Based on a 2018 Version. If a more recent version appears, update.

Revision History: 12/29/2023

Rish looked north to the mountain gods Gyetong Soksum, Jangzang Lhamo and Nojin Gangzang. “Are you angry?”, he wondered. He addressed Nojin Gangzang, the only one of the three mountain gods who had ever communicated with him.

Rish was a sallow young man who wore a faded crimson robe

“Who are you talking to?” Tenzin, his younger companion, asked.

The novice monk somberly replied, “I’m talking to … “. He nodded toward Nojin Gangzang. As he spoke he walked to the edge of the cliff.

The two youths stood on a thin path that cut through heather and stones at the top of a sharply defined river valley

Tenzin replied, “Are you asking it if it will catch you if you jump? The god caught you when you fell yesterday. Surely it will do it again?”

The sharp memory of the earth racing towards him flashed through Rish’s mind. He removed his red, felt cap, scratched his large, bald head, and took a deep breath before he replied.  “No. I’m asking the god of this mountain why it caught me when I fell.”

“Do you need to ask? Isn’t it enough to be thankful?”

The novice did not reply for a long moment. Eventually he said, “Tenzin, I have to make decisions. I need to know why.”

“You’re going to jump again!? That’s what you mean isn’t it? Are you?!”

Rish hastiily snapped, “I did not say that.”

“Say?? You thought it! Why wouldn’t I know what you think? I was born four minutes after you. I’ve known you since birth! If … he would have chosen … “

Rish glowered at his friend; he stopped speaking mid sentence.

After two moments. Tenzin tried another approach, “What is the god saying to you?”

“It’s not saying anything.”

This uncertain dialog made Tenzin pause for a moment. He silently watched Rish standing on the edge of a precipice, looking down the sheer cliff into the valley of the Tsang Pao river. “You are going to jump aren’t you?”, he asked after a moment.

Rish paused before he replied even though he knew the answer. “Yes. When its time. The God will take care of me. But only when its time.”

“Why not now? It seems like a good time to practice. No gossipy neighbors, no Mongols…”.

“Shushhhh!”

“Rish, there are no Mongols here! They’re all at *Raulung * Monastery looking for your brother …”

[

This isn’t about spirituality.

Why shouldn’t it be?

The Drukpa at Raulung join with the Mongols. The brother escapes to Reting where the proto-yellow hat Gelung are.

Raulung:

The monastery is located in present-day Gyantse County several kilometers south of the road connecting Nakartse and Lungmar, immediately north of the Gasa district of Bhutan. In previous times, trade could be conducted across the Yak La pass across the high Himalayas, extending the influence of Ralung to the south.

The monastery is surrounded by the towering peaks and glacier fields of Gyetong Soksum (6,244m), Jangzang Lhamo (6,324m) and Nojin Gangzang (7,191m). From the beginning the location was recognized as especially auspicious:

Reting Monastery was founded by Atiśa‘s chief disciple Dromtön in 1057 in the Reting Tsangpo Valley north of Lhasa as the seat of the Kadam lineage of Tibetan Buddhism. He brought some of Atiśa’s relics with him.^[2][3] It was the first major monastery of the Sarma revival.

Gyare founded Raulung [Diqing Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture, Yunnan, China]

]

“There are Mongols here! Shushhhhh!”

Tenzin froze and listened.

Rish edged forward to the edge of the river valley. In his mind he had already begun to jump because now some of his body weight was over the edge and his momentum was forward. Out. Not down. Down was what he most feared, the sharp red rocks at the base of the cliff, merging with the babbling river (which one?). He shifted his weight farther forward, accelerating his slow motion fall and then almost imperceptibly pulled back.

“I don’t know what I believe.” Rish retreated for the cliff’s edge and continued walking along the path through the heather.

Tenzin followed slightly behind. “Rish, if you don’t have faith when you jump, whatever god that caught you yesterday will surely let you fall. Isn’t that what this is about? A test of faith.”

“Test of faith. And revelation of the power of faith. First one, then the other.”Rish was not certain of his words, though he spoke them with assurance. He wondered to himself, “Why would a god demand my faith? What kind of god would desire any kind of faith at all?”

Rish stopped to the point where the cliff face was most sheer.  He looked down the cliff face to where the scree slid into the rushing river, far below. The feeling of terror that he had felt yesterday as he fell washed over him again and then, like yesterday the fear was replaced by exhilaration. Flying had been different than he had expected. He had not cut through air like a knife when he flew; it was more that the elements of the universe adjusted themselves to help him pass. He did not conquer the sky – it accommodated him.

Tenzin, tentatively asked, “Well … are you going to …?”

Rish replied, “When you urge me to jump, you think about the rush that comes from falling. Everyone can imagine that. Everyone has fallen. There is no thrill in falling. Just fear. Always.”

Tenzin was mystified. He had seen Tenzin leap into the sky.

Rish continued. “There is a difference between falling and flying. If I leapt off of this cliff now, I would fall. “No, Tenzin, I am not going to jump right now. The time is not right. There is no reason to jump, so to jump is to presume.”

Tenzin and Rish walked back to the village in silence. Their village, far below them, was at the limits of possible cultivation. Indeed most of the land, except for a narrow strip that closely followed the [Brahmaputra/Tsang-Pao] river, was used for grazing, not cultivation. One hundred [metres] higher up and they were in the clouds. There were copses of small birches and oaks trees at this height; further up where the soil was worse and the climate colder, these gave way to pines, spruces and firs. Along the path the dominant vegetation was a coarse heather, that clung desperately to the mostly exposed rock. The path was lined with clusters of goji berry bushes, whose small purple and white flowers had just begun to bloom.

Although it had been sunny when they left as they returned the air became colder and wetter as a cloud bumped into the mountain side directly in front of them. As a result,  Rish could smell the Mongol horseman before he saw them.

He had encountered a Mongol troop when he was a child (Godan’s invasion in 1240). Although the encounter resulted in many violent deaths, the only thing he could clearly remember about it was the clanking sounds their horses and armor had made. And the smell.

The smell terrified him. The sounds made it worse. He pulled Tenzin onto the ground. They hid behind a large cluster of goji bushes that grew out of white-ish grey soil on a small hill at the edge of their town. The bushes were not particularly thick – Rish could see through them; his hearing was acute.

The Mongols were filthy, rough looking and very well armed.  A soldier in red armor stood out.  [Godan again?].

“What is going on?” Tenzin whispered into Rish’s ear.

Before he could answer two soldiers pushed a slave forward. He was a frail man dressed in jute rags, originally from Bengal. That he was alive at all was testament to how healthy he had once been. The man tottered into the dusty square in front of the town gate. People lined the tops of the town walls, but none came outside. Prayer flags hung listlessly in the still air.

The slave spoke clearly but with an accent, “Godan is looking for a person. A twin. Named Rish. Give him up and he will leave you alone. Otherwise he will return with a myangan and destroy this village. “

The village elder spoke up. “He is not here.”

“Then where is he?” A frightened voice hidden in the crowd spoke up.

Godan signaled and the soldiers withdrew short swords and prepared to attack.

Godan shouted, “He is here or he is not here?”

The village Elder stepped forward while everyone else withdrew. He said, “I know who you mean. Rish. The twin of the man who will achieve enlightenment in one …”

“We know the stories Where is the twin?”

The Elder nodded. “He left. That way. Down stream.”

There were two directions. Down stream, along the Tsang Pao to Kolkata. Or via the Indus to Karachi. The Karachi road required crossing a drainage divide. The Mongols could only travel one way. So of course that was the way they went.

Godan nodded and in a moment the Elder was bound and placed in a wagon. The Mongols set off downstream..

Rish pulled X back behind the hillock so they could talk. Rish pulled himself away from Tenzin terror

“Güyük Khan’s has arrived with mangudai.”

“What?”

[“The son of Ogedei Khan is here with elite troops.”]

“They’re here for you.”

“Yes. Goodbye and be still.”

There is a chase and then Rish leaps, with X.

o

Three tests to see if he is bewitched or a sorcerer

Most of the Mongol troupe set out on the search for Ki. Guyuk stayed behind to supervise Rish’s interrogation. The first step in the interrogation was to determine if Rish was a demon.  Four sorcerer’s  were produced: three Uighurs who were dressed in a Chinese style, and an astrologer from Jaipur. The astrologer asked him some questions about where he was born and when and then retreated with his charts to a corner.

The Uighurs were visceral shamans: they began with chicken entrails, then quickly moved on to those of a fish. These examinations were cursory. What interested the shamans the most were a large, putrid set of intestines, which were presented grandly in a wooden bucket, which leaked blood over the dirt floor of the animal pen.

It was clear that his life depended on the pronouncements of these men, but Rish was so ill from the smells and from his wounds, that he crawled to a corner, as far away from the shamans  as possible.

Guyuk entered and had a brief conversation, through an interpreter, with the astrologer and three shamans. The shamans apparently wished to talk as one, but Guyuk insisted they speak to him each separately; Guyuk addressed the astrologer first; his guards escorted the Uighurs away from his prison.

The astrologer spoke Hindi so Rish, who came from a merchant family, could partially understand what he said. Which was unfortunate. The astrologer was a harsh, wizened old man who felt the only value Rish offered to the world was as a vehicle to capture Ki. ”This boy is perfect bait.” The Uigher discussions were mystifying,  but quickly concluded. Then Guyuk gave his pronouncement. There were were nine people in the fetid, all purpose animal pen, but Guyuk pronounced loudly.  When he was done a large Mongolian rudely picked Rish up, flung him over his shoulder and took him outside. He was then slammed onto the back of a slow, but sturdy mare, and tied to it with painful ropes made of animal gut. The horse archers, bait in hand, set off. There was no hesitation about what direction they were going to take.

o

Ki ran until long after his lungs began to burn.  There were very few places to hide in the river valley. Most of the land was somehow in use by people. He headed to a chalky area full of caves and goji bushes, upstream from the town. There was one cave which had a spring. This made it an obvious hiding spot if you knew about it. He knew that someone would tell the Mongols to look here. Why not? By doing so one could save an entire town. It was still the best spot he could think of to rest at while he collected his thoughts and figured out what to do next.

There were not very many options.

Perhaps he meets a green-skinned holy man, a la descriptions of Mila Repa.

Bad situation. Give himself up to save village. That would lead to no good. The Mongols wanted him as a weapon. He remembered the fate of his father. He did not want to help the Mongols.

As he loaded some berries into a broad leaf for storage, a Mongol horseman passed by. Ki accidentally  disturbed a snow leopard which exposes his hiding spot. The horseman gets delayed and the horse reels away from the cat, but the path to Mila’s escape route is blocked.

One horseman waited as a guard while the other raced back towards town to get reinforcements.

Ki, in full view of the horse archer retreated to the cliff’s edge. The Mongol soldier pressed closer, but kept the distance between himself and Ki constant. After only a few moments standoff he saw a trail of dust that was quickly replaced by a view of ten horse archers and an eleventh horse to which was strapped a body. It took only a moment to recognize the body as that of Rish. 

He began to rush forward but was hit by a volley of arrows. The arrows were blunted, so didn’t pierce his skin – the Mongols were trying to capture rather than   kill him. Nevertheless,  they left him disoriented and in pain.

Ki thought, “It is no good to be captured. They will use me as a weapon”. His only path was to jump off of the cliff.  “Perhaps the gods hate mankind because we tempt them into sin”, he thought as he shuffled backwards towards the cliff’s edge, his gaze fixed on the body of his  bound friend. His path ran out. He was at the cliff’s edge now. He looked down the sheer red face to the sharp limestone rocks far below,  How could he jump without tempting the gods? How could the gods not be angered by his hubris?  Catch me before I die, I am more worthy than all the other creatures who have ever fallen to their deaths. I am worthy except that I have caused my  friend and ward to be enslaved. As he jumped he shouted,  Let me fall, I deserve to die.

O

Rish felt neither exhilaration nor fear as he launched himself over the cliff. For all of the momentum he had when he launched he only moved a small distance through the air. The horse archers appeared, with their prisoner Rish in hand. As one they raised their bows and pummeled him with a volley of blunt arrows. These flung him backwards through the air until he was completely out of range. This lead to an impasse – Ki floating in the air, staring at the Mongol troupe. Finally Guyuk became impatient and gave an order. Several minutes later they brought Rish forward to the edge of the cliff. He was rudely pushed off of his mount and then, without even a moment’s thought about the life they were about to take he was pushed over the edge, still bound.

Without a second thought Ki raced through a hail of arrows through the air to where Rish was falling. The Mongols, launched a large net that completely entwines Ki and Rish. Although he could still fly, he could not escape. 

They were fortunate to have fallen in a location that was very inaccessible for horses.

Rish is injured. Ki cuts free of the net. He tries to fly with Rish but he can’t. He’s too weak. He flies to a cave just above where Rish is and passes out.

 

 

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Password:

 

 

This is the first chapter of The Djinn, the second book of a trilogy that uses conventional fantasy tropes, like Rings of Power, to explore questions related to religion, identity, and purpose. The first book, Ithilæn, takes place in 12th century France, and explores Christian and pagan themes. The second book, The Djinn, is set in Afghanistan, Tibet and Mongolia. It explores Buddhist, Hindu and Zoroastrian themes, but is nevertheless a continuation of Ithilæn.

Version history

2022-11-28 2022-11-27 2022-11-21

Chapter 1: The Girl With Sparks in Her Hair

“Can I watch the sun set from the western tower?” Maya assessed the sentry as she spoke. She had never seen him before, which was unusual. She knew everyone in Rupar. But he was a refugee who last spring arrived from Lahore, driven east by Khwarazmian raiders. He was welcomed into the city because he was healthy, beautiful and strong. A significant asset for the defense of the town. And to the townspeople he had some other, ineffable, quality which Maya recognized through his soft, white – almost clear – aura.

Although they had never been introduced, the guard knew Maya was the Witch’s granddaughter because of her jade green eyes and the sparks that were flashing in her gnarly, black hair. Most people, even the Great Khan in Karakorum, feared witches [and their brood]; Ramindar respected them. Because he was in awe of the girl, he both hesitated to refuse her request, but feared to say no, lest he offend the Goddess she channeled.

Maya interpreted his hesitation as consent. She muttered “Thank you” and slid past him while he blinked. He never saw her move at all. Her magic was only strong enough to slow time for one or two seconds, but that was useful in situations like these.

In the autumn, when the sun was in the south, Maya liked to visit the West Tower, where the view of the Indus River was most beautiful. Her town was situated at a bend in the river: To the north and east she could see the Himalayas, where snow-capped peaks sparkled in the sunlight; to the west and south were fields of rice, which stretched to both horizons. She would go to the West Watch Tower, which was a storage room for the archers’ gear, wrap herself in a colorful cotton blanket and chat with the on-duty guard.

Normally the on-duty guard would tease Maya about how her magical abilities were over-rated, if they existed at all. She ALWAYS denied that she had any magical abilities at all, but would inevitably use her power to surreptitiously help him with his chores. That was what the Goddess wanted.

Ramindar gazed out the window while Maya took her seat on a pile of jute blankets directly opposite the window, ignoring her. Maya wondered why he was scowling until she followed his gaze to a caravan of Persians, which was approaching from the west. Normally the arrival of Persian merchants elicited smiles, because they would arrive with treasures, like incense, rare metals and carpets These they would trade for spices, precious stones and weapons. Tonight’s caravan was not typical. It had neither camels nor slaves, just six merchants in black cloaks, six lightly armed guards and a Zoroastrian priest. The guards walked in double file of three. Between them they carried a trellis made of cedar poles lashed together with hemp ropes. The trellis supported a small box shrouded in a velvet black cloth. Each guard was followed, exactly two paces behind, by a merchant. The procession was led by a thirteenth man, a Mage, who walked between two heavily burdened donkeys. The Persians moved lethargically, as if it was hot and their burden was heavy. The blue-black dusk was cool.

The sun touched the top of the hills which marked the western edge of the Indus valley. Though the Persians did not realize it, they had lost their race with the night: the town gates closed at sunset. They would have to camp outside the walls, probably in the Goddess’ temple on the shore of the Indus River.  Not the worst outcome. The Goddess would favor them provided they didn’t offend her with a paltry offering.

Maya broke their brooding silence. She said, “Ramindar, can you see the patches on their eyes?”

The guard shrugged, “Sure.”

“The men on the left side of the box have patches on their right eyes …”

He caught her meaning and completed her sentence, “… and the ones on the right side have patches on their left eyes. I wonder why that is?”

“I know why.”

“What do you know mantrika?”

“The Persians are wearing patches to protect themselves. There is a creature with the Evil Eye in the box they are carrying.” She could feel the creature’s power, even at this great distance.

“What kind of creature?” Ravindar looked down at Maya. He had an intent expression on his face.

“A Djinn”. She spoke with a slight tremor in her voice.

“What is a Djinn? “

“A type of Deva.”

Ramindar whistled in dismay as he looked back at the approaching caravan, this time focusing his gaze on the shrouded box which bobbed on the trellis they carried. Maya wondered if he could feel the Djinn’s novel power – it was ancient and obscure and yet familiar because it was fundamental. She could feel it probing for weaknesses that it could exploit to free itself. Its probes were like the light of a torch. A dark torch, surrounded by light.

When the ancient power landed on Maya it stopped and squeezed her soul. Her body went rigid, her skin became clammy and cold; and her eyes were blinded by colored lights.

Set me free! the Djinn shouted with thought. It pressed its spirit upon hers, trying to compel her to do the only thing it wanted; to release its craving; to set it free.

She began to move to the door, compelled by the Djinn’s will. Ramindar watched her move. She looked like a sleep walker. He knew something was wrong, but when he moved to help her he discovered that he was frozen in place.

“Release the child!”

The Djinn released its grip. Maya fell onto a pile of coarse jute blankets, and thought, thank you Grandmother.

Ramindar stamped out the glittering pile of sparks that had scattered throughout the room when she fell, and then raced to Maya’s side. He gently shook her. She feebly raised herself to a sitting position and said, “Ramindar, the Djinn is trying make me help it escape. Maybe it should be free, I don’t know. BUT if it does escape, don’t look it in the eyes and please don’t listen to it. Fall to the ground. Cover your ears. Look down.”

“Of course, little witch.” He began his sentence with a patronizing tone, glanced at the approaching party and ended on a serious note. He knelt down beside her, placed his hands on her shoulders and said, “How should I plug my ears, mantrika?”

Maya shrugged – not because she didn’t want to answer his question, but rather because it took effort to reply. The Djinn continued to press her.

“How?!”, he asked again. Ramindar’s pure aura became muddied by fear. He gripped Maya tightly, as if he could shake a response out of her. The sparks in her hair flew in bursts about the chamber, sizzling as they burned through straw and jute. Ramindar released his grip and stamped out the little fires.

Maya said, “Sorry! Sorry! Let me think.” She looked around and noticed a pile of scrap material which was used to bind groups of arrows together. “We’ll use the jute …” she grabbed a candle. ” … battened with wax. We’ll make wads for your ears and use jute to make a mask for your eyes.”

He ripped a jute bag into strands and began knotting them together for a mask while she pressed together tiny wads of wax for his ears. He fastened the mask around his forehead, just above his eyes. She handed him the earplugs. He idly played with them, periodically glancing out the window toward the approaching Persians. She rose and walked to his side.

He said half to himself, “Hah! a Deva. That is fantastic. Imagine!” He cut off his enthusiasm when the implications of what he had just heard occurred to him. He said to Maya, “And how is it that such a powerful creature could be imprisoned by such ragged men?”

Maya was about to say that she didn’t know how, when her grandmother sent her a vision of how: a scene in a royal chamber; packed with lords, merchants and commoners. The wall was lined with soldiers. In the middle of the room was a glass and ebony-wood box, with barred windows on every side.

Maya said, “The Djinn was tricked by a King named Sulayman.”

“You know this?”

“Yes. Yes.” Maya replied. The vision her grandmother had sent to her had the power of truth.

There was a loud crack.

Ramindar staggered for a moment and then came to himself. Maya leapt to his side. The two of them leaned out the window to better view what was happening. They watched in horror as the guard on the right front side of the Persian caravan hardened to stone, and then exploded into rubble and dust. The merchant who was shadowing the guard frantically grabbed the handle of the trellis even as the weight of guard’s stone grip pulled the trellis toward the ground. The trellis wavered and rebounded up, the moment the guard turned to dust, because of the effort of his counterpart in the opposing file to find equilibrium. The awkward movement lifted the shroud and revealed the Djinn’s cage: an ebony wood cube with barred windows on each face. A red-black light glowed from inside.

“Ramindar, plug your ears! Close your eyes!”,  Maya exclaimed. Without thinking she flung him away from the window, with more force than the Goddess had ever given her.

Her Grandmother’s voice rang loudly in her head, “Granddaughter, be careful! The Goddess does not want you to compel !”

Maya raced to the window, projecting what she saw to her grandmother. Her grandmother replied with a thought, “I know of this Djinn. It is ancient and powerful. Listen carefully, Maya. The rules I have taught you have changed because the presence of this creature changes everything.”

“But the Djinn is a captive.”

“Tonight its captors will die.”

A vision of the guards, the the merchants and the Mage turned to stone flashed across her inner eye.

Her grandmother continued. They will be dead, but the Djinn will not be free. It is too stubborn to free itself. I can’t tell you more because what happens next cannot be foretold. I only see possibilities.

What do you mean? How can I know?

You will understand when you understand. I have to go to the Swan Temple to be closer to the Goddess. I have never needed her power more. Now is my time. This is my last task. Now is your time, too, Maya, though it is a time with a future. I love you, and even after death a part of me will live in you.

Death?!

Ramindar tugged on Maya’s sleeve and broke her trance. He was bruised, and dazed. His ears were plugged.

Farewell.

As Ramindar struggled to get up Maya snapped his eyes shut with a spell. As she did so, an hysterical mother shouted, “My child’s eyes have turned to malachite!” 

We must cast a sleep spell, said the voice of her grandmother in her head.

Maya prepared herself by sitting cross-legged on the floor. She brought her fingers together – the right in Prana Mudra, the left in Gyan Mudra – and began to slowly chant. In her head her grandmother joined her. The rush of people atop the walls quieted save for the sound of stumbling as the spell took effect.

The spell pulled both water and air out of her. She breathed deeply for a moment to catch her breath, and then went to the small clay water jar in the corner and drank deeply. She sat down on the jute blankets. The town was quiet.

The Djinn broke the silence. It shouted with a loud voice, “I have been enslaved by Sulayman. Set me free and I will give you anything you want!”

There was a red-black light emitting from the cedar box the Persians were carrying. With only five carriers, they stumbled awkwardly as the Mage moved to replace the carrier while avoiding the light of the Djinn’s evil eye, which was now emitting an angry blue-red light from the uncovered box.

We must replace the shroud. Her grandmother’s voice in her head was weak; her spirit was weak. The sleep spell had drained her. She reached out to the Earth. The effort had even drained the Goddess she channeled.

I will do it, Maya replied.

Maya projected her intention. The shroud barely moved. As Maya continued to struggle, her grandmother’s weak voice said in her head, Let me help you. Maya replied, No grandmother, you mustn’t. Conserve your energy. Her grandmother replied, I am too weak and so are you, but together we are strong enough.… Goddess willing.

Fighting against wind and gravity together Maya and her grandmother moved the shroud back into place. When it was almost there her grandmother’s force drained away. One shove of Maya’s will later the job was done. The black-red light cast by the Djinn had disappeared.

Maya collapsed onto the heap of jute blankets. As she collapsed her sleep spell dissipated.

A trumpet blared: a call to arms. The sound echoed through the ramparts.

Ramdindar rose, leaned over her and said, “Flee youth. I must prepare to fight.”

Maya stood her ground, “No, Ramindar. I need to stay here. I just saved your life. Everyone’s lives. Do you know that?”

“No. I don’t remember anything … wait” He rushed to the window. His eyes widened as he saw the mound of dust that was once a living Persian.

[It looked now like a ruined Greek sculpture – full of motion. His aura darkened,as purity does when confronted by a dirty reality.]

Maya saw her chance. She said, “I’ll fetch you arrows if you need them … But you won’t. And I’ll fetch you water when you’re thirsty. I won’t get in the way.”

“How do you know I won’t need arrows?” Ramindar was a warrior so the question leapt first to his mind.

“I just know”, Maya replied.

Ramindar thought, Aye. Perhaps witches should take care of this. He said, “Sit on those blankets. Be mouse quiet. And tell the sparks in your hair to settle down.”

Maya piled a handful of straw at the base of the pile of blankets, in her place in the corner directly opposite the window and just beside the door.

The Persians had reassembled themselves and resumed their march to the West Gate, in their already lost race with the setting sun. With each step they took, Maya could feel the anger and power of the imprisoned Djinn increase.

Maya reached out to her grandmother. Are you there? Nothing. As she feared, the effort of resisting the Djinn had been too much for her aged grandmother. She would have to face this malign – but imprisoned – spirit alone.

The Captain of the Night Watch shouted, “Prepare to fire!”

Maya – alarmed – leaped out from under her blankets and onto the window ledge. She was just below the path above the city wall, perhaps ten body lengths from where the Captain of the Watch had just given the ill-considered order. She shouted, “There is a Deva in that box. We must not let it escape. It could kill us all with one glance: its eyes evil eyes can turn you to stone.”

She pushed on the Captain’s mind. It took an effort of will.

Channel the Goddess. Her grandmother thought, weakly. The Captain strode over until he was just above where she stood, half out of the window. “Tell me what you know, mantrika.” His voice was adversarial. The sparks in Maya’s hair multiplied, in unconscious defense.

She imagined herself standing in the midst of the river, the flow of water lapping around her – instead of straw and jute – and called upon the Goddess.

“Speak!”

In her mind the energy of the Goddess rose up from the River, which was the source of the Goddess’ power. She replied, “I have contained it for now, but if you kill the carriers it will be released and it will kill you all with just one thought.”

“But not you?”

“I do not know.”

As Maya spoke, she could feel the Djinn reaching out, trying to influence the Captain. The Djinn found no hook into his mind. There was little there; few ideas. Nothing to manipulate.

The Captain doubtfully said, “That makes no sense. Deva’s cannot be …”

Let him be!, The jealous Goddess channeled through her and forced the surprised Djinn’s spirit back into its prison.

The Captain shouted, “Stand down! Take defensive positions.” There was a clatter while the men of the Night Watch followed the order. The Captain then said to Ramindar, “Summon the Morning Watch.” He turned to Maya, unaware that she had just released him from the Djinn’s spell. “Lay low, little witch, I will handle this.”

The pitiful caravan arrived at the foot of the wall, at the exact moment the sun fell below the western edge of the river valley. The Persians looked like shades, silhouetted by the afterglow of the sun, which shone directly at their backs.

The archers cocked their bows, but averted their eyes, afraid to take aim.

As the travelers came closer, the villagers became quiet, save for the quiet chants of the village mantrikas.

The Captain of the Night Watch alone faced the Persians. He stood tall on the parapet about the town’s western gate. He also was silent, though everyone was waiting for him to speak. He saw no reason to waste his voice until the Persians were closer. When the travelers got within 100 paces of the gate the Captain shouted. “Stop.” The Persians obliged and then carefully grounded their burden.

The Captain of the Watch shouted, “Where are you from?” He shouted not to be heard but rather to convey authority.

The Mage stepped forward. At this distance he looked more like a beggar than a priest, though unlike so many priests he could wield true magic.  His gown, fine cotton embroidered with gold and silver thread, was now tattered; his beard was unkempt and dusty. His peaked wizard’s hat came down to his eyes. His left eye was covered by a patch. He spoke in a weak, wavering voice, that nevertheless rang clearly in the quiet dusk. He said, “We are from Baghdad.”

“How did you get here?”

“By way of Herat and Balkh.”

“What is your mission?”

“We are bringing a gift from the Caliph Al-Musta’sim to Ogedei Khan.”

“Ogedei is dead.”

“We did not know this. Who is Great Khan?”

“Töregene, Ogedei’s wife, is steward for Güyük.”

“Our gift is for Güyük Khan.”

“What is this gift?”

“A Deva, imprisoned by the wise King Sulayman.”

“A Deva?!” The guard was aghast.

“I am bound by Sulayman’s spell to tell the truth.”

“Why does the Caliph wish to give Güyük Khan and his regent a Deva?”

“That is the Caliph’s business.”

“Why is a Zoroastrian Mage serving Islam?”

The Mage paused before answering. He replied quietly, “My brothers are the Caliph’s prisoners. Please give us food and shelter. Would you risk the wrath of the Great Khan by slowing down tribute bearers?”

“Here is my seal.” The Persian presented the guard with a seal that had the radius of two hands. On it was etched the clearly visible words, written in Farsi, Arabic, Turkic and Hindi, “Free passage on pain of death” The decree was punctuated with the seal of the Caliph of Baghdad.

[The seal itself was a horde, which was proof enough of its authenticity. – I forget what this means.]

The guard replied, “It is past sunset. Our gates are closed. We will not let you in to our town. But we feed you We will lower a basket of food to you over the northern wall. Just beyond the wall, on the shore of the Indus River you will find a temple. You can stay there tonight. Upstream from the temple there is a well where the water is sweet.”

The Mage replied, “We would appreciate the comfort of your town. We will pay generously for good lodging.”

The Captain of the Watch winced but otherwise ignored the entreaty. He said, “We will send soldiers to the temple tomorrow at midday. If you are still there they will kill you.”

“Please shelter us …”

“Go! And do not forget to make an offering to the Goddess. She particularly likes figs, apricots and myrrh.” The Captain of the Night Watch signaled that the conversation was over by crossing his arms over his chest.

The Persians listlessly fell into formation, picked up the trellis and  mournfully shuffled north along the dusty clay-red path that led to the Indus River. They stopped briefly by the north wall to get supplies, then  disappeared into shadows cast by shrubs which lined the river bank.

The entire garrison followed them with their gaze. No one moved; nothing more was said.

The archers stood down and the morning watchmen returned to their homes.

That night clouds rolled in from the west, hiding the moon and leaving the valley covered in darkness, save for the weak light of the village watch fires. Few slept. The woman withdrew to the inner town, because their restless children distracted the soldiers; most other people huddled near the walls, trying to be near the garrison should something dangerous and violent happen.

Maya walked along the top of the rampart. It was made of powdery gray clay and was wide enough that two people could pass by each other if they twisted, but could not walk side by side. The soldiers on guard were tired and bored. They let her pass without comment. She moved to her second favorite hide-out, a storage room attached to the north wall. There she stood on the tips of her toes and looked out toward the Swan Temple. The temple was at the bottom of an embankment, built directly in to the river. She could not view it directly; she only saw reflections caused by the red and yellow light of a campfire.

§

Dawn broke bleak and gray. The townsfolk huddled on the northern wall and watched the shadows of the tree-lined river for several hours after sunrise yet no merchants appeared from the temple. The crowd murmured loudly when it was discovered that the food they had left outside the northern gate at dawn had not been claimed.

After much haggling, it was decided that a slave be sent to investigate. The slave – a man from the Sindh who had been captured at the sack of Lahore four years earlier – was owned by a man who had recently died with no heirs. The slave was old and survived by begging, so would be missed by no one. He walked slowly toward the temple, his right hand touched the town wall as he descended the narrow stony path to the Swan Temple. The man was terrified. He stumbled because he looked only askance (away from the river), trying to avoid, in every way possible, the bad magic imprisoned in the ark the Persians carryied. The townspeople tensely watched his progress.

The slave hesitated at the crest of the embankment for several moments. The townspeople started to threaten him and throw things at him, but he was oblivious to them because he was paralyzed by his fear of what was in front of him.

His nerve broke.

He leapt off the stairs into a gully, and ran into a ravine that connected to an irrigation channel. He stumbled down the channel until it intersected a goatherd’s path, which though hardscrabble went from the river all the way to its headwaters in the Himalaya mountains. It was a suicidal choice. Without the protection of a village it would be very difficult for even a healthy young man to survive in that remote, wild land. The slave was barely clothed and limped because of weak knees.

[He preferred the death ahead of him to the one he anticipated in the Swan Temple.]

The crowd looked for the next person to send out, and settled on a Dalit convicted of a religious crime. The Dalit’s execution judgment had not yet been confirmed by a Mamluk judge.

After consultation with the village elders, the village Patel offered to drop the conviction if the man would investigate the Persian camp. After a brief though heated family conference, his wife was offered in his stead; the village headman and elders agreed. The wife’s family did not agree, but their objections were ignored.

The Dalit woman was pushed out of the north gate by four soldiers, two armed with long, rusty knives and two with crude bows. The archers on the city wall also followed her path, their bows cocked.

The pathetic woman walked slowly toward what she thought was her death, muttering prayers while clutching and unclutching her hands. She hugged the wall so closely that her mirrored skirt made a grating noise as she progressed. Her children could be heard wailing from the inner town, where they were imprisoned in a pen with chickens, to keep them from chasing after her. She stumbled when the twig she was using for support splintered, but continued forward, tremulously, toward the top of the stairs that followed the side of the river embankment to the temple.

When the woman was steps away from the embankment, Maya’s grandmother appeared on the path. She froze time: to onlookers she appeared out of nowhere; Maya saw that she had been hiding behind a bench at the entrance to the Temple. She wore a shalwar kameez made of dusty red cotton, the top and pants made also of the same material but dyed yellow-ochre. These colors were offset by a bright yellow silk shawl, which she wrapped around her neck and head.

The old witch blocked the path of the untouchable woman. She said, “Stop. Turnaround.” The Patel, livid at having his authority challenged by the witch, raised his voice and told the Dalit woman to continue, but he was shushed by the crowd, who respected and feared the witch, and trusted her judgment in magical matters.

The untouchable woman, uncertain what to do, stayed where she was. That was good enough for Maya’s grandmother, who simply wanted her not to proceed.

Grandmother sent a thought out to Maya, Granddaughter, come here. Her aura – a rainbow – burned more brightly than it ever had. She channeled the Goddess and the world-spirit. But her own spirit was frail. She was being entirely supported by the power she channeled; she was otherwise drained.

Maya exited the town from the northern gate and carefully made her way down the river path. When she reached the top of the embankment, her grandmother greeted her. She said, “This is very dangerous, granddaughter. Let us investigate together. Please hold this for me, so I can take your arm.” Maya took the satchel her grandmother offered her, and slung it over her shoulder. She held out her right arm out to her grandmother, for balance.

Together they crossed the crest of the embankment and slipped into a gully that arced around the Swan Temple. The temple was a simple affair – a squat coarse marble structure perched like a dock on the edge of the Indus River, with a semi-circular staircase that went into the River. The Temple’s only decoration was a mandala mosaic comprised of several thousand small pieces of broken colored glass. The rest of it was white.

Maya slipped and then regained her balance, after nearly tumbling down the wet, mossy stairs. Her grandmother sharply inhaled and said, “look”. Maya turned to where her grandmother was pointing, at a small shelter behind the wall of the temple, a dry lip of land at the edge of a mangrove swamp. She saw piles of dust and stone that were the crumbled remains of the Persians. As she watched a slight breeze blew dust from the surface of the rubble. The breeze revealed the stone head of the Mage, which had not yet turned to powder. He had an expression of wide-eyed terror on his face. The west-wind gusted and the face dissolved into dust.

“Will that happen to us, grandmother?”

“No. The Djinn cannot harm us in that way.”

“Then how?”

Maya’s grandmother did not reply. She simply shook her head.

A few paces further away, the rest of the Persians were collapsed into a grotesque heap of powdery stone. The ark, which lay in the center of this mess, had shattered, but the glass and ebony box in which the Djinn was imprisoned had tumbled, intact but uncovered onto the ground. The box glowed with the black-red light of the Djinn’s aura. It stained the temple walls like intense, angry sunlight.

Maya carefully moved forward in order to inspect the box more closely, partially shielding her eyes as she did so. On the top of the box there was a picture of Indra, King of the Devas. It was an odd picture. Normally Indra was depicted riding his vahana, a three headed elephant, with a scepter or sword in his right hand. In this picture Indra looked like a woman. He – or perhaps she – was represented in enamel, reclining on a throne, surrounded by symbols of power: a lightning bolt, a sword and a scepter. On the side of the box there was a carving of a bull that wrapped around one edge. The bull’s mouth was on the neck of a scorpion. The scorpion’s tail wrapped around the box ultimately reaching for the white bull’s heart from behind.

[Picture] [The image of the scorpion eating the bull eating the scorpion is Zoroastrian/Mithraic.]

The indentations caused by the strokes of the carving knife were carefully painted in a fashion which accented the light and shadows; as a result the scene stood out in sharp relief against the wooden background. Metal grills, the bars of a miniature prison, were on all side faces of the box; the box itself was lying askew, so three sides were visible to her.

While Maya carefully studied the Djinn’s prison, the Dalit woman tremulously approached the top of the hill, only because she was hectored by the crowd, which was throwing stones. Maya knew full well the danger that the old woman was in: if she crossed the top of the valley, she would see the Djinn’s aura, or one of its reflections, and die. Maya grabbed a shawl that lay by her feet, beside a pile of dust that was once a guard, and flung it over the Djinn’s prison box.

At that moment the terrified Dalit woman appeared at the crest of the river valley.

Maya waved her to the ground shouting, “cover your eyes; cover your ears; fall to the ground!” The wretched woman collapsed in terror. As Maya securing the shawl onto the Deva’s prison, the untouchable woman rested upon on a rock, facing the town. The only sounds were the banging of the wooden boats in the dock behind the temple, the lapping of the river, and periodic shouts from the town.

The Djinn’s voice boomed out of its prison. “Set me free! I am Abdullah bin Al Mansur. I am the Djinn who raised the Tabriz mountains. Set me free or I will kill you all!”

The Djinn’s voice so startled Maya that she stumbled, but did not fall.

The Dalit woman dove into the brambles on the town side of the temple entrance, trying to hide herself from the people of the town, and the Djinn.

Maya, startled, stepped back two steps from the Djinn’s prison, but never glanced away from it. She gathered herself and replied, with a voice that was bolder than she felt, “Deva, why should I set you free when I don’t even know why you are imprisoned? Perhaps you deserve your fate.”

Much to Maya’s surprise the spirit replied with a quiet voice, “I was captured 2,222 years ago by the trickery of Sulayman, He punished me because I refused to acknowledge the authority of Allah. When the Hashim overthrew the Ummayads, my prison became the property of the Caliph of Baghdad.”

“Do you worship Allah?”

The Djinn did not reply.

His silence irked her She said, “I don’t believe your story. Its incomplete. And I can sense that you are prideful and vain.”

[“Only Allah or another Djinn can kill me.”

“So you acknowledge that Allah is more powerful than you?”

“No.”

“If you are so strong how can you be imprisoned at all?”

“Through deceit and magic.”]

“Why did the Caliph send you to Karakorum?”

“Vengeance. Once in Karakorum the Mage was instructed to set me free, so that I would destroy the Great Khan.”

Maya’s next question was spoken like a statement, “Something about the magic that traps you in this box forces you to answer my questions truthfully, doesn’t it?”

“Of course. I have been imprisoned in accordance with the will Allah, who demands the truth.”

It made no sense to Maya that this powerful spirit could be contained by a small glass and ebony wood box. There was more to this story. She said, “Deva, you must answer me this: will you try to kill me if I set you free?”

“Maybe. If you deserve it.”

“Will you kill innocent people?”

“No. I can only kill those who deserve to die. I have no power against innocence.”

“Are there others who you will kill if I set you free?”

“Yes. Five others. Two humans tricked me, and three Djinni betrayed me.”

“Abdullah bin Mansur, I am a child. How can I cancel a spell caste by Sulayman reinforced by Djinni?”

“Maya, look at my cage, come closer.”

His voice compelled her. She walked up to the shroud and bent over. Just as she was about to remove it, she caught her self, barely, and shouted to the townspeople, “I am going to look at the imprisoned Deva. If you look, your eyes will turn to malachite, and then you will turn to dust and blow away.” There was a tumult as the townspeople scrambled out of sight. The Captain was the last too disappear. He was still under the Djinn’s spell, so had to be dragged to safety by his friends.

She pulled the shroud away.

The Djinn’s prison glowed an angry black-red. Maya bent down to look through the bars. A strand of hair brushed against a bar and was immediately incinerated. The interior glowed like a smith’s fire.

“Set me free!”, the Djinn shouted. Not a request. A command.

[She was compelled. But she could not find a way to open the box.

And then she found her self and fought back. She struggled to get to the River. Once immersed the power of the Goddess infused her. The Goddess gave her inspiration and she knew two very important secrets.]

The Djinn relaxed his hold on her, and she regained control of herself.

Maya said, “I know how you can leave your prison. And I know how you can regain your powers.”

“They are the same thing. How could I leave this prison without my powers?”

“No, they are not.”

“Tell me what you know. Tell me!”

“Not yet. I fear you.”

The Djinn roared until the earth shook. Its aura glowed pure black light. Some dry leaves on the ground started to smoulder from the heat. The sparks in Maya’s hair danced wildly.

Eventually the Djinn calmed down.

“What do you mean ‘leave my powers behind’, mantrika?”

She hesitated to reply, but decided it did not matter whether she trusted the Djinn or not. She said, “Abdullah, you must separate yourself from your power. Leave your magic in your prison. It should be easy to do. The box is designed to make it that way. “

“I … I understand.” The Djinn replied, its hesitating voice full of uncertain intention.

There was another long pause and then the Djinn started to laugh with a bellow that made town’s wall shake and the river foam. As the laugh grew louder, the shroud that covered the Djinn’s tiny oak and gold prison began to glow – not with the black-red aura that had killed the Persians, but a bright cherry red aura, like something picked off of a rainbow. Then the Djinn began to take shape. He wore a turban on his head, his long pointed beard had beaded gold threads woven into it, he had, rings on every finger, and on his right hip he had strapped a fierce looking scimitar. His skin hung in long folds, like dough. He had lost weight during his captivity. The folds of his stomach eventually gave way to red striped linen pants that were baggy around the upper thigh and tight around the calves. His calves tapered into tiny feet covered in green felt shoes with curled toes,

Although he was gigantic when compared to sleight Maya he did not seem formidable.

The Djinn laughed mightily as he picked her up by her shoulders, using the forefinger and thumb of his right hand and placed her onto his left shoulder.

He put her down again, with a red gleam in his eyes. “Give me a moment little witch, while I’ll teach these peasants respect.”

With these words Abdullah stepped – or more accurately floated – towards the nearest parapet, raised his fist in the air and slammed it down with all of the force that an angry demon can muster. The air was filled with the deep sound of vibrating stone.

The Djinn shouted with a loud voice, “Now I will now kill you all!”.

The Djinn’s bellow turned into a wail of despair as he deflated back into his prison.

Maya quickly covered it in a shroud.

She wrapped it up tightly, picked it up and prepared to return to town. The town’s gates had been barred, The ramparts were lined with archers.

She approached the town.

The head of the Day Watch shouted down at her, “Stay, witch. We have not decided if you can return.”

[Maya tries to find her grandmother for solace but can’t find her. She discovers her grandmother’s corpse. Initially she thinks she’s been killed by the Djinn, but realizes that channeling the Goddess wears you out. She realizes that she is alone and abandoned, and bonds with the Djinn.]

[Outtake to somehow use: Maya looked down at the body … It was a young women, probably of her age. She had fallen while running. Her legs were long and spindly, her torso relatively short. She wore a blue and white shalmar kameez. From a distance Maya could not make out her face, so she knelt down beside her. The view was in profile, from the left. She tried to lift the head to turn it, but it was too heavy. The stone was marbled, brown but with tints of color that echoed those on the clothes the young woman had been wearing.

With a gasp she recognized the clothes as the same ones as she was wearing, and that the face was her own.]

Story Home | Next Chapter

 

 

Mittens put down his leather-bound edition of Domestication and its Malcontents¹ without making a sound. He then carefully took out a bag of catnip from a velvet lined mahogany box, arranged a pinch of it into two even lines, and picked up an enameled bamboo tube. He carefully inhaled each line of catnip through the tube. When done, the Cat Detective brushed away non-existent bits of catnip from his meticulously waxed whiskers, licked his bright, white fore-paws and said, “Instinct.”

I make a rule of ignoring Mittens’ pronouncements, which of course deters him not one bit. The feline continued, “Barks, when a cat or dog becomes domesticated …”

“One does not become domesticated”, I replied. “One is born domesticated and then may become feral, but never the reverse; no wild creature ever becomes completely domesticated.”

“Agreed” Mittens said without confirming – or denying – my point at all. He meticulously prepared two more lines of catnip. “Inspector Barks”, he said, “let me rephrase my thought as a question: what happens to the instincts of the Domesticated? Are they dulled? Do they go away? Are they present but repressed?” He punctuated his words with an inhalation.

“What does this have to do with the Mont-Royal murder?”, I asked with a brusque voice. “I return to Toronto in two days. I only have so much time.”

Mittens purred, “I’m not certain that the Mont-Royal murder is about instinct per se. But it is about elemental motives: lust, obsession, violence. Some people consider these the traits to be those of wild animals. I’m not so certain. The Domesticated have compulsions too, hien?” With these words he sprang from his chair and circumnavigated the room. As he did so, he methodically marked each piece of furniture with his right cheek.

I realize that I have begun my story in the middle of a conversation, but if you think about it all stories occur in the middle of something; there is always a back story, a context and allusions to the future. But that is no excuse for a lack of manners: I have not even introduced myself. My name is Doctor Inspector Patches Barks. I am the eldest child of a Collie mother and a Shepherd father. My father, Patches Senior, went feral when I was three, which is a story that I don’t want to go into except to say that the struggles of my single-parent mother motivated me to be self-supporting at an early age. I spent long hours as a puppy studying biology and chemistry, was admitted into the Royal Military College before I could vote, and graduated as a medical officer four dog-years later. My first tour of duty was at a military hospital in Kandahar.

Afghanistan is a terrible place for dogs.

Although most of my colleagues were content to treat the Kandahar hospital as a kind of fortress (or prison), Canadian soldiers were allowed to visit the town. Every time I did so, I’d come upon the ragged corpse of at least one poor mutt who had been beaten to death, and then left to rot in the streets because some of those who wish to rule that benighted city think dogs are unclean.

The locals gave me wide berth when I buried the murdered canines: they knew I was both upset and well-armed. They must have watched me closely because of what happened next. One day a nefarious creature – I believe it was a Siamese Taliban – planted an IED² in the mauled corpse of a Rottweiler. In the subsequent explosion of shrapnel I lost two claws and a chunk of my right hind leg. I was less useful to the army after the injury, but was not discharged. After my tour ended, I settled in Toronto, which my mate insists is because I need to live in a city ruled by dogs.

I gave up the practice of medicine. Against my mother’s objection that policing is for hound dogs I set out to become a detective in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I progressed quickly from Cadet to Detective Sergeant, and immediately leveraged my forensic knowledge to become an Inspector.

Although it is impolitic for a police officer to talk politics, I can say, without being political at all, that I am a dog’s dog. So despite my lack of political acumen, my career has benefited greatly from the political success of the Canine Party. When they formed a majority government last May this caused my employment prospects to improve to the point of regret, for I finally became so senior I could not avoid becoming embroiled in the politics of dogs and cats. That was why I was now assigned to Montréal to work with this vain, plump catnip addict named Mittens.

On the surface the Mont-Royal murder appeared complicated. The victim, a cat named Tulip, was one of the most famous media personalities in Québéc, but her career had been in decline since she had dated Bull, the reputed leader of a dock workers gang. It was not that she dated a gangster, but rather that she dated a dog that so offended feline Québéc. Tulip had dumped Bull long ago for a rock star named Trouble, but it was rumoured that her ties to the dock workers’ gang had increased even as her career declined. That would not be of too much concern except that Montréal was now into the sixth week of a rancorous strike in which images of Westmount dogs battling cat workers featured prominently.³

Tulip’s murder could start an inter-species riot.

Previous Chapter | Story Home | Next Chapter

 

 

O what can ail thee, cat-with-claws,
Alone and darkly stalking?
The sedge has wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing

O what can ail thee, cat-with-claws.
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.

I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose.
Fast withereth too.

I met a feline in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

-John Keats

Story Home | Next Chapter

 

 

I fell toward the planet as if through a vision; for though my view altered as I moved, I felt nothing, neither wind, rain, nor friction. Because I felt nothing I found it difficult to believe that what I saw all around me was real. My scanner informed me that it was, but I did not trust its report.

I passed through Eleutheria’s outer atmosphere in an instant. One instant  later I burst through the clouds into a clear sky. I could not see any horizon because everywhere I looked my view was blocked by something that was alive: huge flocks of birds; thousand meter high trees; vast herds of animals; and seas that were bursting with fish.

As I drew closer to the planet’s surface, the arc of my trajectory altered. I no longer fell but instead raced above a forest canopy toward a rising sun. After a few moments my movement slowed; then I gently began to float down onto a flat, dusty triangle at the conjunction of three roads. At the entrance to each road was a gate, one opened onto wilderness; one onto forest.  The third gate faced a grassland and a distant mountain range.

I landed beside Sadhu Jain. He was more substantial than the projection I had seen on the Quark, though barely so: his eyes were watery and unfocused, his dreadlocks were wild, his sari was tattered, and his deportment was loose.

“Where am I?” I asked.

“This is the plaza of the Three Gates. It is the entrance to our world.”

“What do you mean? Is this some kind of test?” I asked.

“No more than any other experience”, the Sadhu replied. He walked to the gate that faced the mountain range. I followed while he spoke to me over his shoulder, “These gates lead to aspects of our world that you must experience before we will allow you to explore any further”. He spoke without a trace of affect in his voice, but the moment he finished speaking a gigantic flock of birds punctuated his words with a cacophonous roar.

I followed the Sadhu through a trellised gate adorned with ancient vines, broad leaves and succulent grapes. “Do you have a name for this gate?” I inquired.

He replied, “We call it Karma. It is the beginning of the path that leads to where you are now.”

As the Sadhu spoke, he gestured for me to follow him, which I did. I was still enclosed in an atmospheric bubble, so I floated rather than walked. When I passed through the gate everything became blurry, then the scene before me gradually resolved into an urban area, a city or town, probably the latter because there were pedestrians and cyclists and animal-drawn carts, but none of the large structures one associates with dense urban areas.

I was no longer on Eleutheria, but instead was in the town of Elen on the planet Anktrope, where I took my doctorate in cultural anthropology, met my wife, purchased my first house, and for the first and only time in my life settled down.

The scene I was in was more like a dream than a simulation. Although there were sounds and colors, the former never resolved into anything as specific as speech, and the latter were vibrant and smeared, more like an abstract painting than a representation. But this description is also inaccurate because there was a vividness to my experiences despite the uncertainty of my senses.

I had returned to the moment when my life was in balance between potential and achievement. I had just received my degree and been offered a posting at Elen University. It was the day of my graduation, my engagement party and the closing on my suburban dream house.

I knew what I wanted and where I was going, and had set myself up to acquire it all. Or perhaps I should say my grasping had direction and focus.

Returning to this scene after one hundred years, I could not help but notice an infinitesimal disquiet in the space between my conception of the arc my life should follow and the path I was taking. I now think of this as a materialist asymptote: I wanted it all and was never satisfied with less, so kept striving. A hungry ghost.

I’m wandering away from my story. The trigger for my disquiet, what most unsettled me, was music. The band I had hired for entertainment played an atonal symphony composed explicitly to celebrate my achievements. I had loved atonal music because its lack of (apparent) structure gave listeners so much potential. What unsettled me was that the commissioned piece the band played was very abstract. Listening to it made me think that even though I had actualized my dream the result was more a vivid illusion than real.

That moment of disquiet was a seed that once sprouted grew quickly and persistently, ultimately eroding the foundations of my life: my work and my family.

I blinked. When I opened my eyes I was back with Sadhu Jain at the Plaza of Three Gates. The Karma gate, which we had just passed through, was to my left. We faced the middle gate, which was difficult to focus on because it shimmered. Initially, I thought this was because of a problem with my eyes, perhaps as a result of my recent journey; then I attributed the shifting images to distortions caused by heat and humidity. I looked more closely and saw that both of my hypotheses were wrong: the physical structure of the gate was actually changing.

“What do you call this?”, I asked.

“This gate is called Maya, which is our word for illusion.”

Sadhu Jain gestured for me to follow him through it. The Sadhu walked quickly. For several minutes I floated behind him, over a hilly savanna, taking in my surroundings, thinking my private thoughts.

After a difficult to measure period of time the grasses gave way to sky-scraping trees. Eventually the Sadhu stopped to rest beside a pool that had formed at the bottom of a mountain waterfall. He sat down on a pad of downy, dark green grass. The pool was edged with white and yellow flowers.

It is inaccurate to speak of the water and the land as separate things in this scene; everything was enveloped in mist.

The mist refracted light into a riot of muted colors.

The colors diffused into a rainbow.

The light was silent.

This reminded me of the first time I experienced silence.

True silence.

I opened my eyes.

I was no longer on Eleutheria, but I knew where I was.

§

I abandoned the goals of my life to give my life direction: the Foundation that funded my university position wanted active archaeologists, and although there are billions of people interested in studying ancient cultures there are precious few willing to spend the time, take the risk, and most importantly are able to endure the psychological stresses associated with solitary exploration. I passed the tests easily: I crave isolation.

But I veer from my narrative: what brought me to this point is silence.

Between solar systems, in deep space, there is silence as deep as infinity, which I sailed through for over one year. My ship, the Pea, was little more than a pod, my initial thrust was provided by a slingshot, and my acceleration was provided by a photon sail. You may think my employers miserly for not getting me a proper exploration vessel, but the choice was mine. Although the Pea itself was slow, it was the fastest, surest and cheapest way for me to escape from my purposeless, comfortable life.

My job was to make a detailed scan of the ruins on the red planet Archion Prime, in order to establish that the planet was unsuitable for academic study and could be turned into an amusement park. Don’t fret if you love ruins as much as I do. My loyalty was not with my employers and no park was ever built.

Thus far the journey was a success. Everything, from the food synthesizer to the photon sails worked except for one detail: inbound communications were broken because I had veered slightly off course – only by a degree or two, but in space one percent might as well be infinity.

I wondered what to do as I lay there in silence. I knew exactly what I was supposed to do: signal that I was alive and that all of my systems were functioning. Simple. I would not have to do anything except approve the action and the Pea would do the rest. But I did not want to hear from my Department and I did not want to speak with my sponsors. Or my ex-wife. Or anybody. Or anything. Least of all from some expressionless machine.

As I lay in silence, staring at a filtered image of the approaching sun, I went into a trance. When I came again to myself the planet Archion Prime was in front of me. I sent a scrambled message to my Department to let the my sponsors know I was alive, and then went back to communication silence.

I directed the Pea to do a loop around the sun at a speed that would give me time to hop off and explore the planet.

Archion Prime was covered in the ruins of large red clay cities which rose from dry, dusty plains. Because of some fluke of geology it was blessed with precious stones, especially emeralds, rubies and diamonds, which were scattered around the planet in temples. The city I choose to explore first was home to the largest of these temples.

I remember listening to the crunching sounds that my boots made when I first set foot on the ground. The sand was made of compressed carbon. These grains of diamonds rubbed together as I moved. They were very abrasive. But that isn’t why I remember the sound so vividly. It was because it ended my period of silence.

Archion Prime is a desert now, but in the past, for millions of years, it had been lush. Its forests, or what they became, carbon fuels, were the planet’s curse: despite spectacular technological advances, the Archion civilization depended primarily on coal for energy, which was abundant and cheap, but unfortunately turned rain into acid, and ultimately destroyed most plant life, save for spiny tumbleweeds and succulents, which were still the dominant plant species when I explored. The primary civilization was as advanced as one could be without interstellar flight, and shared the fate of the planet’s physical geography.

I began my explorations at what I called the Ruby Temple, which was a six-pointed structure that was big enough, even now when ruined, to be seen from orbit. On each point were rubies, polished into the shape of tetrahedrons, which weighed hundreds of kilos. The entire site was a temple to a sun god, who in relics was represented as a red stone.

I targeted the center of the temple as my landing point, a seared pit in the middle of a ruined metal tower. As I got to within one kilometer of it I stopped to hover. I hypothesized that the artifact was one of the most important religious buildings on the planet. But it wasn’t the building that astonished me. In the middle of the temple debris I discovered the ruins of a space ship engine surrounded by a courtyard piled high with coal. I didn’t land but instead explored the spokes of the temple where I found similar coal piles, engine ruins and precious stones. It took me most of one day to realize that the whole site was one gigantic coal-fueled space ship. The ship was so large because it is a difficult task to build coal-fired engines that can move their weight to interstellar velocities.

The Archion civilization had gotten so very close to escape velocity, but their last-chance bet on the wrong energy source, coal, failed and they went extinct.

I vividly remember floating above this absurd folly of a coal-fired space ship and thinking if these people wound up nowhere then where am I when I am here investigating them? My unfiltered answer was nowhere. Although it was a nihilistic realization, it wasn’t a cruel one for it secured my reputation. §

At that moment I returned to Eleutheria. I was now floating beside the Sadhu, who was watching sheep graze unafraid amidst a pride of lions. This made me think of eating. I said, “Sadhu, I am hungry.”

“That is a problem”, he replied gravely.

“What do you eat?”

“We all subsist on Amrita.”

I knew that Amrita was what ancient Indian gods drank to be immortal but I was certain that for Sadhu Jain it referred to something else, for example a food synthesis technology. I puzzled over this question as I looked at the pastoral scene in the fields below me. The planet sensed my hunger. The sheep began to bleat. Lions pawed the earth and growled loudly. A great flock of birds leaped out of a pond and wheeled through the sky in front of me.

The bubble that enclosed me lifted me high above the plains, despite my desire to walk beside the Sadhu.

The planet was rejecting me.

Sadhu Jain spoke to me through a voice in my head. “Change your perspective: don’t view the scene, that makes you an outsider and apart. Experience it by becoming one with it.”

I attempted to follow his advice my opening up my consciousness and was overwhelmed by a cacophony of intruding spirits. The Sadhu continued speaking. “Join us. Begin with me.” He began to glow with an intense purple light that suffused the air around us.

Begin with you how? I wondered. And then I didn’t think, or rather there was no I in my thoughts. Somehow my spirit joined with the Sadhu’s, and  through him it connected with the entire world. I floated back down to the planet’s surface.

The indigo aura that had enveloped me dissolved and my sense of identity returned, though not completely. I felt connected with all of the life around me; this both enhanced and diminished me.

I softly landed on the ground in the middle of a flock of sheep. The animals were no longer agitated. I sensed that they accepted me or maybe I should say that I, as part of them, was no longer a threat. A lion, who had been resting on the edge of the flock rose and slinked forward. As he got closer to me his image became unsteady and he burned with an intense orange aura. I could feel myself as part of that aura fire. The lion signaled me to sit on his back, so I did. I was glowing yellow-red; the Sadhu glowed indigo beside me. §

I blinked then we were again at the Town of Three Gates. I was still riding the lion. We were facing the crudest of the three gates, which was made of pieces of grey drift wood and clay. “This gate is called Anava”, the Sadhu said, anticipating my question. “It is our word for ego.”

The lion stepped lightly over the threshold of the modest gate. Before me flowed a golden river. It was deep, but choked with sandbars and reeds the size of trees.

I rode dreamily beside the middle branch of the river. My spirit felt like a tiny boat on the surface of a calm ocean, except that unlike a boat I was not content to float on the surface but rather felt a compulsion to be immersed in water. I dismounted and walked into the river and began to swim, or more accurately the river invited me to swim. It pulled me in.

Although I still do not know how much of Eleutheria was illusory, I do know that it was a world of spirits; as I immersed myself in the Golden River I merged with them. In one moment I was the spirit of a fish, in the next I was the spirit of a bird; after that I was a fast land animal. My connection with these souls spanned the river, the surrounding plains, the entire planet.

“Merge with us and you can stay”, the Sadhu said.

Until the Sadhu spoke I had been experiencing other spirits. Now they attempted to experience me. The feeling was like standing beside a breaching dam the size of infinity. I was overwhelmed. Swimming, which initially had been effortless suddenly became difficult. My panic and fear caused the water around me to churn. I tried to shut out the millions of spirits that were absorbing my identity. As the waves thickened my fear transformed into panic. I began to sink like a stone through the water.

You must go!

With this message I was flung out of the golden river. I could feel no breeze, I could smell no smells; I could touch but not feel. Once again Eleutheria was quarantined against me. Sadhu Jain floated beside me. He said farewell with a low bow and a plaintive “namaste”, then I was hurled away from him, upward through the clouds and into space.

Although I moved with great velocity I felt like I was not moving at all, so it was easy to ignore the images speeding by me, and to reflect on my sudden exile from Eleutheria. With a heavy heart I mused, “What kind of perfect world would not have me as part of it?” As I thought this sad thought I burst out of the green-blue planet’s atmosphere and into space. “Eleutheria is not exactly a perfect world”, I corrected myself, remembering the Sadhu’s words, “it is a dream of a perfect world.”

This made me wonder, What would I dream of if I dreamed of a perfect world?

I thought about what I had just experienced: skies thick with birds, seas bursting with fish, and dense forests. I had an answer to that question. My dream is the same one as Sadhu Jain’s, for I too long for harmony, peace, and abundance, and when I dare to dream, I dream of a world where there is no suffering. I have visited this dream, but could not stay.

I watched the Quark grow from a distant dot into a space ship. I knew that I would take a few minutes to reach it, so I twisted my body to look into the deepest part of space. Once again I confronted infinity. This time I was not afraid, for my terror had given way to awe and my heart was full of longing. Fin

 

 

My ship, the Quark, popped out of hyperspace 10 lakh¹
A lakh is an Indian unit of measurement equal to 100,000.
kilometers above the planet Eleutheria. The moment it did I looked at my scanner: as expected, all of the bio-sign readings were extreme. There was no planet in our galaxy with remotely as much biomass per cubic hectare as the green-blue giant before me.

My research told me that this trip could be very dangerous. Although it is common for space probes to malfunction, it was exceptional that every single probe that had been sent to explore Eleutheria had failed by the time it had gotten as close to the planet as I now was. I scanned the solar system for signs of weaponry. Nothing. I scanned for signs of artificial energy production. Nothing. There was no sign of any technology whatsoever. “All this life and no machinery”, I thought.

The Quark shuddered as it stopped. I glanced at my control panel trying to determine what had happened. Aside from the change in the ship’s momentum, every other measurement was unremarkable. The fore scanners showed a green-blue planet, the aft scanners a blazing yellow-white sun. I tried to move the Quark backwards, away from Eleutheria but the ship did not move. Attempts to move up, down and sideways had similar effect. I cut the engines and all extraneous power sources in order to save energy, and then began to investigate why my ship had stopped moving. It had to have been because of some form of counter-force, but my logs told me nothing.

I spent the next several hours broadcasting messages, on the assumption that someone, or some thing, had stopped the Quark. These efforts to communicate fell upon deaf ears, or at least were not responded to in a way I comprehended. Although I had no information that would allow me to interpret this silence as anything specific, it soon provoked me to anger. I am not one of those people who become violent when angry. As my temper flared I became more and more focused on solving the riddle that I was in. With obsession as my motivation I worked continuously for the better part of the next day analyzing my data with every analytical tool I possessed. My results were all negative: no matter had shifted, no energy had been expended and yet the Quark had made the transition from light-speed to stillness in an instant. Ultimately my frustration gave way to amazement. During my explorations I have encountered countless amazing technologies, but never one that could not be recognized as technology.

I brooded until I fell asleep.

When I awoke I was amazed to discover the projection of a small, frail man standing in front of me. There were beads and colored ribbons in his hair and he had a gnarly, matted gray beard. He wore a white sari, which hung loosely on his lank, bony frame. Because he was translucent and stood in front of the fore-scanner, a filtered image of the green-blue planet could be seen through his body.

The moment I noticed him he greeted me with a low bow and said, “Welcome to Eleutheria. Namaste.”

There were so many ways I could have responded to this first encounter. I could have been afraid, startled or full of anticipation, curiosity or hope. I regret to report that I was simply disappointed. Seeing an image of a human in front of me, even one as oddly dressed and wild-looking as this one, meant that Eleutheria had not only been discovered, it had been colonized, and was therefore just another piece of human history that had been lost and found again. Such discoveries happen every year and are rarely headline news.

The wiry old man, apparently reading my mind, said, “Fame is not the only reason you are here my friend.”

I nodded my head in agreement. Acquiring fame is the least of my motivations for exploration, though it is one of them.

“What is your name?” I asked.

“Sadhu Jain.”

I know that a Sadhu is a holy man and that Jainism is a religion that respects all life, but that did little to help me, so I asked, “It is obvious you are a projection. Where is the real you right now?”

“My physical body is on the planet but what you see here is not a projection”, he gestured towards his translucent body and said, “This is the real me.”

I let this cryptic remark go unchallenged and asked the question that was foremost on my mind, “How did you stop my ship? I was moving at light-speed.”

“Your ship is still moving, but slowly relative to the universe.”

I leaped to my control panel and analyzed scans of the galaxy since I arrived. The star-field had not shifted at all. “How could I have missed this?”, I thought excitedly.

My amazement at being somehow taken out of time cleared my head of anger: this was a mystery worth investigating further. “Sadhu Jain‚” I said respectfully, “I would very much like to visit your planet.”

“I will ask permission.” The projection of the mystic blinked into nothing.

The next moment I was in space. Eleutheria loomed in front of me; the sun was at my back; nothing was above me and nothing beside me but the flickering of distant stars. You have never experienced the sublimity of the universe until you have done so floating alone in space. I slowly twisted myself around so that I was facing the center of the galaxy. No matter where I looked I saw stars. The vastness turned my awe into terror. I dodged my fear by twisting my body so that the green-blue planet filled my view.

I used my pocket scanner to orient myself. I was 5 lakh kilometers away from my ship hovering in the atmosphere above Eleutheria but I could not determine how I had arrived at my current location. In fact the only anomaly I could measure was a 10 metre spherical corona of space-time, a data smudge which my scanner struggled to describe.  On the inside of the corona was an atmosphere exactly like the one in my spaceship; on the outside, the near vacuum of space. I was slowly falling toward the planet.

A shadow crossed my view. I looked up to see a placid Sadhu Jain floating beside me. You would think that I would be afraid, in fact horrified, to be suspended in space by some form of technological magic in the company of an unkempt mystic. But I was not afraid of Sadhu Jain; I was not afraid of the magic that kept me alive while I hurtled toward this amazing planet. I was certain that the same magic that gave Eleutheria so much life would protect mine.

I tried to orient my body to face the Sadhu as I fell, but could not because of dizziness. I spoke the moment I could, “Sadhu Jain, this is a very complicated way to get me to your planet. Wouldn’t it be simpler for me to land my ship?”

“Machines are not allowed on Eleutheria”, he replied.

“Indeed! What do you mean by machine? Do you mean any machine? My right eye is artificial. Is it an forbidden technology?”

“The machinery in your eye will not work on the planet. But there is no need for you to worry. You will perceive far more than you sense once you land.”

I have been trained to practice discretion during first encounters but the Sadhu’s cryptic, mystical words compelled me to press him about his beliefs. “Am I that different from my spaceship?”, I asked. “Aren’t I just an organic machine? ”

“There is a difference: you are divine”, he blandly replied.

I smiled at this bold statement, but I fear that my smile was rueful. My intentions may strive for divinity but I know that my actions rarely, if ever, move me closer to it. I said, “If I am divine, Sadhu Jain, then why did you have to get permission for me to visit Eleutheria?” I asked, with hints of challenge and bitterness in my voice.

His response took me aback. “I had to ask permission for you to visit because your spirit is dangerous,” he said.

“Why are you letting me visit at all?”

“Because you are divine”.

His circular words and indifferent manner caused my temper to fray, again.

“What is this place?!” I exclaimed.

“It is a dream of a perfect world.”

I blinked.

When my eyes opened Sadhu Jain was gone.

Story Home | Next Chapter

 

 

““The Doctor returned last night”.” Harriet fluffed her mother’s pillow, carefully pulled back one corner of the duvet cover, and then helped her mother up from her wheelchair onto her bed. The transfer was an effort for both women, so it was a moment before their conversation continued.

Mother spoke next, “”I’m so glad he got back safely. I don’t know why he goes on those dangerous voyages when his daughter is still a child.””

“”He’s the Anderson’s top scientist. I imagine he has to do what he’s told.”

”“He didn’t have to leave his daughter in the care of that brute he has for a brother-in-law.”

““Jimmy is a brute, but Katherine takes good care of Caitlin.””

“Dutiful wife and sister.” Harriet spoke with contempt.

Thus far the conversation was to type: Harriet and her mother’s opinions about Doctor Hofstaedter and his family had not changed for years.

“”What did the Doctor say when he saw Daniel in that awful cell; or was he too tired to notice? You know how tired people can be so good at not noticing.””

“He was plenty tired when he arrived. He looked terrible, like he hadn’t slept in months. But he noticed Daniel, alright.””

The conversation paused for a minute while Harriet’s elderly mother propped herself up, so that she was more comfortable. When she was done, Mother eagerly asked,“ “What happened?””

Harriet replied, “”The moment the Doctor saw Daniel in his cell he just stopped. His whole entourage stopped, the porters, his man, Caitlin.””

“”His daughter was there?””

““Of course she was there. She hasn’t seen her father in well over a year! You couldn’t separate them.””

“She’s a sweetheart, isn’t she?””

” “I sometimes fear that her heart is too good for this world.””

“”She’s going to have to lose some innocence; the world’s certainly not going to get more virtuous on her account.”

“She already has.” Remember how she looked when her Uncle took the money she was going to use to bribe the auditor.”

Mom nodded in agreement then asked, ““So what did the Doctor do?””

“For a long moment he didn’t move. I didn’t even see him breathe. It was like he was trying to find the energy to do anything at all. But when he moved again, he moved quickly. First he whispered something to his man, who disappeared up the stairs with the porters in tow. Then he told his daughter to go to bed. After that he turned around and marched out the door.””

““What did Caitlin do?”

“”She followed her father, of course.” “She’s like her father – very determined once she’s chosen a path.””

““It took almost an hour for the Doctor to return but I didn’t notice the time because the foyer was filling up with people. Every time someone new arrived I had to tell them the story all over again.””

““What about Mrs. Ellison?””

““She was standing on the edge of the foyer. Bruno was with her, of course.””

Mother nodded as she pictured the scene in her head. After a sip of water, Harriet resumed her story.“The Doctor returned with his daughter and a blacksmith. By this time his eyes were dark red and his hands were so unsteady that Caitlin had to open the door for him.”

““Had he been drinking?””

““The Doctor never drinks!””

““Habits change, daughter. Tell me more about Mrs. Ellison.””

““Be patient, Mother. I’ll tell you about Mrs. Ellison when it matters.””

Harriet straightened her skirt, and then continued, ““The Doctor walked straight to the cell, past Bruno, Mrs. Ellison, everyone, as if we didn’t exist.””

“”Harriet, I’ve known Doctor Hofstaedter since he was a child. Be certain he knew everyone’s location and rank.”

Harriet ignored her mother’s comment and continued. She said, ““The Doctor stopped one step before the cell. He turned to face Bruno, his hand on the hilt of his saber, ready to draw. The locksmith and Caitlin were behind his back. The locksmith fired up a gas torch. He could have picked the lock, but the Doctor had ordered him to break the gate into pieces.””

Mother laughed and clapped. ““What wonderful news! Why that’s the best news.”” She quickly became serious. “”Harriet, if your father had lived, this whole episode with Daniel would never have happened. You know that.””

Harriet nodded her head obligingly. She didn’t know that, but liked to share her mother’s dreams about what might have been.

Mother asked, “”What happened to Daniel?””

“When the gate to his cell was destroyed Daniel immediately ran out and – cowered –behind the Doctor. Bruno tried to intervene, but when the Doctor drew his sword , he thought better of it and backed off toward the door.”

““What about Mrs. Ellison?””

“She was screaming that Daniel’s imprisonment was legal, that he was a hoarder, and that his imprisonment was a mercy because he should have been hanged for what he did.””

““Such a fight, in such a small space.””

““It was like a stage at a theatre. Everyone but the main actors had run up to the mezzanine or out into the street to watch from a safe distance.”

””“Did Bruno attack the Doctor?””

“Bruno was carrying a large wrench in his right hand – – the one he uses with the boiler. You could see him trying to decide whether to attack the Doctor, and mark my words he was going to, when the door was pushed open by the Doctor’s man, who had arrived with two tough looking friends. I don’t trust that man, but I understand now why the Doctor retains his services.””

Mother nodded and Harriet continued speaking, “”The Doctor stepped toward the entrance to join his people. Caitlin and Daniel were one step behind. They formed a line at the door. The Doctor was in the center. His daughter was on his left side, in front of the stained glass window. The Doctor’s man and his ruffian friends were by the entrance to the mud room.””

““Where was Daniel?””

“While they were gathering at the door, Daniel slipped out and ran away. He didn’t even have shoes on.””

“What happened next?”

““It was the Doctor’s show. Even though he was so weary he could barely stand”. He said in a public voice, ‘Why was Daniel imprisoned?’ It was like the beginning of an ancient Greek trial.””

“How do you know that?”

“Mother!”

“Alright, so tell me about Mrs. Ellison.”

“Mrs. Ellison was standing at the foot of the stairs under our License. She said, ‘Its like I’ve been saying, the prisoner is a hoarder. There’s a war on right now, and he had a sack of rice he wasn’t sharing. There was a fair trial and he was convicted. We should have executed him.’””

““What did the Doctor say to that?”” Mother asked.

““He ignored Mrs. Ellison. Instead drew his sabre and pointed it at Bruno and asked in his most proper voice, ‘Who is this man?’ Bruno stepped into the middle of the foyer, two paces from the Doctor. He bowed and said, ‘“Bruno Constantinus, at your service’.”

”“Bruno can be polite?” Mother asked caustically.

“”He brandished his wrench before he bowed””, her daughter replied.

““Didn’t the Doctor’s man do anything?”

“He moved to block Bruno but the Doctor signaled for him to back off. But let me finish! After Bruno introduced himself, he walked right up to the Doctor and said very politely, “Mister, you are upsetting the Lady.””

“”Lady…!”,” Mother laugh while she slapped her knee.

Harriet nodded, “”You’re of the same mind as the Doctor. He took two steps sideways – – toward the entrance and away from his people – – and shouted so loudly he could be heard across the street, ‘This man is calling Mrs. Ellison a Lady! Hah! There is nothing noble about that woman!’”

”“”The Doctor was making room for his sabre, wasn’t he?”” Mother asked.

Harriet nodded. ““Then Bruno did something very stupid.””

““The poignard?” Mother hazarded, with a worried tone in her voice.

Harriet nodded, “”Bruno pulled back his cloak to reveal that rusty knife he calls an heirloom.””

Mother used her pillows to raise herself half way out of her bed, ““Oh no. Bruno didn’t … ?””

““The instant Bruno placed a hand on the knife the Doctor killed him with one cut through the heart.””

““In front of Caitlin! Poor child. Is she alright?””

““I don’t think so know, but she can’t be. As Bruno collapsed she smiled that flat terse smile of hers.””

“Her secret smile. “What about Mrs. Ellison?”

“When Bruno died Mrs. Ellison went crazy. She started shouting at the Doctor, and pounding her fists against his chest. She went on about food shortages and how dangerous hoarders are, and how letting one person get away with crime encourages everyone to try.””

““What did the Doctor do?””

““He didn’t do anything, he just studied Mrs. Ellison, like she was a specimen.””

Mother laughed.

Harriet continued, ““Guess what happened next? Two policemen showed up!” ”

Mother was so thrilled the story had another chapter she slapped her palsied knee again. Her daughter continued, ““The Doctor was the person with the highest rank at the scene of the crime, so of course he explained to the officers why there was a corpse. The police accepted the Doctor’s claim that he had killed Bruno in self-defense. One policeman actually ticketed Bruno for possessing an illegal weapon. He said, ‘That’s what happens when commoners wear swords.’””

The policeman’s comment fired Mother up. She said, ““That cop is an ass. Bruno was just too stupid for his weapon.””

Harriet smiled at her Mother but her narrative did not miss a beat, ““You won’t believe what happened next. Two more policemen entered with Daniel, handcuffed, between them.

“”What did Mrs. Ellison do?” She she try to show them the court records?”

““She wanted to say something. She stood right behind the Doctor, muttering to herself like she was practicing her lines.””

““But she didn’t?””

“”No. The Doctor didn’t give her a chance. He was very civil. He invited all four policemen to warm themselves by the coal heater, and sent his man upstairs for drinks. The newly arrived policemen said that they were here because they had found Daniel, without any shoes, at the carriage depot. Because he had been branded with this address, they suspected he was a felon or escaped slave.””

“As his man handed the policemen drinks, the Doctor informed them that Daniel had been a prisoner here but new evidence had come to light, and he was now free.” Harriet imitated the Doctor’s formal style of speech as she recounted his words. “”He gave the officers extravagant gratuities and asked them to please ensure Daniel got shoes, a change of clothes and a coach ticket to Anchorage. The Doctor asked for their names and ranks to ensure compliance. As the policemen left, the Doctor shouted after them in a loud, hearty voice, ‘Officers, I will commend you to the Anderson.’””

“”That’s so like the Doctor””, Mother said drily.

Harriet continued, ““As soon as the policemen were gone the Doctor shooed everyone out of the foyer promising that everything would be set in order at the next board meeting. He had his people take care of Bruno. They did a good job. There’s no sign of blood at all.””

“”That’s quite a story, Harriet. Did it really happen or is that pitiful man still imprisoned under the stairs?””

“”Daniel’s free Mother. He’s at his parent’s house in Anchorage.””

Mother reached over to clasp her daughter’s hands in hers. “”Harriet, I fear that my generation has let you down: we’re leaving you a world far worse than the one we inherited.” Just like our parents and grandparents did.”

“”Nonsense Mother. The Doctor is back. All it takes is a few good people to turn everything around.”

””“Harriet, there are never enough good people.””

 

 

“Skinny.”

Jimmy threw a handful of dust at the girl and shouted again. “Tanya is skinny skinny skinny.”

Although the epithet was appropriate, Tanya was thin as a rail, it was the kind of insult a black pot might hurl at a kettle. At eleven years Jimmy showed his age: he was scrawny, like a sickly rake, except at the point where his belly distended through his ragged t-shirt; his lips were thin and his eyes were dull; his skin was puce-coloured and filthy. As with far too many boys in Fairbanks, it was difficult to tell where dirt ended and disease began.

Tanya stared down at Jimmy but didn’t reply to his taunts. His words didn’t hurt as much today as they did on other days. Today she felt distanced from him, as if she was from another world that he couldn’t touch.

Two blocks from Tanya’s home Jimmy made a left so that he could take a short cut to his home in the Projects. Tanya turned right, and began walking toward the other side of the railway tracks. Her mother was waiting for her on the stoop of the family’s three story brick townhouse. Normally, that was a bad sign because it meant Mum wanted to talk about something, like grades. This time Tanya wasn’t so sure. Her mother didn’t even notice her approach: she sat crouched forward with her head between her hands, looking down at her feet. In her left hand she held a rumpled, blue envelope.

“Mum.” Tanya asked tentatively when she reached the bottom step. Her mother hadn’t even noticed her arrival.

Tanya’s mother looked up and wearily said, “Hi Pumpkin.” As an afterthought she added, “How was school?”

“Fine.”

“Were you on time?”

“Yes.”

“Did any of the Hootch boys bother you?”

“Yes”

“Which one?”

“Jimmy.”

Mum sighed, “What did he do?”

“Nothing.”

Mum let it drop. At least she wasn’t crying anymore. Tanya said, “Come inside, Mum. I’ll help you make dinner.”

Dad arrived two hours later, at 6:00 pm, which was early. Mum greeted him at the door. She hugged him until he gently pushed her away. He said, “That’s enough Rhonda.” He wasn’t annoyed by Mum’s excessive affection, just tired.

Dad walked into the kitchen. He silently stared at the bare table – a small plate of potatoes, and some salmon. He asked, “What’s for dinner?”

Tanya braced herself. Dad could see what was for dinner. But he wasn’t asking a question, he was saying how little there was. He always did that, because where he came from in California there was lots. In Fairbanks there was never enough.

Mum was in no mood to fight. “You’ve got some mail.” She handed Dad the blue envelope she’d been crying over earlier. Dad looked at the envelope. He noticed it was opened but said nothing. He handed the letter back to Mum and said, “Read it to me.”

Mum whispered, “Tanya’s here.”

Dad said, “Read it anyway”. He didn’t lower his voice. Mum read,To: GM visa holderUnder the terms of Article XIII of the Genetic Purity Act, you are to report to any Republic of Alaska military recruiting centre within two weeks. Failure to do so will result in an immediate felony conviction.

A list of recruiting centres …

“That’s enough.”

Mum stopped reading.

“What’s a GM visa, Dad?” Tanya asked.

“Your father’s genes have been modified to make them better” Mum replied.

“When? Why wasn’t I told?”, Tanya exclaimed.

“The changes happened hundreds of years ago, pumpkin” Mum replied. “Your father inherited the improvements from his Mum and Dad.”

“And you inherited them from me”, Dad added gruffly.

Mum raised her voice so that she could speak over Dad, “Your genes don’t matter right now, Tanya. What matters is that your father has to join the army for a few years.”

“Do we have to move?” Tanya asked.

Dad answered, “Yes. I’ll be training at Fort Palin, near Inuvik. That’s where they send all the conscripts.”

“What about the war?” Tanya asked her father. “Do you think you’ll have to fight in the war?”

Mum spoke with an outdoor voice, “There’s no war! That’s just a border dispute over Lake Athabasca. I’m sure it’ll be over by the time your father’s training is done.”

Dad picked up his food and went to the living room. That’s what he did when he was angry but too tired to fight. Tanya went with him. Mum stayed in the kitchen. She hardly ate.

When Dad finished his dinner he went to the kitchen to talk to Mum. He wasn’t angry anymore. Tanya pretended to sleep by the stove, but was really listening to her parents.

Dad said, “Rhonda. I’m going to go back to Long Beach. I’d like you and Tanya to come with me.”

Dad looked at Mum. She looked away. She said, “Cody, draft dodging is too dangerous. If you get caught you’ll be shot or enslaved. And think of Tanya.”

Dad looked into the living room.

Mum said, “Do you think two years in the army is that bad? I bet the pay is the same as you get now.” Mum was speaking quietly. Tanya rolled over so that she could hear better.

Dad replied, “Sure. Soldier’s make more than labourers. If they live.”

Mum started to cry. §

Just before dawn Tanya awoke and quietly descended from her room on the third floor to the kitchen to make breakfast. She found Mum sitting on the couch in the living room. Mum’s eyes were bright red but she was no longer crying. Tanya hesitated before joining her. She didn’t know what she could say: she disliked it when Mum asked nosy questions, so hesitated to do so herself.

Mum spoke first, “Did you do your homework?”

“No. I couldn’t think last night. Anyway, I have until Monday.”

“What’s your assignment?”

“Its like show and tell. I have to pretend I’m a visitor from an historical time and place.”

“Do you have any ideas?”

Tanya shrugged, “Miss Langan said I should talk about the Arctic War.”

“Don’t talk about war, sweetheart. Do something cultural instead. Why don’t you talk about the Movies?”

Tanya liked that idea a lot more than talking about some ancient battle. “That sounds great, Mum, but I need a theme.”

“What do movies make you think of pumpkin?”

Tanya thought about the fights between Mum and Dad over how there was never enough food.

“Lots”, she said.

“What do you mean?”

“They had lots of everything in Movie Times. I’m want to talk about that.”

Mum leaned over and gently clasped Tanya’s hands, “How about we study tomorrow by seeing a movie?”

For the first time in weeks both Rhonda and her daughter smiled. §

The next morning Rhonda and Tanya got up early for the walk downtown to the Central Reference Library. The road had just been cleaned, so they walked on it instead of the rickety wooden sidewalks. They had to be careful to avoid getting splashed by delivery wagons rushing to the Saturday market.

Tanya, though quiet, was engaged. Every once in a while she would make a comment about something, but otherwise was content to look everywhere and say nothing.

They arrived at the library on time for the noon matinee. Today’s movie was “Harry Potter and the Temple of the Phoenix”. The library always played this one because it had lots of copies, so it didn’t matter so much if one wore out.

Tanya was bursting with excitement. Despite herself Rhonda was as well. It had been years since she had seen a movie, and she had never once seen a Harry Potter.

The theatre was part of a Victorian Revival building that had been annexed to the Central Reference Library a generation earlier. Its entrance was guarded by a pair of marble dragons, which sat on either side of a grand staircase. Its atrium was illuminated by a giant electric light that hung from a domed ceiling. The theatre itself had an orchestra pit and two terraces. The staircase walls were painted with giant frescoes of important moments in the military history of the Republic: the battle of Bear Lake, the lifting of the Siege of Barrow, and the sack of Burnaby. The second balcony was closed entirely while artists worked on the latest addition to the frescoes, a memorial to the Hay River Massacre. It was a painting of the young Joan Smith dying on the bow of the Mackenzie Dawn. That was the event that started the current war.

The movie began.

For both Tanya and her mother the next hour was a wonderful blur.

When the torches were lit for the intermission, Tanya became disoriented. The Dementors, Hogwarts, the magic – it was all so vivid. The library auditorium seemed flat, dull and unreal. §

Tanya went into the lobby to buy a soda for her mother, and some popcorn for herself. Mum eye’s followed her as she went.

The concession stand was decorated with mirrors. All of the walls and pillars had mirrors as well, which made the lobby look huge because every where you looked you saw infinity. Tanya was teased so much about her body she never looked at herself in the mirror. Why would she want to see how ugly she was? She tried not to look at herself now, but it was difficult.

While Tanya stood in line, staring at her feet, a child’s voice said, “Miss. Miss.” A little girl, no more than seven, tugged at the hem of her skirt. Tanya looked up. The tugging was being done by a beautiful Yupik girl – she was well fed and had ruddy red skin. Her black hair was tied into two pigs tails that stuck up like antennas. The child asked Tanya, “Miss, are you Hermione?”

Tanya looked from the girl to millions of reflections of the Hermione.

The Yupik child burst out, “You’re beautiful!” The little girl was so embarrassed by her words that she rolled away, but the words she had just spoken did not leave with her. Tanya wouldn’t let them: she had always wanted to be beautiful.

A woman wearing a puffy coat made of muskrat fur rushed over to Tanya. She bent down on one knee and raised Tanya’s chin with her right hand, and said, “That Eskimo child is right. You look just like Emma Watson. Are you one? I haven’t seen any since the pogroms.” Tanya edged away, but there was nowhere to hide in a room full of mirrors. The woman continued, “Never mind. Of course you are. Why don’t you read this. There’s an address on the back if you want to talk.” The woman handed Tanya a pamphlet. There was a black and white picture of the magician Hermione on the cover. It had the title, “The Goddesses of Movie Times.”

Tanya took the pamphlet from the woman, and rushed back to her seat. Mum didn’t ask why Tanya didn’t return with a drink.

In the last few moments before the  movie continued Tanya began read a story from her pamphlet with the title “Were wizards real?”

Mum noticed but said nothing. §

The moment the movie ended Rhonda threw a hat and scarf over her daughter, hustled them both out of the library and onto the street. Despite the cost, they took a carriage home.

For the first few minutes of their journey they were both silent. Tanya was thinking about how Hogwarts was her true home, and wondered if there was a portal to it in Fairbanks. She once excitedly made the driver stop the carriage when she mistook a huge, unkempt trapper for Hagrid.

Rhonda brooded, uncertain how to proceed.

Tanya broke the silence, “Mum, am I Hermione?”

“Dear heart, someone hundreds of years ago altered your genes so that you look like Hermione. But no, you’re not her. Hermione is not real. She’s just a character in a story.”

“But what about Emma Watson? She was real. Am I her? Or a clone of her? Or something else?”

“Pumpkin, movie stars are never real. They’re myths we create about famous actors.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would someone want to look like Hermione?”

“Because she was beautiful.”

Tanya tried to suppress a smile; she did not succeed, “But I’m skinny.”

“In Movie Times people thought it was beautiful to be slender. They considered it a sign of health and self-discipline.”

“What do you mean, self-discipline?”

“Back then there was so much of everything that some people had too much. They would eat and eat until they grew so fat they were ugly.”

Tanya remembered how Dad looked at his empty plate.

Too much and not enough. §

When they got home Tanya and her mother silently prepared and ate a simple meal. Dad wasn’t there: he worked on Saturdays.
When they were almost done cleaning up dinner Tanya broke the silence. “Mum, I’ve been thinking about my presentation for school. Can I practice on you?”

Mum said, “Of course, dear.”

They put away their towels, drained the sink and retired to the living room.

Mum sat down in the big chair Dad always used. Tanya gathered her thoughts while she composed herself in front of the wood stove. She had learned from the Harry Potter movie that she wasn’t an ugly duckling. If this was California in Movie Times everyone would think that she was as beautiful as a star. She had to let her classmates know this! But how?

Tanya began, “In Movie Times make-believe was real, and because we make-believe wonderful things everything was better back then.”

Mum squirmed in her chair.

Tanya continued, “They had lots of everything in Movie Times. Not just clothes and wagons, but even lots of fresh water. They had machines that could create water out of air.” She took a big inhalation. “And of course they had lots of Movie Stars.”

Tanya stopped speaking. That was as all she had.

Mum carefully asked, “Tanya, what did you say about make-believe?” The simple question confused Tanya. Tanya had gone into a trance when she recited her speech. She didn’t remember any of it, what she had said, what Mum’s reactions were, nothing. She said, “Let me practice some more, and do some research. We can do it again tomorrow. OK?”

Mum nodded.

Tanya went to bed, where she dreamed of eating all the smoked fish she wanted, and having lemonade and sugar cookies for desert.

Mum was hungry. She had scrimped on dinner because the cost of the carriage home had been steep. She opened the icebox. All they had was a small piece of dried salmon, some old potatoes, stale bread and sour butter. She left it all for Dad. §

On Monday morning Tanya was excited about how she was going to tell her story. She knew that if she could make her classmates understand that she wasn’t just different she was special, like a princess from a far away land, they’d be her friends.

Rhonda looked at her child. Tanya had never been this enthusiastic about going to school. Had she ever been this enthusiastic about anything? Tanya’s excitement took the edge off her mother’s nerves, but it was impossible not to worry. They had rehearsed the presentation a dozen times last night, and each time Tanya’s words were different.

Although she was shunned by her family, Rhonda Anderson was still treated as a highly ranked noble by the teachers at her daughter’s school. When she arrived with her daughter in a carriage, which they had taken to ensure that Tanya was unmuddied, a great fuss was made by the principal. Rhonda was invited to watch all of the presentations. Although she was anxious about her presence upsetting her daughter, she agreed to stay.

The school had three classrooms for three different age groups. All the children had all gathered in the biggest classroom, which was the one normally used by the youngest children. Tanya’s teacher was a middle-aged Asian refugee who had migrated to Alaska across the pole. Her English was fluent, but accented, and precisely spoken. This gave her an appearance of harshness not warranted by her otherwise stoic and gentle manner. She was dressed in a blue uniform, white top and blue tie: an adult version of what the children wore. The school bell rang; the children settled down.

The teacher asked, “Who would like to go first?”

Tanya’s arm shot up. Her teacher was surprised. Tanya was a reticent child who never volunteered for anything. She said, “Very good, Tanya. You can go first. What is your historical period?”

“Movie Times.”

“What is your theme?”

“Lots.”

“I expect you to explain what you mean by that.”

Tanya nodded vigorously but wondered why you’d need to explain the idea of lots to anyone.

Tanya took her place at the front of the classroom, stood up straight and smoothed her skirt with her hands. The teacher said, “Begin”.

Tanya began. “My speech is about my pretend visit to Los Angeles, California in Movie Times.”

Tanya mustered all of her effort to look at her classmates. She wouldn’t go blank the way she did when practicing with Mum. They were all looking at her. Tanya’s heart was racing. She took a deep breath to calm herself down. She began, “In Movie Times there was lots of everything. There was lots of lemons and sugar, and crayons came in over one hundred colours.”

Tanya nervously inhaled. She exhaled, “The streets were full of metal wagons with tires made of air. Every family had one, some had two or three, so that children could drive too. At first I was scared to drive, then one day I drove from Hollywood to Santa Monica on a highway. It was fun.”

Tanya paused to look at her classmates. She had their complete attention. She smiled as she spoke her next words, “Even school was fun in Movie Times. There were no tests because everyone owned a box that contained all knowledge. If you wanted to know something, all you had to do was ask your box. It was easier if you could type, but you didn’t have to, most of the time the knowledge box could understand your spoken words.”

Tanya’s audience had disappeared. She was entirely in her head again. This time, she noticed. Pay attention, Tanya, she thought. This can change your life.

Tanya forced her perceptions to come back into the room. In a bold voice she said, “One of the best things about back then was all the Movie Stars. There was Halley who was the goddess of beauty. She was thin and had big breasts, so everyone liked her.”

Tanya looked at her classmates, just to know she could. She continued, “Not all of these goddesses were good. Some were terrible. The goddesses Paris and Lindsey and Britney used to kill their boyfriends, after they kissed them.”

“My Mum thinks they still do.” That was Jimmy Hootch. For once he wasn’t teasing. He was just saying. Tanya felt encouraged. She said, “I think so too”. Mum cringed.

Tanya’s presentation reached its climax, “On my trip to Hollywood I met my favorite movie star, Emma. That’s her regular name. Her Greek name is Hermione. I liked her because …” Tanya stumbled on the words because Emma was just like me. Tanya couldn’t say that. Instead she said, “Hermione was one of the perfume goddesses.”

“What did she look like?” The question was asked by Peter, one of the older Hootch boys. Today he had a large bruise around his left eye. Just like the one his brother Jimmy had last week.

“Let me tell you” Tanya said proudly. She opened up the pamphlet she had been given at the Central Reference Library, and began to read in a loud, steady voice, “The goddess Emma was pretty and thin and had small breasts, a pert butt and a button nose.”

“Tanya, did you see the Harry Potter movie on Saturday? You look like the magician Hermione.” The question was asked by one of the older boys who Tanya didn’t know.

“Yeah, you do.” Everyone who had seen any of the Harry Potters agreed.

Even though Tanya was afraid of expressing her emotions, a smile spread over her face. She had done it! Now they all knew. She wasn’t an ugly duckling because she was skinny. She was as beautiful as a movie star.

“Why don’t you see if anyone has questions?”, the teacher prompted.

“I have a question. I do.”

“Calvin …”

“Tanya, what was the best part of Movie Times?”

Calvin was the oldest of the Hootch boys. He was quieter than his other brothers, as if age had made him too tired to be angry. He got more black eyes than the rest of his brothers combined, even though he never fought.

Tanya replied, “I think that the best thing about back then was that no one ever starved, because if you got hungry and had no food the Government gave you stamps that you could eat.”

Calvin’s eyes went wide. Tanya looked at the rest of her classmates. All of their eyes were wide too: their next meals were never guaranteed. They had all gone hungry.

“Are there any more questions?” the teacher asked.

There were no more questions. The children had learned all about lots.

 

 

Start

This establishment is governed by Private Law.

Caitlin looked at the grimy notice. It was the last thing she saw before she entered the foyer from the stairs, and the first thing that guests saw when they entered the co-op from outside. She turned to face the cell. Its right part was defined by the slope of the stairwell. This was where the prisoner, a lean, ragged man, was now sitting. Although he was barely 40 years of age he had grey, thin hair. His skin was taut and sallow; his parched lips were white around the edges. The wall facing him was pocked by metal studs that had once been used to hang bicycles. In the far corner there was a rusty, galvanized bucket of water. The water in the bucket was used for both drinking and washing, first one then the other. His special friend Caitlin changed it daily. The cell had two light sources: a skylight, six floors above at the top of the spiraling stair-well, and the stained-glass windows that ringed the co-op’s entrance, toward which the cell faced. It was twilight; the setting sun was shining through the stained glass, casting cheerful red and blue shadows onto the cell’s peeling, yellow walls.

Caitlin addressed the prisoner with a quiet voice, “Here’s some left-overs. I’m sorry I couldn’t bring more, but you know how my uncle gets upset when I feed you.” She was tall for her age, and lank. Her simple, grey woolen clothes hung loosely on her stretched frame. Her thick, dark hair had been recently washed, and was carefully braided. She moved tentatively, as if she had not yet mastered either her body or the uncertain world through which it moved.

The prisoner arranged his chains so that he could turn to face his visitor. He was not used to speaking, so his voice was broken and gruff when he said, “What did you bring me?” He spoke with eager desperation. The young woman tilted the bowl she held in her hand so that he could see its contents: several pieces of beef gristle, a small scoop of potatoes and some greyish-green beans.

The prisoner carefully cleared some rotten scraps from the wooden tray he used as both a table and plate. He pushed the wooden tray through the small space between the barred gate and the floor. The young woman transferred the food onto the tray, and then pushed the tray toward the prisoner. The laden tray passed easily into the cell except for a tiny piece of potato, which stuck to the bottom bar of the gate. The prisoner received the food gratefully; he finished eating it in a moment, and then ate the small piece of potato that had stuck to the gate.

When the prisoner finished eating, he replaced the rotten scraps he’d earlier put aside, and carefully placed the food tray by the head of the woven mat he used for a bed. He wiped his utensils, a wooden spoon and a small, sharp knife.

“Who gave you that knife?” Caitlin asked.

“Mrs. Ellison.”

“Do you think she’s changed her mind about you?” the young woman asked hopefully.

“No, Caitlin.”

The prisoner looked at the pouch that held the knife, and then up at the young woman. His eyes were yellow and foggy, so foggy that Caitlin wondered if he could even see her.

“How did your trip go?”, the prisoner asked.

The young woman took a deep breath before replying. The inhalation straightened her slightly stooped shoulders. “The first time they turned me away. I’m too young to launch an appeal. The second time Mrs. Simpson came with me.”

“God bless that woman.”

“Didn’t she vote against you?” Caitlin asked.

“She abstained. If it had made a difference, she’d have voted for me. I know that. But … tell me what happened, child.”

Caitlin handed the prisoner the form letter she had received from the Office of the Procurator General. He pushed it back to her, and said gruffly, “Read it.” She did so,

The Co-operative at 14 Cyclades Avenue, Juneau, Alaska is entitled to imprison hoarders under the terms of the War Measures Act. Penal facilities must conform to the incarceration standards outlined in the Constitution and they are subject to periodic audits. No sentence can exceed 5 years without a review by the Third Circuit Court of the Alaskan Federation.

Cruel and unusual punishment is forbidden.

When she was finished reading the letter Caitlin added in a less formal voice, “The man we met said the Procurator has very little authority over Private Law.”

“What about an audit?”

“That’s what the man told us to do. He said that Mrs. Simpson has to set up a meeting with the Procurator.  He doesn’t have authority but he appoints auditors who do. It only costs $5.”

“Bastard!”

“Is $5 too much? Should it cost less?”

The prisoner looked at the Caitlin for several breaths before he spoke. “The meeting shouldn’t cost anything, child. It’s his job to see you.”

“Should I refuse to pay him?”

“No!” The prisoner spoke too loudly. “You have no choice, Caitlin. You have to pay. Whatever he asks.” He continued with a quiet, weary voice. “Thank you. Thank you so much for doing this. If I ever get the money Mrs. Ellison stole from me, I’ll pay you back. I’ll do anything you want. I promise.”

Caitlin tugged at the loose thread which threatened to unravel the lace which trimmed the otherwise rough fabric of her home-made skirt,  nervously shuffled her feet but said nothing; she did not know how to reply.

The prisoner continued, “Make sure the audit happens as soon as possible. Can you? You will?”

Caitlin hesitated before responding. “I’ll do my best.” She inhaled deeply before she replied, “Dan …”

“Don’t use my name! If someone heard you, you could be punished too!”

The intensity of his voice caused her to take a step back. When she recovered her balance Caitlin said, “When Mrs. Simpson hears something from the Procurator I’ll let you know.”

“She can tell me herself.”

“Uh .. I …” Caitlin stuttered.

The prisoner replied softly. “I know. She won’t talk to me. She’s too afraid. But I’ll tell you child, she’ll vote for me, if the vote is free.”

The front door began to open with a loud, wooden creak. Caitlin rushed up the stairs to her apartment on the second floor before anyone saw her.

 

 

§

 

Caitlin knocked twice on Mrs. Simpson’s door.

“Please come in.”

Caitlin poked her head half-way through the door. She said, “I only wanted to ask …”

Mrs. Simpson gently, but firmly, pulled Caitlin into her apartment. She softly said, “Caitlin, we have to be very careful. No dallying at the door!”

Caitlin was so intent on her errand that the admonishment didn’t faze her. She said, “I just wanted to know how your meeting with the Procurator went. If you’re busy …”

“He approved the audit.”

“That’s wonderful news!”

Mrs. Simpson shook her head mournfully. “No. He wants $100.”

That was as much as Caitlin’s father paid his man for an entire year’s service.

Mrs. Simpson continued, “I want to help poor Daniel, but I don’t have that kind of money. Your father is influential. Maybe …” She didn’t conclude the sentence because she didn’t know what Caitlin’s absent father could do. She didn’t even know if he was alive.

Caitlin spoke respectfully. “Mrs. Simpson, my father is in California. You know that.”

“I also know that he is a very careful person, who loves you dearly. I’m certain he made provisions for an emergency.”

“Is this an emergency?”

“For Daniel it is. Have you seen the knife Mrs. Ellison gave him?”

Caitlin recalled how Daniel looked at that knife. She wondered what she could do to stop him from killing himself.

The day before Caitlin’s father left for California, she met him at his ship. He had been living there for several days already. The moment she arrived, her father turned his back on he was doing and clasped her hands in an uncharacteristically gentle manner. Caitlin reluctantly let him. She was angry that her father was leaving her, but now, just hours before his departure, that emotion was overwhelmed by sadness and fear. They walked hand-in-hand along the wharf, saying nothing as they gazed out into the Gulf of Alaska, Caitlin clung more and more tightly to her father’s hand.

They sat down side by side on an faded bench partially covered in chipped green paint. They looked out over Gulf. Caitlin’s father said,“This is the wrong time for me to go away. You’re too young and the world is … Never mind that. I want you to know that I don’t want to leave you. I’m going because I have no choice. My Patron …” Caitlin hugged his arm; her tears moistened his shirt.

After a few moments Caitlin’s father gently extracted himself from her arms and put a key around her neck. He interrupted the embrace not because he was unsentimental, but rather because he was consoled by doing his duty, and wanted to get started doing it in order to speed up his return. He placed his hands firmly, but lightly, onto his daughter’s shoulders, and said, “Look at me dear heart. Do you know where I keep my money?

She nodded.

“Where?”

“The Second Bank of Alaska.”

“Where is it located?”

“At Main and Palin. It opens at 10 am …”

“Very good.” He hugged her tightly and then squatted so that his eyes were parallel with hers. “Caitlin, do you see the number on this key?” He placed her hands around the key he’d just given her. “It is the number of the box this key will open. If you ever need money, but are afraid to ask your Aunt, or anyone, go to the Second Bank of Alaska. Say that you are my daughter. Ask for box 256. But only in an emergency.”

“What kind of emergency?”

“Not something small, like a leaky faucet. Something big, like a threat against your life or property. Or perhaps someone else’s life. If you get confused, act like me. You are like me so trust your instincts.”

“Dad, why are you giving this to me and not to Aunt Katherine?”

“I’ve made other arrangements with your Aunt …”

He looked out over the Gulf and rubbed his hand through his black, oiled hair. “Of course I have. But …” He rubbed his forehead, which left an  almost translucent black smear “… I don’t trust her husband.”

“You mean Uncle Jim?”

He couldn’t bear to speak further; he just nodded his head.

Caitlin’s attention returned to the present. She looked up at Mrs. Simpson. “My father left me some money. Maybe its enough. I hope so. Dan’s imprisonment is so …”

“Shush child! Don’t say his name.”

§

Caitlin had never been inside the Second Bank of Alaska, so did not know what to expect. The bank was located in a featureless, squat building made of new, red brick. On the inside it appeared much bigger than it did from the street, because its top floors were taken up by a dome instead of offices. There was a huge painting on the dome of two men touching fingers, one had beard, the other was clean shaven.

The moment Caitlin identified herself to the guard at the bank’s entrance, the Manager was alerted. The Manager, a fat old man in a black suit, escorted her to the safety deposit box. The security guard, who had a waxed mustache and was armed with a long, slender sword, walked several steps behind them. Caitlin wondered if the man was guarding her or the Manager.

The Manager claimed to be a good friend of Caitlin’s father, and inquired several times after his health. Caitlin told the Manager that she had not heard a word from her father since he left to explore California 11 months earlier, but that didn’t stop the Manager from asking the same question again.

They reached a thick metal door that had a metal wheel for a handle. The security guard stepped forward and with some effort turned the wheel. The door rolled open. Caitlin entered the vault, unescorted; it was full of metal drawers. The Manager said farewell. The guard stayed behind, but turned his back to her and guarded the door.

Caitlin quickly found Box 256. It was empty except for a small block of gold and a stack of five dollar bills. She knew that the money was enough for the Procurator, but hesitated before taking it. Although this was an emergency for Daniel it was not an emergency for her. She wondered what would happen if she used up all of the money and she had an emergency herself. She didn’t know what to do, so she attempted to emulate her father. She removed $50 but left the gold and the rest of the bills.

 

 

§

 

“Did you get the money?” Mrs. Simpson asked, the moment Caitlin had safely entered the apartment.

Caitlin silently placed the small stack of bills on the table.

Mrs. Simpson counted the money and then said, “Is this all?”

Caitlin froze. Mrs. Simpson understood. “Let’s hope $50 is enough.”

Mrs. Simpson began to put the money away; Caitlin scooped it up before she could. Caitlin said, “I’ll pay the Procurator myself.”

Mrs. Simpson looked away; her tired eyes were ringed with dark circles. She said, “I guess you will.”

They went to the Procurator’s office the next day. They had intended to walk along West Sixth, but it had rained during the night, so that way was too muddy. Caitlin insisted on hiring a cab. Like tourists, they took a scenic route to City Hall that followed the harbour. They were dressed like they were going to Church, in bonnets and flowered dresses: Caitlin’s was white with red roses and a small cherry red handbag; Mrs. Simpson’s dress was her Sunday best, dark blue velvet decorated with small white nicotiana flowers that that looked like polka-dots.

The Procurator’s office was in the back of an old mansion, which shared a garden with City Hall. Although Caitlin and Mrs. Simpson had no appointment they were expected.

The Procurator wore a vaguely military uniform. He had a small, neatly trimmed grey beard and fastidious manner. He acknowledged Mrs. Simpson without rising; he gave Caitlin a dismissive glance. Speaking to Mrs. Simpson, he said, “Do you have the money?” He did not offer them a seat, which struck Caitlin as surprisingly rude behaviour from someone who dressed like a gentleman.

The Procurator arched an eyebrow when Caitlin stepped forward and handed him an envelope. Although she was barely a teenager, and Procurator’s desk was raised, Caitlin looked down at him. He counted the nine bills with a sad expression on his face. He said, “Only $45. I’ll take this as a deposit. Let me know when you have raised the other $55.” He carefully placed the small pile of currency into his billfold.

Because the payment represented a fee that the Procurator was collecting in addition to his regular salary, Caitlin assumed it would be negotiable, like a tip. When he took her money and gave her nothing in return, she realized that this payment was another type of transaction entirely: she was not paying him, he was taking from her. Caitlin’s face hardened when she realized what this implied: the Procurator was not noble at all, he was a thief.

Caitlin said, “Sir, I understand that you should charge nothing for an audit. It is a service my father gets free of charge from the City because he pays more than $50 a year in property tax, and is therefore a gentleman. The $45 you have just taken from me is a gratuity given in expectation of good service.” Her voice quivered with fury.

The Procurator ignored Caitlin. Her turned to a cowering Mrs. Simpson and asked, “Who is this child?”

Caitlin answered before Mrs. Simpson could, “My name is Caitlin Hofstaedter. My father, Doctor Hofstaedter …”

The Procurator smoothly interrupted her, “I know your father. He’s one of the Anderson’s men. He’s in California, isn’t he?”

“Yesterday we received word that he will return this spring”, Mrs. Simpson added helpfully.

The Procurator frowned. He made a point of shuffling some papers on his desk. After a moment he looked up, and said, “Very well, Miss Hofstaedter, here is your money back.” He handed $40 in worn bills to Caitlin. “My office will perform an audit of your co-op’s private prison. I assume this is about your father’s residence on Cyclades Avenue, and not your summer home. My people will contact you.”

“Please don’t contact us, Sir.” Mrs. Simpson piped in with an agitated voice. “Just let our Board know. There is no need to mention us at all.”

The Procurator nodded. He dismissed them with a wave.

 

 

§

 

The knocker clanged three times firmly and loudly. Caitlin leapt from her chair by the door to let the Inspector in. Behind her clustered a greeting party which included her distraught Aunt and grim-faced Uncle. Three other Board members, Mrs. Simpson, Mrs. Ellison and Mr. Constantinus, huddled in the foyer, underneath the co-op’s license. The prisoner watched intently from his cell.

The Inspector was a gaunt man with darting eyes. He wore a deerskin jacket that he had recently been greased to make it water-resistant. His long, stringy hair had been greased too, probably with the same animal fat that had been used on the jacket. He had a slightly rancid smell. He removed his jacket and handed it to Caitlin, who gingerly hung it up. on one of the hooks which lined the wood-paneled wall. Without his jacket the Inspector looked far more like a bureaucrat than a trapper. Although he wore a cheap wool suit, his shirt was made of fine cotton; and the precious stone on his belt must have been worth over $100. What surprised Caitlin most was his tie, which was from the noble school Artemis.

After a cursory inspection of the co-op’s license to practice private law, the Inspector turned his attention to the cell. As the Inspector approached the cell, the prisoner rose as much as his chains and the sloped roof would let him. He attempted to introduce himself. The Inspector ignored the prisoner. Instead, he brusquely said to Mrs. Simpson, “Remove the prisoner’s shackles immediately.”

At these words the prisoner’s face lit up. Caitlin glanced at Mrs. Ellison, who was whispering something to Mr. Constantinus. The Inspector spoke again. His voice was loud enough to be heard by all, but he directed his words to Caitlin. “I’m not releasing him, Miss. At least not yet. The chains are an infraction. You are not allowed to shackle someone who’s already behind bars.”

Mrs. Simpson, afraid that the co-op could be fined because of this, began to speak to the Inspector about how the prisoner wasn’t always shackled, but only at times like these when there were important visitors.

While Mrs. Simpson was speaking, Mr. Constantinus sullenly opened the cell and removed the prisoner’s chains. The Inspector turned his back on Mrs. Simpson before she had finished speaking, and entered the cell. He started his inspection with the back corner. He peered into the water bucket, and looked closely at the drain beside it. Once satisfied with the plumbing, he began to shuffle through the prisoner’s few personal belongings. He paused only once, to look at the knife.

When Mr. Constantinus finished unshackling the prisoner he backed up, so that his large frame blocked the prisoner’s access to the still open gate.

The Inspector, finished with examining the cell’s infrastructure, proceeded to example its content. He placed the prisoner’s head in his hands and silently examined him like a piece of fish at the market. When he suddenly let go of the prisoner’s head, it fell forward and then jerked up.

The Inspector brusquely exited the cell. Mr. Constantinus closed and locked the gate behind him. The Inspector turned to Mrs. Ellison. He knew from Caitlin’s affidavit that they were beneficiaries of the prisoner’s internment, and therefore the people most likely to cause trouble. He said, “Before I give my verdict, I’d like to have a brief word with the young lady.” He nodded toward Caitlin.

Caitlin and the Inspector retired to the mud room. Caitlin’s Aunt and Uncle followed, even though they were not invited. The moment the were all in the room, and had closed the door, Caitlin said to the Inspector, “I assume you’re going to release Daniel. His punishment is clearly cruel.”

The Inspector took a seat on one of the benches that lined the mud room walls. As he did so, Caitlin’s aunt and uncle respectfully backed out of his way. They stood facing the Inspector, half buried in winter coats. The Inspector shrugged as his spoke, “The cell has water and light. And hoarding is a serious crime.”

“He’s not allowed to go outside.” Caitlin said pointedly.

The Inspector put his hands on his thighs as he addressed her. “You must be realistic, Miss. Where would the prisoner go if he went outside? Your co-op doesn’t have a courtyard or backyard. If you took him to a public park he’d be out of your co-op’s jurisdiction. He could escape. Or be freed by a mob.” Caitlin nodded her head slowly, in acknowledgement not agreement. A prisoner had been freed on the Esplanade just last week.

She saw where this was going so could not keep silent, “You have to let him go!”

Uncle Jimmy interrupted with a slightly too loud voice, “Shut up Caitlin.” He said to the Inspector, “Sir, what’s the verdict?”

“I can free him for $20.”

Uncle Jimmy was aghast, “Whose $20?”

The Inspector nodded toward Caitlin, “Hers. The Procurator said she offered him twice that to fix the case but he didn’t want to take it on account of her father. I’m giving you a deal.”

Uncle Jimmy was enraged, “Caitlin, where did you get that money? Have you been stealing from me?”

Caitlin was terrified but stood her ground, “My father gave it too me.”

“If he gave it to you its mine. Give me that $50.”

“I don’t have it.”

“Caitlin. I’m your guardian. I can do whatever I …”

“Jimmy, shut up!” Aunt Katherine shouted. She turned to Caitlin, pressed her hands down on her shoulders and said “Empty your pockets. Now!”

Caitlin emptied her pockets onto the bench. She had one five dollar bill, some change and a pair of earrings. Uncle Jimmy scooped it all up shouted, “I forbid you from bribing this man so that hoarder can go free!”, and stormed out of the room. He left the door ajar.

The Inspector put on a crestfallen face. “So you don’t have $20? Anyone? No one?” Aunt Katherine scowled. Caitlin said nothing. Mrs. Ellison poked her head into the room.

The Inspector shrugged. “Can’t do it for free. Sorry.” Caitlin was paralyzed. She wanted to give him the money but didn’t want to say it in front of Aunt Katherine. The Inspector let himself out.

The co-operators disbursed: Caitlin was hustled away to her room by her Aunt; Mrs. Ellison and Mr. Constantinus went to Daniel’s apartment to celebrate with a bottle of Daniel’s vintage wine; and Mrs. Simpson hid the safety deposit key she’d palmed from Caitlin. Uncle Jimmy threatened to beat her if she didn’t tell him who had it, but that made Aunt Katherine so angry she shouted, “If you steal her father’s money he’ll kill you.”

Everyone shut their doors tightly so they would not be disturbed by the prisoner, whose wailing continued until the small hours of the morning.

 

 

§

 

“How is the appeal shaping up?”

Caitlin took a moment to answer the prisoner. She had to be careful about what she said to him these days. He had become quite moody after the audit. She replied, “ I know that Harriet is with you; I think Mr. Sanders is. But …” She paused.

“But what?” the prisoner prodded, with a sharp note in his voice.

“I don’t think Mr. Sander’s wife is keen to release you.”

“How do you know?” He pressed his face against the bars as he spoke.

“I was talking with her about the vote. I said that I’d give her five dollars if she would support you. I was very polite and respectful, but when I offered her the money she suddenly changed. She said, ‘Who did you learn this wickedness from? This is what happens when you’re raised in a pagan church.’ I tried to explain that I am not a pagan. I said that even though my father is a scientist, I know sin when I see it.”

“What happened next?”

“She told me to stay away from her grandchildren.”

“Caitlin, if we don’t get Mr. Sander’s vote we’re going to loose. We don’t have much time. The vote is tomorrow. Can you talk to him one last time? Maybe he’ll take your money if you give it to him in secret.”

Out of compassion for the prisoner’s plight, Caitlin agreed to try her best. It was a hollow promise. She had no way of speaking to Mr. Sanders in private. His wife was always around. As she retreated up the stairs she said, “Goodnight. I’ll let you know the moment you win the vote.” The prisoner nodded somberly. He knew how to count. Caitlin ascended the stairs to her apartment with a heavy heart.

 

 

§

 

The prisoner knew from the expression on Caitlin’s face that he had lost his appeal. He said, “Sanders voted against me, didn’t he?”

Caitlin nodded, “It was Mrs. Sanders fault. She made Mr. Sanders vote against you. I overheard him talking about it afterward. He said, ”I was going to vote to release the prisoner. He’s not a bad sort, although his imprisonment has made him a little crazy. The reason I didn’t was something my wife said to me. She said that cells once you make them are never empty.  Safer to leave it full.”

“What about Mrs. Stanton?”

“When she voted no she said that your cell is here to send a message. She didn’t say what kind.”

Caitlin looked at the prisoner’s forlorn face and felt compelled to try to cheer him up. “This isn’t the end, Daniel. Don’t you worry. My father will be back soon. He’ll fix this. This would never have happened if he hadn’t gone to California.”

If Caitlin’s words were consoling, the prisoner didn’t show it. He asked glumly, “How did Mrs. Simpson vote?”

“You know she voted last, because she’s the Co-op President.”

“How did she vote?” he asked again.

“She abstained because a yes vote didn’t matter.”

“Just like before. At least she tried to help me with the Procurator. What about Mr. Thompson?”

“He voted against you”, Caitlin reported, sadly. “When he did, he said, ‘I have no choice. I voted against him last time. When he gets out he’ll be looking for revenge.’”

“What about Harriet?”

“Daniel! Of course Harriet voted for you.  But when she voted it was too late, you’d already lost.”

All affect had drained from Daniel’s face. He held the bars limply as he stared vacantly into the filtered light that was illuminating his face.

“Do you want to know what Harriet said when she voted for you?” Caitlin asked with a bleak, quiet voice. She did not wait for the prisoner to answer, “Harriet said, ‘I can imagine a world without crime more easily than I can imagine a world without prisons.’”