, for the Serpent had told the secret, and was not given blessings on that. In consequence, the Serpent was no longer worried about the good deed, rather his friend’s life was his concern, realizing the angelic being was being kind, the Serpent excused himself to the being, and continued to fly straight into the vortex of shifting winds.
The Feathered Serpent got several sharp pushes of air in his face, whereupon he lost his breath, as his wings started folding, and as he coughed, trying to empty out the water from his lungs, trying to get his breath back, he lost height in his sailing across the water, and in a matter of seconds, ended up diving like a fallen pillar 25 feet down into the waters of the strait, --at the same time the lizard fell off his back into the turbulent waters as they both shifted with the waves, limbs and wings dangling above the water’s surface.
Then out of the clouds came the angelic-creature, grabbing the Feathered Serpent by the wings and saving him from a watery grave. And with a whisper to the Serpent’s ears, the angelic creature said,
“You are saved, not for your deed, but for your intent, for we are judged for what we do and leave behind for history to record in its feathery book of foot prints.” And with some kind of magical wind, the Serpent went ascending up into the heavens.
The Angelic Creature
Lilly’s head was bobbing up and down, emerging from the sea, resembling a turtle, or whale, as if spying on who were above the waters. She was not able, or capable of doing much else. There she rest, lost in its waters, with only the bobbing against her body, and the shifting waves in the sea, to amuse her. Her eyes looking up at the Angelic Creature, hoping she would be saved also, that the creature would save her. But the Angelic Creature simply didn’t; a paused and silence took place, as the Angelic Creature looked down on her, and then said,
“I shall make you the same deal that I made with the Serpent, should you find a friend or foe, and do a good deed, unconditional, I will bring you to the heavens. Should you not you will remain in these waters for eternity.” Spitting water out of her mouth, she agreed, and that was the last time she was ever heard of.
Note: This story was originally published by the author’s book; “Everyday’s an Adventure, 2002; revised 2003 and republished again in this book. This is considered by the author’s wife to be her special little story; for some odd reason, the author can’t figure it out.
Dracula’s Ghost
]
Preface: For intent and/or purposes, it might be fair to say, Mr. Bram Stoker, the creator of “Dracula”, whom died in l912, and created this story of horror in the late l890’s, possible had in mind with all its fascinations, to leave behind tales to be told, or for other writers to completed the chronicle he started, to fill in the holes left behind. But in this story, it is the holes he may not have guessed at, the ones created for the future, the 21st Century, which affects, in this story, a man to no end.
The spirit that lingered from this person’s cradle to his grave, is none other than Dracula’s spirit; his name being, Vlad Bran; --for him, Dracula is more than a ghost that lingers out, and throughout the atmospheric countryside for those who are looking for superstition to take over. At length, it is his demise, a life—horrifically lived because of Mr. Stoker’s creation. This is the story about one man’s struggle with the Ghost of Dracula. It starts right where it should start, right where Dracula, the real Dracula was born.
∑
Instead of an introduction, which this story really does not need, let me just update the reader to the far past of this tragedy [of whom many have called simply a misfortune], which leads up to the present [2002], that is my present, when I went to Wales and met this man prior to his death. Yes, I do say, prior to it, for his death was a weigh lifted from the world, thereafter. Before he died though I got to explained to him his twisted past, where light was blown out of his unforgiving brain and he was brought to despair; and he got to explain to me his out of shape present, along with the gulf between him and the vampire. This monstrous thing, and soul reduced creature through dread, strength and protest, brought terror to a city.
As I explained, I told him he was the residue from some demonic genetic pool [a collection], that existed around 11,500 BC, better known as the Watchers, or Angelic Renegades; good angels turned bad, of which God sent to watch over the earth, but whom took it upon themselves to commit the unpardonable sin, in angelic form, by cohabitating with human females; thus, producing a gene pool we have not been able to rid ourselves of to this very writing, a pool that produced several different species of living creatures, mostly called demons, hybrids. This gene pool as I explained to Vlad infected him, being the 7th son of a family in Romania. In that area of the world, it has infected many in the past in a like manner. But this is the story of just one it infected, my friend Vlad. Again, the story of Vlad Bran, otherwise know as Vlad Hoof starts back in 1969.
He had a small tail at the end of his spine, and a hoof for a foot, when he was born. He was to be what no one wanted to be--‘draco’, meaning dragon. But to his family he would be nothing less than a freak of nature, a vampire by folklore.
His family named him Vlad Hoof, although their name was Bran. He was born in the region called Transylvania, in Romania, in a city called Bransav.
At an early age Vlad read and heard Bran Stoker’s Vampire stories, although to be quite honest, the book was never seen or translated to Vlad’s home country language until 1990. That is when he became even angrier with his ugly looking body. Yet he covered his tail with pants, and no one was the wiser, for he neither dated female nor male. And his hoof foot, he put on an oversize shoe, and walked with a cane to maintain balance.
He was 21-years old when he first read the book Dracula, and its myth. He seemed to fit the nature of this creature, that is, everything but the blood craving, which the creature liked of his victims. He laughed at it. But he understood everyone’s fears. Was he the vampire Mr. Stoker’s book said he should be, proclaimed him to be? No, he wasn’t though a little odd maybe, but not the vampire. To Vlad Bran this was very unfair. Matter-of-fact, if he was alive, he’d have liked to kill him, slowly, very slowly for defaming his life. For making the world think he was a freak. The word ‘Kill!’ went through his mind like water down a dam, like water that busted open a dam.
All in all, Vlad was a silent kind of lad, that is, he kept to himself. He liked to drink when he could, --some folks would say, associated to a good Welsh trait or Celtic at best. But silence is not what was going on inside of him. He wanted to break out, not hide, break out and create a storm, a typhoon. He had something to say, to scream, to announce. As I suppose, like anyone with a long line of ongoing pain, and hurting; --yes, oh yes, he wanted the pain to stop, or at least, revenge for this misfortune. “Why me,” he said standing in the middle of the street by his house. But he didn’t ever get an answer, and today would be no different. But today would be unlike any other, in a new kind of way. He had in his hand a small suite case, and $2,000 in his pocket. His father had given it to him when he was 15-years old. Told him to take it when he decided to leave home, and never come back. And today was that day. And he knew where he was going. To the train station to get a train at dock #4, 13:50 PM for Cardiff, Wales, where he would become a manager of a hotel-restaurant, he was unsure, but it was either a three or four star. He was already given the job, yet how long they’d let him work there was another question that rested deep within his conscious, surely he thought, after they’d meet him, things could rapidly change, change for the worse that is. Nonetheless, it was a beginning; a new beginning is exactly what he needed. And so at 13:10 PM, Vlad sat at the station waiting for the train.
Cardiff, Wales
Upon his arrival in Cardiff, he established himself at an apartment overlooking the new Millennium Stadium along the city’s river [the Taff], and not too far from the Cardiff brewery. And within the following first few days, he secured his job down at the Hotel, one of the local hotels by the Cardiff Castle.
After working there a few days he discovered to his amazement, the employees and employer did not make fun of him publicly because of his leg, but rather gave him sympathy. And in addition, he soon found out he was well liked by his peers as well as his subordinates. But none-the-less, it didn’t heal the long scars he had within his belly, and throughout his hot-blood running veins.
As several months passed, he established himself as a serious and mindful manager in the food department, the headwaiter, with several under him. Plus he would attend weekly meetings concerning improvements, in which he gave good advice; never showing his discontent for the world outside his mind, his damaged soul. Yet, it was justice he yearned for, for an undeserved, unwarranted life he had to endure. When he walked by city hall, he spit out at it. When he walked by the National Museum he stopped and would always wondered if there were any misunderstood freaks of nature like him in there. He liked walking the riverfront and watching the alcoholics as they’d get drunk sit on the benches, overlooking the Millennium Stadium, a wasted life, yet they were more fortunate than him he’d conclude. He felt if anyone, any person, anybody, someone, knew what he was thinking—which was killing--, if they really could read his mind, if they were half sober, they would realize he could and would carry it out, and henceforth, by and by his secret would be nullified. And just what he was thinking was revenge, retribution, and payback. Yes, payback on the world. Someone, --anyone would do. But he was not a vampire like people thought him as. He was just misunderstood. He didn’t need blood to cure him, to sustain him, only blood to wipe the dirt they threw on him away, off, and off for good, it was an invisible stain that penetrated deep, one that he did not make, nor one that he did not capitalize on, it was Stoker, and his monster Dracula. And so, as spring came, he drew up his plan, his payback plan, going over it a hundred times a day to insure all would go well.
The Secret Plan
From this one day, this day on, he made a pledge to himself; he would carry out his revenge plan, his payback plan: --he called it, his “Blood Plan.” Now that it had all been thought out, written down, he commented to the passers by who could not see nor hear him as he stood peering down from his apartment window, “Who will it be –you? Oooor you! Orrr maybe you [?]” He smugly hissed, pointing his finger at them as they waked by unaware.
His first victim was selected while visiting a local café and coffeehouse. One he had never visited before. He had found the staff to be very friendly, and so he sat towards the back unnoticed, smiled lightly when looked at, and drank his coffee as one would expect, and ate his doughnut.
He overheard two women talking, but a short distance from him, both around 30-years old; it was 7:26 PM. They talked about cheating on their husbands, they both implied their husbands were [and so he gathered] some sort of computer troubleshooters, whom were on the road, and presently on a train going to London to fix some problems for their company; --evidently both husbands working for the same company, and both women knowing each other because of this fact. One of the women was tall, about six-feet the other, about five-foot, four inches. Vlad, figured he could handle either one, but the shorter one would be easier of course, plus she was the one bragging, for the most part that is, doing the most talking, ‘full of you crap.’ In length she talked about how fine her ass was and how it could attract any man’s eyes, once she caught them, that is. And then, it was simply a matter of when and where they would get it on. The taller one blushed and told her how about them two getting it on. The smaller one didn’t go for that, she preferred men to women she inferred; nor was she ‘bisexual’ she sternly commented.
It was about 8:17 PM when the taller one got up and left, Vlad just glanced from the side of his eye, his peripheral vision caught every movement, which was normal for him, a survival technique learned long ago, for often his father would slap him in the back of the head out of spite as he walked by his freaky son, and Vlad would use this skill to duck, avoid the physical abuse, contact; --another ten minutes went by, the small one now got up catching Vlad’s eyes. And yes, showed that ass. He smiled, and so did she, teasing him bit; she picked up her purse and went out to her car. Vlad followed behind, with a tranquil-silence. She didn’t turn around, and therefore she didn’t see Vlad’s leg being pulled along like a dead-log, rapidly being pushed down the river, --his eyes were getting bigger and bigger, wider and wider, as he pulled his leg along, trying to lift it a slight, as not to alert her of the dragging sound, --his mouth slurping with discharge as a wolf would creeping behind his prey in preparation for attack, and his upper lip wanting to swear at the bitch before him to get his inner animosity out, yet he held his countenance firm in place, every thing he held back in a perfect balance, knowing his plan called for it; for if she yelled it could disrupt his arrangement, and he had worked diligently to have it ready for this moment, this very instant. Wanting to tell her how cruel she was had to be packaged tight within his chest, so it would not escape, he would get his vengeance soon, so very soon, within seconds he told himself; yes, o yes, she was unfair to her husband, this also bothered him, and confirmed to him he was picking the right prey: --and in less than 10-seconds he’d show her, just a matter of seconds. It was only fair, justice if anything, justice catching up to where it should have been long ago; --everything had a price Vlad told himself, and this was her price, her fee to play you have to pay, he convinced himself; for this reason, he would set the husband free of this unholy-bondage; matter of fact, he should be thankful to him. And he had the guts to do, he assured himself, the stomach for this atrocity about to take place, he had it, he cherished it, had no misgivings, none what so ever: --and as he told himself before, he reminded himself again, the number one asset in this situation is having guts, mettle and iron nerves.
He walked behind her as she went searching for her keys in her small purse, turning around, hearing that dragging noise of his leg, as she made a 45-degree turn of her neck, Vlad pulled out his 16-inch knife strapped to his leg, and with one sweep, a slash, going the same way of the cool-wind, decapitated her within a millisecond, --her body still standing, her head now under the car, and her blood spurting, profusely shooting, all about. Then like a tower crashing to the ground, after a demolition group had set charges, her body fell onto the asphalt street, lying desecrated for the entire underworld to see. Vlad jumped back, as if a curse was on the knife, then without hesitation, cleaned it with a white scarf, as if it would tarnish the blade, and attached it back onto the outer wooden part of his leg, and started to walk home.
As he walked along the riverfront, there was that drunk again, the blond, the one he had seen number of times, that is, more so than the others who gathered in the river walk park area, and mumbling to himself.
He stopped by him, looked, then the drunk said, “What the fuck you want mister?” Vlad started back walking, said nothing out loud, his heart pounding, whispering a curse to be. His facial expressions: cool, dim yet highlighted with applause, as if he had touched euphoria’s face; then when he was a distance away from his massacre, he shouted, “Number one, number one, I like the blood. I got number one;” having said that, he then dashed to his apartment building.
Number Two
Two weeks had passed by since the murder, the first murder that is, in the interim Vlad, on a daily bases, would simply pick up the local newspaper after work, read it while walking down Castle Street, and marvel at how easy it was to murder, once you had a halfway decent plan. It didn’t take a lot of money he thought, to kill, just guts, lots of guts and a fire inside of you, one that even Greece or Romans could not put out. And he had that fire, and felt better after the kill. He felt relief; justice had taken its course, righteousness had prevailed. It was his justice though, but who cares, it was fair. That is, fair to him. She had everything he had nothing. No one ever laughed at her, he told himself; for the swiftness of heaven did not come to his rescue, or the kings of the world, or even his parents. He told himself, he comes to make injustice right—to push back the shadow of incompetence. He knew within his heart he had a sea of phantoms, ghosts from his past, and he needed to remind the world it was not just made for the beautiful. He even looked at the possibility of what the papers said, that being, she [the victim] did the murderer no harm, ‘so…what was the motive?’ Cried the paper. “Motive,” he asked himself, “What are they talking about, motive,” adding, “Who needs a motive?” And so he remained with his scored view. But so what, he thought. It wasn’t done because she was innocent anyway. It was done because he was harmed. That was his justification. Not innocence. If that was the case no one was truly innocent. He just happened to find a person who could trigger his internal-fire, and help out with his motivated plan.
‘I want a clergy for number two,’ he told himself as he stood silently-still at work, staring out the big window in the restaurant onto the street, then it came to his mind again, during his walk home after work that evening; --it was 6:30 PM, as he passed a park with ancient looking stones in the center of it, he was taking the long route, down by the museum, on his walk home, at length he pondered on how he liked this city, and its architecture, culture, history. But all the facts and figures in the world—he told himself—would not stop this second killing. He couldn’t get even with God, but he could with one of his believers, he told himself. And it was God’s fault he was like this anyhow, he reflected. He could have made him different at birth, he told himself. Maybe make him the 6th son, not the 7th. Why him? Why not one of the families who lived down the street from his family? Why couldn’t one of their children be born with a tail at least? God was nothing but an unfair big shot, he told himself: --one that nobody could hurt, but if hurting was possible, I mean really possible, it must be through his clergy, he told himself.
He mumbled to himself:
[In the plainest of words he commented] “I hate those Jews, God’s chosen, God’s beloved. And I hate those Christians, howsoever; they think they are the only ones that will go to heaven. Yes, yes, and I hate those indigent Muslims, those radical freaks.” As he knew, he really hated the world, and hidden under the surface, someplace, --the stirring of these roots never suffered for nourishment.
As he continued to walk he was trying to program himself to murder whatever clergy he found first, for he hated them all equally; to him all were simply creatures that walked with an empty soul, --heads slanted back with arrogance, as if they had a special, ticket to heaven, image of God no one else had, some secret insight. Thus, he proclaimed, the rift of hell was going to land on one of these lofty creatures, “…and let’s see if the Cosmic Council of God protects him,’ he commented to himself.
And there he stood at the Cardiff Central Station. Nearby he approached a preacher, saying [with a pale low voice], “Sir I have a severe problem, it has to do with knowing who the slayer is of that woman who was in the paper a few weeks back. I need your advice, I really, really do, but I fear for my life, should I tell the authorities.”
The preacher looked into his eyes [as they were deep and small and pushed together]; --then he looked at the ticket the stranger held in his trembling hand, and then around the train station, “How about a police officer, son,” he told Vlad, noticing there was one available. “Possibly, but I still need your advice,” replied Vlad. Then Vlad asked if they could talk somewhere quite, so no one would overhear them, possible over by the loading dock, an area not far from them. And they proceeded to walk. At this point, they both could be seen by the public, until they got to the other side by the loading area; ‘here’ thought Vlad, with only a shadow blocking half their view, but this was he best he could find in the whole station, it would have to do—at any rate, the preacher seemed to feel safe enough here, and so Vlad consecrated this spot for his unholy act.
As the clergy gazed, and scanned the station, he could see a police officer over by platform #4 not all that far away, and this man who walked with a bad leg was surely not harmful, at least not in the open, he concluded. Vlad asked if they could pray together. And the preacher said ‘sure,’ with hopeful and joyful eyes.
As the preacher shut his eyes lowering his head downward, he started to pray; then Vlad pulled out of his pocket a wooden spike, and carefully aimed it, and forcefully drove it through the preacher’s backbone like lightening hitting a tree, the preacher fell to his knees.
As he was about to scream with pain, Vlad shoved his glove into the preacher’s mouth; terror and agony took over his composure, something he fought off, yet he innately begged to get his revenge first, to witness if he could, a dying breath from his victim. To him it was all academic, --and consequently, being the underdog all his life, death was no worse for him than living a life he had already lived; --he conjured in his mind, it was no worse than being poor, or starved to death, or scorned endlessly, day after day, hour after hour, his whole life; as a result, trying to hide here and there. In his village he could not find any satisfactory distraction from his pain. He concluded it only bothered those who had a ‘melting pot’, for a future; and this was Vlad’s destiny, or so he felt.
The policeman now was looking at them both, but did nothing, as Vlad got on his knees as to pretence as if to pray. Then with a solid push, the preacher fell over the ledge of the dock [some four feet down], falling to the dark unused train-tracks that lay below, where cargo sat. Vlad knew he had missed all the preacher’s vital nerves, for it was planned that way, he wanted the preacher to suffer for several hours before death took him. As one might figure, Vlad was a stranger to his cursed nervous system and vengeful disposition; he only knew it was hardened by time. At large, he showed little emotion as he watched the preacher trying to get up from his position, crooked position, ----wrapped around a few cargo boxes, lying over a railroad track, and face in the dirt, back exposed to Vlad’s eyes; Vlad had tied his hands behind his back, and his legs together. Then backing away from the platform, into the light, he noticed the police officer was gone. No one really noticed, he assured himself; then one last glance at the preacher, and Vlad was off to his apartment, mumbling out loud, “Number three, number three, number three-e, now I got to get number three-e-e”
Number Three
When Vlad got home that evening he told himself the third victim would be a tourist. They got lots of money to throw away, he superficially convinced himself, in lack of a better reason. Plus they used to come to Transylvania looking for Dracula, when it was simply a myth. They wanted blood. Dracula was nothing but a Romanian ruler of the 15th Century who ruled by force. Matter-of-fact, he was well liked by many. And then comes along this writer, this Stoker guy, yes, who comes along and distorts everything, everything and everybody, and gives him a bad name. He had told himself a hundred times if not a thousand, they look for a ghost, nothing more, nothing less, and that is what they will find, a ghost, that never was. Matter of fact, he mumbled to himself: Mr. Stoker was not even from Romania, yet he writes about a monster that never was from his country. And the tourists come looking for bits and pieces of this fictitious monster, in particular to put the Stoker’s vampire into a little frame, to tell their family and friends back home, they went to the ‘vampire land’; oh yes, trying to put in a box the world of Stoker’s Dracula and carry it home; --they’d, the tourist that is, would look in your eyes, ask questions, personal questions on everybody, things, personal things they had no business to know. “Yes, oh yes,” he would murmur, mumble, complain: “… it brings in a few, just a few, and only a few, and only a few dollars into the economy, but it brings also madness,” and this madness had been thrown upon him. They do not even ask about the true Dracula, Vlad would question this [the once well liked hideous and vengeful king who ruled this land hundreds of years ago]; how misled people can be, he told himself. But he would iron this myth out, once and for all, for all times sake, he told himself. So saying, “If they want to see a real vampire in action, a real live vampire, I mean one with blood, hot blood… [Then he’d stop, pause], I am the one, the action man to see.” And because of all this hostility swept upon him for so many years, he came to expect recurring nightmares, and got them. The torment was not the nightmares though, not in particular; that is, not as much as the expectations of them.
Vlad waited for another month to pass before he implemented his new plan, then after work on the 32nd day after the previous murder, after work at 6:35 PM, he went up to the hotel room #304. He knew the lady had been there only two days and that she knew no one in particular, she was alone. She was just vacationing from America, and came to Cardiff from London, bored with the city she had been to several times before, or so she had told Vlad on one occasion during brunch. She was in her early 40’s, a divorced woman; this was his new selection, he told himself, his new number #3, third-victim to be. He was very seldom questioned—at this point of his working career—by the other co-workers, or staff at the hotel, on his movements throughout the hotel; thus, by and by, he had formed what one might call ‘quiet friendships’ among his comrades at work. He even borrowed out, and accepted books from his colleagues in the hopes of building an unquestionable solidarity amongst them. This actually was quite hard for him, being he was ill at ease with them. On the other hand, his solitary life produced many odd voices in his head and insomnia, voices and faces and nightmares; too many voices to where at times they were indistinguishable. And so at times even being ill at ease, the company could be a good distraction, but in the long run it was never adequate.
As he knocked at her door, she asked, “…Who is there?”
“The Captain of the waiters,” Vlad replied, adding, “You left your scarf in the dinning room.”
The voice behind the door said, “Dinning room, dinning room, of course.”
Vlad had stolen it, while she was in the bathroom, for this very occasion. As she opened up the door, she took the scarf from Vlad’s hand, putting a smile on her face with a big “thank you.” Then like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, he hit her in the left side of her jaw, knocking her out, and to the floor she dropped like a sack of potatoes; thus, he quickly entered her room, closing the door behind him. Finding she was dressed would make things smoother, quicker, --he took out a small bottle of whisky, poured it down her throat, as she spit some up and out, and swallowed the rest of the pint, gagging a bit, she quickly came to her senses. By the time she was fully awake, she was fully drunk, commenting, “You can rape me, I won’t resist, or scream, but please do not hurt me, get it over with.”
“My dear, let’s go to the river walk, and there I want to rape you, and there get it over with, and I shall set you free, yes, free, free, free.” She nodded her head, not wanting to cause any problems, not provoking him, or for the most part, cause him any troubles, to where he would not have pity on her; yet had she known, he had already made up his mind, surely such thinking would have been, thrown away, yet womanlike, she kept to this philosophy, thinking she was a small woman of about five-feet, and if worse came to worse what could she do, therefore it was better to go along with the situation, plus, if this was all he wanted of her, life was more important, therefore let him have it. But this was only her deduction of the situation, not his.
And so he took her down the back steps, arms around her small shoulder, she stumbling a bit, his leg dragging, thumping down each and every step as if a drum were being banged on, then out the back door they went, his solid shoulders, and chest and upper arms taking most of her weight. Walking slowly but steadily down the sidewalk, he continued the threatening, that he could kill her with the knife he had in his pocket, which he did have, if she tried to scream or run at any moment.
And so by and by, they walked the several blocks to the destination point, and ended up standing silently in front of a double-gated fence; with peculiar surrounds. The first thing that came to her mind was a ‘junkyard,’ of sorts. Vlad told her to be quiet, still, if reconciliation was to be her desire, and of which he assured her would be met with equal desire on his behalf; --insofar as, not to wake up anyone [or thing] so he could proceed with his rape. And so they snuck in through a narrow opening between the two gates, finding themselves behind a building. He told her a second time not to make a sound. Her life depended on it –as to not wake up the owner; but there were other reasons for the silence-unspoken reasons at this point. And there on the ground, he pulled his pants down, and her dress up, and jumped between her legs. That is what she expected, and it would be his first time having sex. As she felt him entering her, she put her hand behind him, feeling his tail accidentally, and started to pull on it, no quite knowing what it was. He stopped quickly—his eyes opened as wide as golf balls, and with a low rustic, revengeful snobbish voice, said: “And so you have discovered my tail, bitch?” She looked shocked [tail], and then out of nowhere started screaming [thinking she was with the devil himself]. Vlad jumped up ran out to the gate, could not push himself quick enough through the opening, so he climbing over it then stood quietly looking through the fence as her shadow stood up. And behind her three dogs were walking slowly, creeping slowly, intensely toward her, he could see them, but she could not—they were focused on her, and her alone. She turned hearing the dog’s nostrils breathing in oxygen, and the sound of the dogs’ growl a horrific sound which echoed throughout her bones, as she froze in stance, the hot breath of the dogs you could see and almost smell, it was coming out of their mouths as well as their nostrils now, --as she blinked her eyes and took in a breath of air, as if to say something, the dogs were on top of her like vampires, chewing her flesh, ripping at her throat.
The papers read the next day, “Woman mulled by dogs, while being raped.”
Number Four
It was not over yet. Vlad wanted 7-dead, for his seven deadly sins, and for his curse of being the seventh son. And his next victim was to be an old man, one in his 70’s. He lived in his apartment building. He bragged, and bragged and was envious of everyone; he was intolerable, sighed Vlad often when he came home to his quiet apartment, intolerable, yes how he failed to see it before was beyond him, but he was a nuisance to mankind; intolerable was not even a strong enough word, rather, the old man could be impossible to talk with. Never had a smile, and when asked a question, he’d turn his back and walk away: --rude and without a solution. He made lies up about everyone, told them about their sins, but never about his. He’d gossip to the Landlord, trying to create a scandal, not sure why, Vlad would conclude, possible for attention; if you had your music up too loud, or if you had unusually guest not belonging to the apartment building living there free; yes, oh yes, you’d think he was the Caretaker, but he wasn’t, he was just a noisy, selfish, busybody. He would be the one to be sacrifice for mankind, the pure one; he called him; the one who did it all, the old man. What more did he need to live for? Just taking up air and space, resources ‘surely,’ he tried to convince himself, life was no more to him than a drop of water in an almost a full bucket.
And so it was two weeks after the last murder, when Vlad went to the old man’s room, knocked on the door, with a pizza in hand, offering it to him, saying, “Sir, I know you have a hard time getting out, and so I thought I’d offer you a pizza out of friendship, you know, trying to be a good neighbor [putting on a smile, and having a hard time keeping it].”
In good spirits, the old man took it. Looked Vlad in the eyes, and shut the door as if it was owed to him. Vlad, stood there for a minute, thought how rude, assuring himself, this was surely the right selection: then went to his apartment waited two hours and went back to the old man’s apartment. Knocked on the door, and he didn’t answer, as Vlad expected for he had put sleeping chemicals all over the pizza. Vlad quickly took out a master key of sorts, he had made out of a nail by carving the end of it to a funny looking ‘t’-shape type, and open the door; put the old man’s arm around his shoulder and walked him slowly but carrying him mostly down to the Cardiff Castle [the Keep], several blocks away. There he opened the heavy gates again with that key he had made months ago, and snuck through into the grounds to the Keep the castle part on top of a small hill. He had to walk up some 30-steps after going through another set of iron gates, and there it was, as if it were tower cliffs looking down on you, the mighty fortress made of brick and towering stones, solid as if giants had placed each brick into it place; then after reaching the top step, the castle door ahead of them, to the left of him was an old well, with water still in it. He took the iron platform off it, and with a powerful thrust, threw the old man in it. As he hit the bottom, he awoke screaming in his watery coffin, but no one could hear, that is, no one but Vlad, and then with his piercing eyes, he looked down into the darkness of the well, heard the splashes and pleas, the crying of the dying; then the thump of the cover went over the well, as if the tomb was now sealed.
It was two weeks later before anyone had discovered the old man dead.
Number Five
And now he told himself, ‘Comes my mercy killing.” One he would do for mankind even though they would not thank him for it. He would kill the young drunk blond; that one that told him “Fuck off,” the very same one that looked at him angry every time he walked the riverbank, as if he was the responsible one for his misery; as if he was the only one with misery. His days were numbered. But again, he told himself, it was for mankind really and truly for the betterment of mankind. He didn’t work, pay taxes, he was simply burden on the economy, society—a nuisance to every good and sober human being.
And so that Sunday, Vlad took his usually walk down by the river, but this time when he walked by the drunk, the blond drunk, he pulled out a big bottle of Scotch Whisky, inasmuch as, he felt, live by the booze, you shall die by the booze, and therefore, what would a drunk like his last meal to be, and he answered himself, “uneventful, and full of booze,” and so he shall have his wish. And none other than Vlad will grant his wish. It was 6:15 PM. There they both sat, both talking as if they were friends for twenty years, drinking, laughing, and joking, as passersby now and then looked their way, but paid little attention, and simply went about their business as if the river would swallow them up. That is to say, most of the onlookers, kept their distance, showed very little—but some—direct eye contact. They both, matter-of-fact, waived at a police car driving by, Vlad saying to the blond drunk not to make any loud noises or scenes that would cause the police or anyone to make a complaint of them, thus, stopping the liquid feast, and a new friends, a new drinking companion.
For a few hours they sat on the bench along side the river, then for an hour or two they leaned over the railing looking into the river. Then back to the bench. It was 3:00 AM. The blond was now passed out, eyes closed, slumped over the bench, hand stretched out on the railing of the bench, snoring like a boar, and at times choking on his tongue, or so it seemed; Vlad then got up, took a shovel he had folded up in a paper bag that looked like another bottle of whisky, walked behind the bench and started digging, digging and digging. The bench seemed to produce some kind of shadow, a cover for bad deeds, to envelop him in, so the eyes of the curious could not see his ghastly deed to be done to his blond drinking companion, as he remained stationary during his rigorous feat, of balancing himself on the edge of the park-bench.
As Vlad dug the hole, with hidden fury, impervious to the world around him, the hole materialized at 4-foot deep, three feet wide, and 6-feet long, it was to be the blond’s burial site, so saying at its eventful completion, ”Well, right enough”.
Then turning his observations upward and over a bit to the right, where the blond was still incapacitated. Double-checking his prescribed dimensions that circled his brain, his ‘blood plan’, it was going on 4:15 AM. He looked at the blond as if to memorize his face, then picking up the drunk, seemingly as dead weight, sucking in his chest for more strength [soundlessly] and clumsy at that, he laid the blond to the edge of the hole, then he tied his legs to his arms binding him like a cow to be branded; after that he put duck-tape over his mouth, rolling him slowly, and gently, and placing him in the dug out grave, saying to him as if it was his benediction: “I should tell you, least it come some other way, that when you open your eyes, sober up, you shall be in hell, let these words circle your subconscious forever and ever, and ever,” and then he buried him alive, again slowly, as if he was cooking a frog alive, that is, by way of turning the fire, the heat up bit by bit, unnoticeable, until the frog is cooked; thus, shovel after shovel covered his body, until he was completed buried, with suffocating dirt. He thought this was no different than his ancestors of 500-years ago, that is what the real Romanians did, not go out sucking blood like Mr. Stoker told the whole, the whole damn world. It is only the modern world that will think this a barbaric thing.
And like nothing happened he walked home chanting, “Six and Seven next…”
◊
This is where I come into the story.
The Visitor
I had met Vlad at the hotel, where my wife and I were having spaghetti, and he introduced himself to us. I had told him I was a writer of short stories and novels, and a poet of sorts, and he seemed quiet interested, in his globed silent manner. I also told him we were up from London for two days, and this was our first trip to the city.
Having said that, he told me he had a very interesting story to tell me, but I would have to see him at his apartment. I told him this was not possible, it would have to be in my room; my wife would most likely be present. Having no choice in the matter, after a spell, he said ok. That very evening he came to my room, and explained to me this story you have just read. Then he said, tomorrow we were invited over to his house for dinner to get the rest of he story. In my mind I said to myself, you mean he is going to kill two more people, and I know about it. No way. I told him I’d have to go to the police. He smiled at me simply saying, “Do what you think is best.” Adding, “I’ll see you at 7:00 PM.” Most assured he seemed of himself, and to be quite frank, I was curious, but not sure at that given moment how interested I was.
Well, Vlad left the apartment, and my wife and I just kind of sat thinking about what to do. I really didn’t want the story, but for some odd reason, wanted the information, or to know the ending, if there was one, or at least where the next two victims came in, except I did not want them to be me and my wife. And I wasn’t sure if I believed him or not, maybe this was all bogus crap. But at this point, my vacation was lost to his will.
The next day was Thursday, and at 5:00 PM, I notified the police of what Vlad had said, or what he had told me; so saying, the authorities then checked to see if he was at work, whereupon the police asked his employer why he was not at work. The police were told, as I stood by listening, he had called in sick at 6:46 PM.
My wife, two police officers and I arrived at his apartment. The police knocked at the door, and no one answered. But the door was not locked, and so the police proceeded to enter, as I followed them in. The apartment was small, and so we did not have to go far to be in the living room, and there on the floor laid Vlad. He had shot himself in the head with a gun, killing himself once, and then as we had opened the door, we heard a “thump” sound, it was a wooden spike with a 10-lb weight behind it that fell from the ceiling chandelier, going through his heart; thus, killing his spirit, so a note said. And so as I stood there absorbing this scene, he got revenge once more, he found his way out of the jungle, the one he was alone in.
[Note: Originally first published in the 2nd part of the book, “Gwyllion, Daughter of the Tiamat,” 2001, a short version [as ‘The Seventh Born Son’]; revised the 1st time for publication in the book, “Death on Demand” 2002; revised 2nd time making it a longer version, 2003, for the book, and its own title, “Dracula’s Ghost”.]
End of the Stories within the Book
An Afterward
In Poetic Form
Death’s Cocoon
I lived in a time
When people died—
Really, really truly died…
In a time when people
Buried their Dead
In their backyards:
Cut off their heads—,
Or flushed them down,
The toilet instead;
--Let them rot
In the woods,
Like old stale bread; --
Forbid the household
To talk about it/them…
Death, death, it was a time
When people pretended it
Didn’t occur, happen; --
Always saying—not yet;
Believing in their immediate,
Subconscious—that they were,
They were no more than a
Dead battery in a Flashlight,
No more light, no more flash; --
Just a dead, dead battery,
Battery acid.
Then in the mist of it all,
They turned on baseball
Or some other sport: --
Read the paper,
Watched a T.V. talk show;
Went to a movie
A thriller, horror, suspense
[All in pretense];
Took a trip—as if, no one died,
So they pretended and lied,
No grieving that way,--
Only tomorrow, another day; --
Now, all the ones that pretended,
They’re all dead, really, really, truly dead
[I wonder what they’re thinking
Now in their heads].
Dlsiluk, 9/03
◊
*Chapter excerpt from the book:
Stay Down, Old Abram
[Through the City and into the Woods]
Remembering Vietnam
I’ve never tried to look back at my Vietnam experience, which many of my comrades at the 545th Ordinance Company were most interested in after a time, that is, after I had been there for a while. I am getting a little ahead of myself, but allow me this for the moment. As I was about to say, not sure why I didn’t talk about Vietnam, other than there really wasn’t much to tell, and I had learned from the past, when you tell nothing they think you got something, and when you tell something they think you are making it. So it boils down to telling them nothing, or what they want to hear. And you just simply get fed up with the crap. For all I care they can get self-educated by going to the library and finding out all they wanted to, such as,
the war lasted 10-years, 3.5 million Americans went to that war, of them 500,000 needed psychiatric treatment, and I was not one; also, it cost somewhere around 500-billion dollars, or better put, 12% of our economy back in those far off days between l964 and l972; I was there in l971 [205,000 troops were there, then]. Most likely their question would had been someplace in that corner, why wasn’t I one who need psychological help. There were more suicides committed by the soldiers—that came back home after the war—than soldiers killed in the whole damn war, and there were some 56,000-Americans that were killed. Funny, now that I think of it, there was only one general ever killed in the war, and eight Full Bird Colonels. And out of 2000-officers that were killed, 600-were by GI’s, the other 1400-have yet to be explained. Not many officers compared to soldiers, I think they were all hiding. That comes out to about one officer for every 28-men killed, or better put, one officer for every two platoon’s wiped out, plus 2-left over. But back then we were low-paid draftees, thinly paid, and thinly trained.
Oh well, Vietnam to me was fun in a way, although the battle environment was less desirable yet still a kind of high, if you know what I mean. Most disturbing was the loud noises, the vibrations, and at times the lack of oxygen about the bombardment area, especially when the dust started flying, and dirt—the earth shook, as it throw-up its guts here and there, believe it or not, it made the heart beat 200-times a minute, a natural high when all the rockets were coming in, within a measure of feet, landing, blowing up, some duds, most were not though. Some of my friends got addicted to that high, addicted to killing, that is.
In a similar manner, the stress that went along with this environment, made me alert, my muscles somehow got stronger instantly, within the battle-mode. Oh yes, oh yes, not quite like the Hulk, but strong. One actually looses the ability to think clear for a moment, some longer than a moment, especially during incoming rockets. You got not to panic, because you got to let yourself think. The quicker the better I’ve seen many a man freeze, I never did, not sure why. I was a natural it seemed; my reflexivity was good. It was like walking the streets of New Orleans, all you see are faces, eyes, necks, backs, and a hot flash can appear in a second, not neon lights. And in Orleans people walk, in Vietnam, they run, run and run for cover, dig holes in the ground like dogs to cover their faces, their sides.
To my understanding there are only about 2% of populations that can kill and not have it affect them, you know, throw up, and get dizzy after the killing, stuff like that. I think I was one of them, possible one. No effect on me, none whatsoever.
If I told my comrades at the 545 this—what, what would they think, I often asked myself that question, and then I answered myself by saying: would this be an attribute, or a postponed consequence?
My alertness and responsiveness was highly developed, not only from Vietnam, but also from my Karate days in San Francisco, before Vietnam --and the constant training. You train a soldier like you would train a dog, over, and over and over, and over until his front-brain and his mid-brain work for you, meaning, your mid-brain is saying ‘don’t kill,’ and your ‘front-brain is saying, ‘kill, save yourself,’ or if you are addicted, your mid-brain is most likely being suppressed. For me it was a matter of environmental conditions to where I’d shift my front and mid brain waves to work for me. In any case, this was all I was going to tell them, should they ask, --that is, should they ask and I feel like talking, and telling. But they never did ask beyond the simple, ‘How was Vietnam,’ and I never went beyond, ‘It was fine,’ and walk away. That actually stopped the asking, so as to leave well enough alone; actually I left them with the mystery, the one they, they really wanted.
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About the Author’s Books
Tales of the Tiamat: This is a trilogy, consisting of “The Tiamat, Mother of Demon,” the second book, “Gwyllion, Daughter of the Tiamat,” and the third, “Revenge of the Tiamat”. All three are full of adventures and travels by Sinned, the main character of the three novels, as is the Tiamat involved yet we see many other antagonists along side of her. The series takes you to Malta, Easter Island, ancient England, and Avalon, where the Tor is being built, Asia Minor, where Yort is, Sinned’s home, and a half dozen other places. In addition to the main story of each of these three books, which is being put into one, in the “Tales of the Tiamat,” a fourth book was added, called “The Tiamat and the King,” on which is the “Short book,” added into the series, it is really the conclusion to the trilogy never put into the book. It was, for the most part, written during the same period of time the three were, and revised recently. It will be put into a forth-coming book in the future I hope.
The Chick Evens Sketches: In this trilogy, we have sketches of life that incorporate the late 60’s to the early 70’s; the hippie generation, the new era, the awakening of Aquarius, the peace era, it has been called many things. In his first book, his sketches, take you on a romance of a city and era, the book being called: “Romancing San Francisco” [l968-69], he introduces us to karate’s famous Yamaguchi family, to include Gosei, and his father Gogen “The Cat”; along with the famous Adolph Shuman, the once owner of the line of Lilli Ann cloths, along with other sketches. In the other two books, “A Romance in Augsburg,” and “Where the Birds don’t Sing,” the sketches start where the first book left off, from l969 to l970 and to Vietnam in l971. Here you go to Europe for a Romance with a Jewish German girl, and on to Vietnam where there is a war going on. Mr. Evens will also end up in Sydney, for one week of some great adventures, what the Army called back then R&R; Mr. Siluk spent 11-years in the Army, being a Staff Sergeant when he was discharged, and has lived all three books.
Short Story Collection [s]: this is not a trilogy, rather three books, of which two are similar, that being of Suspense, “Death on Demand,” of which there are seven stories, and “Dracula’s Ghost” having eight; and the third book, being a mixture of short stories, called “Everyday’s an Adventure”.
Spiritual: The Author has some strong religious and spiritual views. Having studied and done graduate work in theology, and missionary work in the mountains of Haiti, and being at an earlier age an Ordained Minister, his two books, “The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon,” being his first book in this genre, talks about experiences of the early eighties, where he had visions concerning end time events that are coming to pass right this very moment. In his second book, “Islam, In Search of Satan’s Rib,” he talks about the ongoing subject of terrorism on America, and the world as a whole, but in a different manner; instead of trying to figure out the mind of the Islamic-Arab, he looks at this god, enmeshed with Islam today.
Addiction: As of this writing [August, 2003], Mr. Siluk is still a licensed Counselor in good standing with the State of Minnesota. He has also held international licenses in Drug’s and Alcohol, and has worked for hospitals and clinics in dual disorder facilities. In his book, “A Path to Sobriety, the Inside Passage,” which is a common sense book on understanding alcoholism and addiction, the book is an ultimate guide to substance abuse, a powerhouse for preventing relapse and curing the disease. The book you are now holding in your hands called “Prevention…” is his follow up book [companion] to his “Path to Sobriety…” on addictions. Which he was not going to release depending on the need for it; but after the death of his mother, who helped him during his early stages of recovery, has chosen to finish it, and now release it. As in everything in life, school, the Army, training etc, you need a book to learn from, and one to practice with. This is the practice book, the hands on book you might call it, “A Path to Relapse Prevention.” He is also, half way done with a book on “Aftercare…” which if published, would be his final book in the Chemical Dependency area, and series.
Travels: Mr. Siluk has travel, or has been traveling I should say for some 37-years out of his 55 ½ years of his life to this date. He has traveled 24 ½ times around the world. And in most of his books you can see, and feel and almost taste this [to be more exact, he has 613,000-air miles, not to include ground miles]. In his book, “Chasing the Sun,” he takes you to a variety of places, by showing you some forty-pictures, --giving you an overall view of his story on how he got started. Each picture has its own caption, and is read for ‘a want to be traveler’, or one who would like to reminisce.
The Beast Books: I wasn’t sure what to call these three next separated books, so I named them, the “The Beast Books”. For in their own way, they all have their own beast. The first book being, “Mantic ore: Day of the Beasts,” which is the author’s favorite of the three, you step into the demonic underworld. A lot of him is in this book it seems. A touch of Vietnam, a touch of his home town, St. Paul, Minnesota, and the invisible shadows that change shapes into animals and human forms; visions upon visions. In the second book, the “The Rape of Angelina of Glastonbury, 1199 AD,” which is also in a revised version, in the book “Death by Demand,” you are involved with a suspenseful story of revenge, and at the end of the book is a nice surprise, another story. And for the third beastly book, “Angelic renegades & Rephaim Giants,” you get just that, no more, no less. It is a book on the ancient dictators of the world, the ones who have cursed God, to have man worship them; for the most part is it sketches, impressions, and glimpses of this world.
Out of Print book: For the curious reader; although they are out of print, the author has a few left in storage. “The Other Door,” was his first book published, in l981, a book on poetry. It is a Volume one, of which he is working on volume two, yes, 22-years in the making. This book is so scarce that only 25-copies are left, at a price you most likely you would not want to pay. Second, is the authors 2nd book, “The Tale of: Willie the Humpback Whale,” which got much attention in the year, l982, although it did not get a Pulitzer Prize, it was an entry, and considered. At present the author is considering a 4th printing, and revised edition. He does have a number of copies available for interested people [a limited number]. And the book “Two Modern Short Stories of Immigrant Life,” that is more of a chapbook that came out in l984 as a trial run. Only 100-copies were ever printed, of which one of the stories were printed in the, “Little Peoples Press,” and then the book was pulled back for personal reasons, and off the market by the author. This very limited book of which there are possible 30-copies left can also be acquired, but again, this overview is more for the inquisitive than for selling these very rare and hard to find books.
Visit my web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com you can also order the books directly by/on: www.amazon.com www.bn.com www.SciFan.com www.netstoreUSA.com along with any of your notable book dealers
Back picture on of the book is of the author and his wife in Northern Peru, about 125-miles from Iquitos; about 118-feet high [above the ground], in the middle of the Amazon, on a canopy.
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 4:20 PM
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