Children of Tegalupa - Ch 1 - 6

Ch 1 - The Children of Tegalupa - Ocean Currents

The Old Man knew that this would happen. His words cling to the back of my mind like some strange fungus, “There is a man who provides a passage. Oceans will conceal him. He is not a door. He is a way. His survival is linked to your own.”

His words. My hands. One rope.

The January storm is one of the worst that I have ever seen. A saner man would be below decks in the shelter of the boat’s massive steel walls. But there is a life out there, adrift in the ocean, tied to the end of this rope. With two hands I pull. The rope bites.

Winds threaten to push us over. Waves try to wash us away. Our boat from bow to stern is one hundred and forty meters long. A football field is a bit shorter than that. Once, she was a great warship. Then they hollowed her out and fit her for trade. Her name is Damesquela, damsel of the oceans. She dances like a wallowing pig as the waves lift her rounded body to the sky.

The storm pounced upon us as quickly as a cat on a mouse. I was on deck as the heavy rains picked up speed. I caught a flash of white. White means officer, captain or commander. He was standing there, and then he was gone. A boat without a captain is a very bad thing. People begin to talk. Strange things happen to a vessel when the commander is suddenly removed.

I rushed to the side and spotted white dancing within the blue. A line was tossed. The floater found purchase. My hands hold his life. He is mine now, an obligation that must be seen through to the end.

The ocean is selfish. She always wants too much. I brace against the cold of the storm and wrap the rope around my hips. Once again I lean in and pull. The first mate we will claim.

As the deck pitches up, I stare in wonder towards the boiling clouds. The falling wetness expands and contracts in the swirling winds. For a moment, it seems as if the sky is breathing. Bright flickers of lightning skitter through the towering columns. This thing is full of life.

Electric tongues spit along horizontal lines. The storm grows braver and stronger. Hairs stand on my arms. Pain shoots through my teeth. The storm finds its courage. Her seeds are planted along the ocean waves.

Huge trees of brightness sprout from the ocean’s skin. The force is so great that the sky rips along its seam. Steady rain becomes a deluge. Concussive explosions bombard us like artillery shells. Ozone fills our senses. We will remain deaf for some time.

My feet fight for purchase upon the frozen deck. The rope shifts. The deck rolls. Men on the rope scramble to stay upright. I quickly tie the end of the line tightly to the starboard railing. With a length of torn fabric, that I rip from my shirt, I bind myself to the ship as well.

The men working with me regain their balance. Moving as one, backs lean into the fight. We struggle with the corded rope once more.

“Pull!” Fifteen men cry out as one. Coils of hardened muscle twitch and flex.

“Pull!” The dark ocean gives us inches.

“Pull!” The deck shifts. The ship rolls. Two more men go over the rail. Weight shifts with the loss of muscle. Thirteen remaining men fight to keep their hold.

Some men have gloves and some do not. The friction of the sliding rope burns like fire. Flesh pulls from my hands in short ragged strips. The ooze that bubbles up grows sticky. It acts like a glue helping me to maintain my grip. Bright red upon shades of grey is a definite sign of life.

With life there is shadow. Shadows remind us of our weight. It is the thought of the shadow that turns my thoughts to The Old Man. His presence lingers right there in the corner of my eye. I call to him. I pray for some kind of encouragement now. I scream out for The Old Man’s attention. As loud as my voice is, I still compete with the roaring wind and pouring rain.

“Is he alive, Old Man? The one who is tied to us, does he still breathe? Can you tell? Is it possible for anyone to survive a storm like this?”

The Old Man responds as he closes the distance, “Life is a beacon! His journey is almost fulfilled! Things will change. You will see...”

Impatience takes hold, “Say what you mean, Old Man! You give me riddles while men’s lives are at stake. Put it simply. Is the man in the water alive or dead?”

The Old Man’s laughter is rich and out of place within the moment, “Why do you doubt? Those who only see with their eyes are blind!” As odd as the man’s words may be, I understand his meaning. I believe that the man in the water still clings to life. I will see this through to the end.

Waves like mountains tower far above our bow. Ridges of water raise us up to the sky. One hundred tons of steel are tossed to the heavens like a young child’s toy. I grip the sliding rope with both hands. We hang weightless in the balance. The gaping mouth of the ocean opens wide.

The deck rolls. The ship pitches. Gravity disappears. Men are launched from the deck with arms spinning. They make unpracticed attempts as they are suddenly forced to fly. Screams fill the space around me. Descending bones snap upon protruding steel. My stomach bubbles with visceral emotions. Fear is one part. Excitement is another. Envy is the strange brother to them both.

Men fall. Men die. Yet, I am jealous of them. Strangely, I also want to fly.

The ship crashes. The decks groan. Now, ten men remain on the rope. Together, we lean into another long pull. The rope tightens. The Ocean takes.

“Pull!” Men pull as one.

“Pull!” The rope changes weight.

“Pull!” The mighty Ocean relinquishes her hold.

“Pull!” The man escapes the ocean like a freshly drawn catch.

There is a moment in the balance as the man swings high in the air, tied to his string, soaring like a broken gull. The men strain with a last effort. The man in white clears the rail. With the slapping liquid thud of a fresh caught peto, the man stranded in the water clears the rails and kisses the deck. The First Mate of the Demuesquela lays twisted in coiled lengths of rope. Umbilicus and fetus released from its mother, the child lays motionless, grey and absent of breath. Was the extreme effort and loss to save one just a waste of time? Is there still a life to be saved?

Maybe it is the character of men who have spent great time on the open ocean, or maybe it is that I too am stark raving mad. In time you begin to see wind and ocean as having hidden wills of their own. The elements are stronger than small mortal men. Mother had full control of the man in white. Then she let him go and left him for dead. There should be victory dances. Instead the giant storm turns direction and skulks off like a child.

And there it is. There is the beginning. I had a dream of this the other night. I have many dreams that I quickly forget. Forgetting has become an art form, but this one thing remains clear in my head. This is where it began...

I was watching a storm move away and there was a man dressed in white. He was standing next to me talking for a moment. Then he was laying on the deck of this boat. He looked exactly the same, battered and dead. Maybe there is hope here. Maybe there is still life inside of the man. I think about the dream and try to remember what happens next.

Since the night that The Greek ended me nothing has been the same. I see strange things when I am sleeping. I know that I have witnessed what is happening here. At the same time what I remember is incomplete. Like assembling a puzzle where half the pieces have been stolen. Understanding the full picture of what lies before me requires a bit of guess work along the way. Now that the real event is here, I compare the images that I can find: there is the man on deck, the ropes that bind him, the feeling of extreme cold... and the men who talk at my back.

In the dream the men were talking. I can not remember what they said. I listen to the crew. Their words will tell me what I should do next.

Conversation verifies that the crew are still breathing. Free words loosen up a group. Tongues begin to wag. Talk is a fine way to release the tension of the morning. Stress rises in the air like steam. The men laugh and slap each other on the back. The fish is always bigger with the latest telling of the tale.

“Have you ever seen anything like that?” comes a voice from the gathering crowd.

“The storm or the rescue?” inquires a second.

“I think he probably means both,” finishes a third

“There was Jemechia. Two ships went down with her.”

“The storm Jemechia was in 1912?”

“No, earlier than that. She took the seas in 1907.”

“Did you ride her out?” asks a fifth.

“I was on The Andorinha,” responds the fourth.

“That ship cracked like a nut!” inserts a sixth.

“You were there?” inquires the third.

“I was! I was! I rode the Huampas Doral. We found the Andorinha. When we found the ship, the sharks had already eaten half those who survived. We got lucky that day. We managed to pull thirty-three out of that wreck.”

“It was a carton full of corking that kept me afloat,” whispers the forth man. He becomes lost in the past. Words freeze on his lips.

“Too bad you weren’t lucky enough to find the carton full of wine,” one adds. The joke is well taken. The crowd erupts with bright cheer. The face of the fourth man warms. He too joins in on a good laugh.

I smile for a moment. Laughter loosens something inside. There it is now, a glimpse into how things fit. The man said, “Thirty-three.” An image appears in my head.

My mind works overtime comparing the small details looking for something out of place. There are three men around the body: one to the left, two to the right. Ropes coil on the deck like snakes spawning. There is a water stain on the deck like a silhouette of a cow laughing. Luis smokes. Robespier sneezes. Robespier stands next to another man wearing a green hat. The green hatted man stomps and shivers...

A tumbler clicks. Something unlocks.

There’s the answer! The First Mate is out of place.

“Quick! Help me!” I urge the man to my right. I catch the man’s face square in the eye. He is Tierno. I know him well. “Old friend, help me save this man’s life. Hurry we have little time.”

The man hesitates at my urging. A harsher voice I use now, “Get on with it, Tierno! Help me save this man now!” I have sailed with Tierno for a very long time. I have met his family, his children and his wife.

I study the man. There is fear in his eyes. Fear is our enemy. This I address fully and directly, “Do this with me. With this you will grow stronger. The worst is over. This man must survive.”

Tierno says nothing as he drops close and grabs my arm. The movement is swift. I’m too stunned to react. There is a sharp pinch as if something bites me. I look to my friend, wanting to understand.

“What are you doing?” I ask Tierno.

There is a furrow in man’s brow. The man briefly looks me in the eye, “Put him back. The first mate can not survive. If you revive him, all of us will die.”

I try to respond. The world begins to spin. My wrist itches violently. My arm goes numb. The back of my head tingles, and my eye lids grow quite heavy.

Tierno rises. I notice something sparkle in his hand. The hand races into a pocket. Light disappears. Tierno turns into the crowd. His form is quickly swallowed.

I was focused on a purpose. Now, confusion fills my mind. There is a lifeless man before me on the steel metal of this ship. I am soaked through and cold as ice. Grey mist fills the air when I breathe. If I stay like this too long, I know I will die.

The man at my knees is someone whom I know. “Túlio why are you laying on the floor like this? It’s much too cold for you to behave this way. Your wife and sister would be upset if they knew. You show me the pictures and tell me the stories. You should be happy and full of life.”

A hand taps me on the shoulder. It belongs to Demetrius. I ask the man, “What is wrong with Túlio? Why does he lay like a rock?”

The man gives me a quizzical look, “You don’t remember the fight?”

I have a brief image of smashing against a metal wall, but that image is not what the man has implied, “Which fight?”

“He was in the ocean. We fought to bring him back.”

I stare at the man. The world still spins. The tingling in my arm and neck are no longer so pronounced. “He was in the ocean?”

Demetrius stares at me, “Look at your hands. That’s from the rope. Saving our first mate, we lost a bunch of men.”

I stare at my hands, red torn ribbons of flesh. I press hands together. The sharp pain focusses my thoughts. Pain. Pain of the rope sliding through. Two hands ripped and red. We fought with the ocean. Now we have our prize. I look up to Demetrius. “Help me save this man’s life.”

The man smiles back.

I look to the still body. The last bit of tingling disappears. Whatever Tierno did to me seems to have run its course. There is a picture in my head. Something clicks into place. Once again, I am back on task, “Quick, help me. I need to move this man. Please, don’t question. Just do.”

The First Mate’s body we turn with feet facing north. We pull the body across the deck so that he is one meter from the man who stomps his two feet. I know that the motion is strange, but things on the deck must match the picture in my head.

I roll The First Mate over on his side. Steadily, I slap the back of the motionless man. He only lays there still, blue, and rigid as ice. This man needs breath and I have plenty to spare. Touching lips with a dead man seems to me as briny and uncertain as kissing an eel.

I blow in the first time. Water flushes out the man’s nose. Like a whale breaching and clearing water squirts high into the air. I pinch his nose shut and with a deep breath fill the man’s lungs with warm air. The man’s chest inflates. It rises like a mountain just above his belt.

I press down on the chest. Air makes a light swooshing sound. There is a bubbling of clear liquid around the man’s nose and lips. This is followed by a gurgling inside of the man like a boiler when it just begins to heat. I expect more, but nothing else changes. I seal the nose again and push more air into the man’s mouth.

Hand on the chest, I press the air out. I will teach this man to breathe once again if that is what needs to take place. A steady rhythm develops of air in and air out. I continue until my shoulders stiffen up like two stones.

The man mocks me by laying still. He is colder and bluer than he was before. “You’re not dead!” I yell to the still form laying at my feet, “You don’t die like this you stupid git! It is not your time!” I slap the blue man. This makes me feel strangely ashamed.

There is a response to this action. The cold man violently comes to life. There is spitting and spluttering stronger than a diesel engine when it first catches fire. Water is expelled. Blood begins to flow. A rose pink fills the man’s ghost white skin.

The doctor appears with blankets in his hands. The man ushers orders as I quickly step to the side. The First Mate is gathered. Men form up to the side. The body is lifted upon a stretcher and carried to a much warmer place.

The Old Man appears behind me. He shakes with a deep laugh that is contagious and loud. The crew rumbles. A sigh of relief slowly spreads. The Old Man turns and smiles at me. A thousand cracks crease his ancient face. “Brave day, my lad! The twig has grown some fruit!” The man slaps me on the shoulder with more force than I would expect. The slap to my back almost pushes me over the rail.

The men are in full form now. Darkness has been overcome. There are a thousand ways to die out here at sea. Laughter is not always so close. I sit in the corner motionless as the men joke and laugh. Raw emotions and physical exhaustion leave me feeling completely spent. I stare across the wide ocean. The long rise and fall of the deck gives way to a moderate chop. The clouds, once so angry, dispersed like small white cows grazing in a field. The sun emerges and fills the afternoon sky. The wind is still cold but no longer cuts with a sharp edge. I grab my coat a bit tighter and think about changing into dry clothes.

“Ho!” cries a man at the stern of the ship. Damesquela waddles a bit as her course changes. She lurches slightly as the engines shift. The storm did her job well. She shook men from Damesquela’s deck. We will retrieve them. We will pull in as many as we can.

The search is long. The sailors work with commitment. The sun sinks low. The light begins to dim. The Captain finally calls a halt. Nineteen went over and thirteen have been found. Eight are still breathing. We will remember those that we have lost.

There is a will here. The day has taught me that. It is larger than an army of men. It is something that I can not understand. Men put names on these things like fate and destiny. The name is just a mask for the things that they do not understand.

The world grew dark as pitch when the storm set upon us. In the midst of the battle I looked to the left. It was an immense surprise to find a crack in that blackness, a place where the clouds had parted and the sun had shown through. It felt like being caught between two worlds: black madness contrasted against shimmering gold. I could imagine two different children drawing on the same piece of paper. Two completely different pictures emerge, following the whimsy of two emerging wills. Gods are on both ends and no compromise exists in the middle. Mankind, who is too small to be noticed, is forced to survive in between.

Difficult choices are coming. Too many things tell me this is so. I don’t understand all but some things I have figured. The Old Man helps me, directing me towards things I had never considered to consider. He is helping me put together pieces both undiscovered and lost.


- - -

Ch 2- A Girl and Her Tribe of Boys

While the Western oceans are frozen, the coast of South America is quite steamy. The rain falls in black bands that turn standing land into small lakes. The storm rages for a time until she grows tired. Black turns to gray, then bleaches under the growing heat of the sun. Steam rises from the wet earth and rugged coastline far below.

Breakers roll along the coastline, constantly crashing and carving the land. Mangrove knees trap and reclaim in small measures. Eventually, new islands will form. The game is quite slow, but the land seems to be winning. A steady wall of growth has matured. This fortifies the line between land and ocean. It is a crooked thing marking what is and what might be.

Water drips off of the banana shaped leaves of the kapok trees. Along their grey arms, white flowers bloom in tight bunches. Yellow stamen bring the promise of nectar to hummingbirds and insects. The red highlights upon the hummingbird’s blue wings give praise to life.

Below the trees, the land is in shadow. Within these shadows, there is a path. The path is rough hewn, well traveled, and stable. Cobbles fill the center of the rustic road and allow horses to gain footing along a basic line. Dark planks of wood filling the sides of the path manage to keep much of the road from washing away.

It is the receding current of the recent rain that flows along the curving edges of the path. Flowing water shushes stones to be quiet. Small stones click together as the water bubbles and pops.

A small band of children make their way down the sticky wet ribbon of earth. Twelve in total, they move as a one. Jumping and skipping merrily, the kids kick what seems to be a crushed can. It is colored in blue and laced with white. A small fleck of red dances as the can spins and jumps. Possibly it held fruit once. Now it smells like old fish. The boys do not care about the origins of their toy. Their laughter tells us that the game they play is much fun.

The capuchins in the trees warble and shriek as the metal thing tings and dings on rounded rocks. The tone of the curious monkeys turns to ecstatic whooping. Excitement fills their chatter. Curious is their tone.

One boy catches the kicking can in the air, not with his hands but with his feet. Quickly, he begins bouncing the metal thing on his knees. His legs and feet have a dexterity that rivals some who use only fingers and hands. The can hangs in the air because the boy moves so fast. The dented can with flecks of color and rust never comes close to touching the ground. The action is easy to describe, but far more difficult to perform. The other boys surround their friend and immediately begin to count: first “One!” then “Two!” then “Three!” The goal is to reach eleven.

Before that feat can be obtained, a competitive monkey intervenes. There is a ruckus in the tree as the curious beast swings by prehensile tail. The boys scream obscenities as the creature snatches the toy in mid bounce. The monkey quickly scrabbles away invecting his own high pitched victory yell.

The boy that was performing now has nothing with which to compete. He raises two open hands to the capuchin. His face is clearly stressed, “It is a can you stupid monkey! This is a game that we like to play. If you ask us nicely, we might teach you. Silly monkey, give us back our toy!”

The capuchin monkey eyes the small earth things. He flips his head back and forth listening to their sounds. He sniffs for a moment, scratches, then spits. There is a loud rustle in the leaves. The thief rushes off. A war among the monkey nation quickly erupts. There is a question over ownership. There is much heated debate. The prized can is tossed about amongst nimble fingers as monkeys jostle and jump.

The trees above the children shimmer as the issues are expressed. Leaves fill the air like strange rain, spiraling and twirling, dancing down crooked paths. The trees above the children seem ready to erupt. Children run, scream, and skip amongst the flurry of greens, yellows, and reds. The screaming amongst the monkeys continues much longer than seems sane. Abruptly, the warring ends. Silly clicks and whistles still. The wizening monkeys now realize that a kicking can is not food.

The boys that were playing sulk for a bit. The thing that has given them much pleasure remains lost. The little boys seem unsure of what to do next. It is the bright laughter of a small girl that draws the eyes of the young boys around. She grabs the hand of one child who is just a bit taller than she. She smiles at him and he smiles back. The mood visibly lightens. Laughter spreads through the crowd. The journey continues. The curious group of twelve continue winding down the jungle path.

A large boy on the outside of the group stands much taller than the rest. His shirt strains against his belly and his pants ride up too high. His clothes are for a person much smaller than him. The large boy is happy. That is visible on his face. He deliberately begins to walk funny and make strange motions with his hands. An odd cackle escapes his lips, somewhere between a gargle and a deep chirp. The smaller boys giggle. The little girl crosses her eyes. The older boy nods at the giggling group.

He continues his strange performance as they near a throng of birds perched on top of a stout tree. The creatures are bright blue and quite large. Large feathers ruffle and fluff. Bright reds and yellows appear. Birds bob their heads and extend their necks. They dance and shake their tails in response to the strangely behaving boy.

Birds ruffle and fidget as the boy moves underneath. The louder the boy calls, the more frantically the birds roll their heads and bounce in the tree. Angst builds within the flock. It erupts in chatter that is seriously annoyed.

The mass takes flight in a wave of blues and rainbow colored flickers. Thousands of the creatures fill the sky. They loop up high and do several turns. The colorful birds plummet downwards brushing the tops of trees. The canopy above begins to shake violently. The larger boy motions the smaller boys to crouch and cover their heads. Branches shake and a blizzard of leaves falls. Unlike the monkeys, the birds provide a reward. Reddish yellow ripe fruit falls from above.

The smaller boys huddle as fist sized fruit pelt the ground. The braver boys pull out their shirts and catch what they can. Some dive and roll. A few arguments break out, but these are usually short lived. There is no need to fight. There is enough food here to feed an army.

Boys settle in. They feast on their red-golden treats. The flesh inside is yellow and pink. The taste is part honey, flowers, and definitely sweet. The boys bite like great sharks. They inhale more than chew. Gorged, the little boys smile widely and find seats in the shade. They stretch out long and take short naps.

A tithe must be paid for such easy food. Each little boy tosses one piece to the tormenter of birds. The tall boy skips and dances until he too finds a spot at the bottom of the towering trees. The ripest sweetest piece of fruit he passes to the little girl.

There is peace for a time until an argument erupts. Two of the smaller boys have begun arguing over the proper name for a kind of toad. One boy is now “stupid.” The other child “smells like the back side of a cow.” Words and insults are cast about that are all just silliness to the extreme.

The moment is predictable. The little girl just smiles. The culprit of the boys disagreeable behavior is too much sugar mixed with fatigue. Disgruntled as the two boys are, they are still natural brothers. After a few moments, the argument disappears. The two boys find shade and drift off for a short nap.

Now that the troop is rested, they embark once more upon their trek. With a throw like a boy, Cloe lofts another crushed can into the air. It bounces upon the rocks that shore up the winding path. There is a moment of amazement. Then the game once again resumes. Flecks of red rust mix with flashes of green and yellow. Who knew there was so much potential trapped inside of a rusty old can.

- - -


Ch 3 - Pain Is What You Want It to Be

“Let me take a look at your hands.”

The voice of the ship doctor pulls me out of my cloud. He has a face like a lost dog: watchful and waiting, strong but frayed on the edges, still looking for the owner that left him abandoned on the side of the docks.

The man that I pulled from the ocean lies on a table just an arm’s length behind me. I stare at the man’s pale skin wondering what it was like for him to endure the sea. Eyelids slowly close. All I want is sleep. The battle on the deck and saving the man’s life, it all seems like a lifetime away.

“You’re bleeding on my floor!” The doctor’s voice is slightly sour. I look into the concentrated face of the man. There’s a twinkle in his eye. I think that he is making a sad stab at a joke. “Take this,” the doctor tells me in his clipped and conservative way. He hands me a white towel as he points to the metal deck. A shotgun of spatters decorates the painted gray.

I stare at my feet then drop to the floor. Quickly I begin counting the red pattern of stars. Patterns pull my attention with a strength I don’t understand. I look for pictures and meaning while connecting the dots.

“Please clean it up, if you don’t mind. With so many of you coming in here leaking, this place might be mistaken for a latrine.” I catch the man’s meaning. With numb hands, I slowly begin to rub. Stars and constellations are quickly reduced to smears of red. With a liberal splash of water, the evidence disappears.

I settle back on the bunk and take a long look at my hands. The toil with the rope removed long strips of skin. This leaves me with angry, red, seeping wounds. At first I felt nothing. Now, the thaw has begun. Pins and needles hum just below the skin like an angry band of wasps. The stinging grows louder. Skin swells and colors to an angry shade of red.

The doctor seems concerned by the change in appearance, “Are you in a lot of pain?”

I smile over locked teeth that grind like rocks on sand. Our eyes meet for just a moment. The doctor’s expression is dull. His ripple of concern relaxes into the flattened sullenness of knowing. He was there when The Greek ended me. Most men of the Damesquela believed that The Greek would chum the ocean waters with the remains of my corpse. Fate can be merciful and often unexpected. Gregarios is no longer on this earth while I still walk and breathe.

The doctor’s eyes follow the scar that tightly creases the left side of my face. I can sense he wishes to touch it, but he holds his hand just out of reach. He speaks, “The skin has knitted nicely. You are healing very quickly. How do you feel these days?”

In response to the question, I hold my red oozing hands up before the doctors face, flat and wide like a man fending off an attack. Red dripping palms frame a broken crooked face. It is a dramatic gesture deflecting a conversation that I don’t want to have. I speak to the doc in a deep even voice, “Some days are much better than others.” I smile slightly as I wink at the man.

The doctor is seasoned enough not to wince at the antics. He holds my eyes with an expressionless face. Slowly, he takes my right hand and turns it in his own. He looks curiously at the damage. Then, he looks me in the eye, “You could have let go.”

My answer is simple and true, “His life was mine.”

The man rolls his eyes. “You are lucky that your fingers are still attached.” He bends one finger back and takes a better look. “I think that you will scrape by.” The doctor pulls out a roll of gauze bandaging and slowly begins to wrap.

Pain? What is real pain? Is it the light prick of a mosquito taking it’s fill? Is it the loss of a family butchered in flames? Is pain this thing that has happened to my hands, or is pain more like a metal spike jabbing in right behind your eyes?

Think about the last choice. Think about that long metal splinter, driven in deeply three centimeters behind your eyes. To the left a little bit, buried half way into your brain. Think about something that turns hardened men into weeping children doubled over and puking for the audience of their shoes.

Quantify your intense discomfort. Give it a number on a scale of one-to-ten. Multiply that number by something very large. That is the monster trapped inside of my head. You can’t touch, rub, or scratch it. It lives there every day. The scar on my face, the misaligned eyes, the crooked nose - these only show the surface of what The Greek did to me. Over and over I have heard the words spoken, “No one should have survived.”

Over the shoulder of the doctor who is wrapping my hands, I can see the rise and fall of The First Mate’s chest. The motion of my head catches the attention of the doctor, “Is he going to be alright? He was in there for a very long time.”

The Doctor smiles, “It’s probably a miracle that he is still with us. They are saying you were the one who spotted him.” The doctor holds my gaze for a moment, “What do you think happened?”

“I’m not certain. I can hardly see straight. Ask me again after I have had a few hours of rest.”

There is a look of concern in his eyes. I know that he is studying me and working on another question. Much has happened since Gregarios Fotios Tsolakoglou killed me the first time. The Doc and most of the crew aren’t quite sure what to make of the fact that I am now walking and talking after being written off for dead. Lazarus did that. He is a story, black letters on paper. I am flesh and bone. I am the walking reminder of what happens when you don’t follow through. For some, that has an unsettling effect.

The men need to own up to their fears. Fear festers if it is not dealt with in the right way. Frightened men do strange things. On the open ocean, that does not usually work out well. I have spoken to a few of the men. Others prefer to stay away.

The Doctor speaks. His words whisper, “On this boat, many play a game of leverage. Have you noticed? Many hold something over others that gives them power.”

“It’s a relatively small boat,” I complement the man’s thought.

The doctor’s next words wilt away as soon they are exposed to air. A man will sometimes express himself even when he knows the answer, “Has it always been like this? Have men always operated this way?”

The sentiment is justified. The question is more worthy than the doctor believes, “The world is changing. Fear motivates. Power gives a sense that one’s path is clear.”

The doctor scratches his nose. A mix of wonder and annoyance enters his voice. The stone face melts for a moment. The doctor’s hand once again reaches for the scar on my face. The man does something that many are now hesitant to do. He looks me in the eye and uses my first name, "Caird, it astounds me that I am sitting here talking to you like this. I saw the wreckage.” Broken bones. Skull cracked in three places. Head swollen like a sack full of wet grain. The doctor continues, “The beating that Gregarios gave you, I still have nightmares about that night. I doubt that I will ever forget.”

I wink with understanding, “That makes two of us,” as the man bandages my hands. The doctor bunches his shoulder as he moves fully into my space. When he speaks next his voice is a whisper, “There is something that I want to tell you, but I don’t know if it helps or hurts.”

I speak with an even tone, “Doc, you are the one who patched me up. You saved my life. Thank you for that. Whatever you want to tell me, I can keep it to myself. Whatever shenanigans were going on before The Greek ended me... that stuff has mostly stopped.”
The Doctor tilts his head. Eyes narrow just a bit.

I respond with an answer before his question is ripe, “Cowards don’t like blood on their hands. Either I come back to haunt them or I take them with me to the other side. Anyway that they look at it, I smell like death.”

The Doc takes a deep breath before speaking again. His words spill out like the guts of a fish, “Some of the men were betting on the outcome of the fight.”

My movements are slow as my hand goes to The Doc’s shoulder. I pat him firmly to give assurance, “I know about the betting.”

The doctor’s confession is a good thing. It gives me a strong reading of the man’s moral compass. I need friends on this boat. I might need the doctor’s help down the road. I smile at the man. My voice is very calm. “It wasn’t a fight.”

The doctor nods politely at my comment, but I’m certain my meaning has been missed.

“It wasn’t a fight. You know this. Fight indicates two sides evenly matched and willingly participating. At best, my meeting with The Greek was an ambush.”

The Doc looks me in the eye and slowly nods his understanding.

“Thanks for telling me about the betting part. That places you on the right side. Do you know how many were involved? At this point I can only guess.”

The doctor shakes his head, “I mostly keep to myself. But I will listen. I will let you know.”

I probably shouldn’t ask the next question, but I am curious how the doctor will respond, “Men who act like children are one thing, but this was something completely different. What punishment is appropriate for men exhibiting such bad behavior?”

The doctor looks me in the eyes and faces me square, “Someone tries to kill you. How does a fighting man respond? We are on a small ship. A man needs to survive. Just keep in mind there is only one of me on board to mend broken bones.” The doctor raises his own hand and pats me on the shoulder, “Take care of yourself. Get some sleep. We should be in port in about three weeks.”

I leave The Doctor’s office and make my way down below decks. The night is quite dark. I look forward to warmth and rest. Metal stairs echo and squeak as I lumber my way down. My hands are wrapped like balloons. I use them to steady my descent. Shadows along the corridors are quite long.

On the left is the main bunk room for the ship. This houses fifty-three beds. The day’s events and early corks have taken their toll on the crew. As much as I want to sink like a stone into the depths of my pillow, I can not. With this many men snoring and sputtering, it sounds too much like Diearmo’s pig farm in the Spring.

Diermo was the man who raised me after a father and an uncle. The memory of him gets me to thinking about the farms and olive groves back home. Home, a place I have been trying to put behind me. Too many awkward moments and bad decisions. I grab a heavy jacket and head back the way I came.

Back in the central hall, I turn right and head towards the upper deck. It is night time on this ship on a cold winter day. The interior halls are mostly dark spaces. These are illuminated by the occasional overhead bulb. The bulbs dance nakedly with a simple grace. Back and forth they follow in time as Damesquela wallows through light seas.

Shadows are dark and sometimes quite indistinct. As I turn a corner to my left the lighting is gone. I bounce off of something unseen. I land on my backside not knowing what to think. Out of the blackness emerges a man. His is name is Tierno. I have long considered him a friend.

I laugh at myself as the shadow offers a hand. Grabbing my wrist, Tierno helps me to my feet. His hand is strong. The rise is quick. These things are testaments and signs to the man’s dedication to his family and hard work.

We have sailed many years together. He has always been sturdy. But Tierno’s strange behavior up on the deck has left a few thorns that I need to address. I want to approach calmly. I do my best to keep hostility in check, “Why did you desert me early this morning? I was trying to save a man’s life. I needed your help. The task was not complicated, but still you walked away. What is wrong with you Tierno? Have I done something to offend?”

The man looks me up and down then he fixes me with his gaze. The look is a quick assessment of a job completed and well done. His face, like his hands, seem made of stone. He slaps me on my shoulders as friends sometimes do. No words are offered. No expression is exchanged. He turns on his heel and simple walks away.

There is something off about the moment. It is not just the actions of the man, “What is it Tierno? Are you OK? On the deck this afternoon you looked as pale as a ghost.”

There is a moment of hesitation. Tierno turns just a quarter past six. His face is in profile as he talks. His words are just a whisper yet quite audible in the metal halls, “He was not supposed to survive this. You should not have brought him back.” There is anger in the tone. There is a catch in the man’s throat that denotes fear.

Something cold runs up my spine. This man is built like a rock. What can intimidate him? Tierno turns before I can ask questions. Into the cold bowels of the ship, he disappears. A hasp unlatches and a hatch squeals on rusted hinges. Metal crashes upon metal. Tierno is swallowed by the ship’s mass.

- - -


Ch 4 - Negotiations with Children

“Children will be children.” That is what some people are prone to think. Children? What are they really but small people left to figure this strange world out all on their own. Lack of knowledge does not mean stupid. Lack of guidance does not mean blind.

Boys will be boys. And girls? They might be something else.

The path winds through the dense trees following the worn contour stomped into the earth. The path is well defined and often used by merchants moving between town and the sea. The path is cobbled and shorn up on the sides. New planks of wood have been hammered in where the old have either rotted or washed away. The rains are often unpredictable driven by the constantly changing winds. When they do come they are violent and strong.

A group of twelve children wanders down this path. Between the large rounded stones, the children’s bare toes squish in the mud. They laugh and play as young children are meant to do. With no adults in their midst their fantasy world completely opens up.

There are games centered around words and tongue twisters. There are races to find certain fruits of the jungle first. There are games that involve running. There are games that require one to be nimble and quick. There are games within games that the children constantly invent.

As they race about there is one child that stands to the side. She is smaller than most in the group. She has very large watchful eyes. She smiles with joy as the others jump about in unpredictable ways. Where the others grow quite dirty, this small girl remains creased and clean. The others look to this small child for recognition. The small boys call out her name.

“Cloe!” one black haired boy calls. He cradles a gray egg spotted in blue.

The little girl notices the treasure, “Put that one back,” the little girl instructs. “The mother will be looking for this. Her baby is about to hatch.”

The first boy scurries off without question as a second boy approaches from the other side. He holds purple berries that are the size of a big toe. These are oblong in shape and a pinkish red inside, “Can we eat these?” the boy inquires. The girl is in mid response when a large wagon rumbles down the path.

The boys climb into the jungle so that none of their toes get squashed. The man driving the wagon gives a slight nod as he plods past the children. Wood wheels on stone sound like “clickity clack.” Cloe waits for the wagon, then counts the boys as they leave the woods. We can see her flexing fingers until the number eleven is reached. Now that the boys are where they should be, Cloe begins talking once more.

“Your belly won’t be happy if you eat those purple fruit. You need to cook them first, boil them for fifteen minutes at least. But we don’t have a fire. We don’t have time to stop. Leave them under the tree where you found them. Other creatures find this particular fruit to be very good.”

The traveling twelve move down the road until the packed earth guiding their feet falls away. Two more steps forward and the earth quickly drops six meters. The children anxiously look down from the steeply descending hill. What they face is a new world of amazing contrast. As far as eyes can travel there is expansive blue. An ocean licks tannish brown sands then is sipped up by the sky.

There is a curve to the descending land that is unexpected and exciting. One of the large boys is the first one to explore. He jumps off the small ledge where the children are huddled. He hits the ground rolling. He tumbles and laughs. The boy lands with a splash in soft brownish tan sand. His toes slowly sink as he attempts to gain his feet. He falls several times while trying to walk. He looks to the others who stare back from their high ground. The adventurous boy’s eyes grow wide as he spins. The towering jungle canopy has been replaced by blue sky. The burning star to the east generates great heat. The boy keeps on turning. The limitless ocean stops him still. Cries from the other children turn the boy full around. Here he is faced once more with the edge of the jungle. Trees tower twenty stories high. Larger than any building he has ever seen.

Three more brave boys roll down the steep hill. They join in their friend’s wonder and awe. The scale of the jungle growth from which they have escaped is the second thing that strikes them. Kilometers upon kilometers the beach extends and bends. The expanse of the jungle is never broken. For as far as the boys can follow there is an ever expanding ribbon of green.

“Why do they get smaller?” asks a young boy of four?

“What do you mean?” responds the oldest of the bunch.

“The jungle is big in front of us. But it gets smaller far off to the right. Why does it do that? Why does it shrink?”

There is a snicker from the third oldest of the boys. There is a strain of devilment in his response, “The trees are missing from this beach because monsters consume them late at night. The trees get smaller so that the monsters can eat more.”

The little boy thinks on this, “That don’t make no sense.”

The other boys laugh, but the little boy is not stupid. This is simply the first time he has ever been faced with this riddle of shrinking trees.

The laughter dies down. The little boy is perplexed. The oldest of the boys crouches down to the little boy’s height. “It’s a matter of sight,” the older boy explains.

“What do you mean?” replies the smaller boy.

The larger boy thinks for a bit, then he stands to his full height, “Look at me. Compared to you, how tall am I?”

“Taller than me,” the boy says. “But not as tall as a tree.”

The larger boy smiles as he responds, “Hold your right hand up.”

The small boy holds up his left hand. He shakes his head and reconsiders. The small boy hold us his right hand.

The large commands, “Open your palm. Extend your arm out. Put your hand on my chest.”

The small boy holds out his right hand and takes a step forward until he touches the larger boy square in the chest.

The larger boy inquires, “How big is your hand?”

The smaller boy quickly responds, “Smaller than your chest.”

The larger boy summarizes what has been established to this point, “Will you agree with me when I say that I am larger than you and I am larger than your hand?”

The little boy nods, “Yes. That is what I see.”

“Now take five steps backwards. Keep your right hand up, just like it is.”

The smaller boy steps back while attempting not to fall.

“Stop! That should be far enough,” commands the larger boy, “Tell me, what do you see?”

The small boy moves his hand about. He closes one eye and looks close. There seems to be a problem. The larger boy steps in, “What’s the matter? What do you see?”

“My hand is too big.”

“What do you mean?”

“My hand covers most of you. My hand is too big.”

“Your hand grew?” asks the larger boy.

“No. You shrank,” responds the smaller boy. His voice is very concerned.

“What do you see?”

“I put my hand out so that it covers your chest. When I do that, you disappear. I see your head, if I move my hand down. I see your feet, when I move it up.”

“Am I actually smaller?”

The boy scratches his head, “This is what has me confused.”

“OK. Now, hold your hand out, just like you are doing now. Walk towards me until you can touch me. Tell me what you see.”

“You get bigger,” states the little boy. He asks a new question. There is excitement in his voice, “Can you tell me how you do that? How do you get so big and so small?”

Two of the boys titter with laughter. The larger boy scowls in return. Smiles disappear. The larger boy turns back to the small child, “Do I really get bigger or do you just get closer?”

“I get closer and you get bigger,” states the child with brightness in his voice.

“But, did I really change size?” asks the large boy with anticipation.

The little boy thinks on this. He gnaws on his thumb. Something clicks. A light goes off in the little boy’s eyes, “I know what happened!”

The three boys silently wait.

The little boy continues with unbridled glee, “I think I got bigger and you stayed the same.” The little boy grows more excited as his new discovery takes hold. Then turns to something resembling concern, “I hope I did not hurt you when you were so small. I will be careful when I am big.” Before the large boy responds the small one rambles on, “Thank you for explaining things so clearly to me. Sometimes I get lost. Sometimes I don’t understand.”

The larger boy stares wordlessly as the little boy rushes off. The other two titter with restraint. The large boy warns them by waiving a fist. The stern gesture just adds fuel to their infant fire. Laughter can not be bound. It is explosive and loud. The large boy shakes his head then turn his attention back up the rise.

The drop to the beach is almost six meters. The grade is steep, but the sand is quite soft. He motions for the others standing at the top of the rise. Bravery takes hold. Other children leap out. There is laughter and there are smiles as the children roll down the hill.

They gather as the others did, turning in circles to take in the ocean, trees, and sky. They stare in great wonder at the absence of jungle, at the towering tree line, then back to the sea. Attention finally settles upon the ragged line of green. Greens mix with yellows and browns, purples and reds. There is an interesting contrast between the eclectic jungle and the placid blue of the sky. There are “Oohs,” and “Ahhs,” as children contemplate the jungle world in which they have lived for so long and yet have never really had an opportunity to see.

The mystery of the jungle gives way to things more fun. Children fall on their backs and roll in the soft sand. Gravity only pulls one way. Some of the children eventually get wet. On the horizon, the ocean and sky become one. To the right of the children the sky is populated with fluffy white clouds. A game begins that centers around finding faces and hidden things. Clouds slowly shift. New images are discovered. Everyone contributes. Laughter fills the air.

Interest in the cloud game wanes after a time. Children turn back to the blue. The ocean speaks to the children in many way. Waves crash and crunch violently on broken shells. Waves slurp and blow bubbles with liquid tongues. Chips of color wash up and decorate tan beaches. Strange birds call to each other as they coast along a steady breathing wind. On child waves in triumph. Something new has been found.

Whatever the thing might be it is new and strange. It looks like a two foot tall arrow protruding from the sand. The skin is puckered, black, and riddled with streaks of red. The body of the thing is round like a small tree. But, it is curved.
“What is it Cloe?” One of the boys calls out.

Cloe watches the eleven from atop her perch under the trees. Her legs dangle on the edge of the known. She motions for the boys and whistles quite loud. The tribe runs back up the beach and forms a circle at the bottom of the hill. They attentively watch little Cloe who sits high up above.

The words of the little girl are very clear, “The ocean is a beauty, but she is also quite dangerous. The thing that you have discovered is an anchor for a boat. Boats ride on top of the water. Anchors are large hooks that keep them in place.”

“It looks like a fish hook,” one of the boys says.

“An anchor is much like that,” Cloe responds.

“That would have to be a really big fish,” another child cleverly states.

“The ocean is incredibly vast, much deeper and wider than a stream. What comes out of her and what goes in is much larger in scale than you have ever dreamed.”

The children stare at the girl. Only half seem ready to comprehend. Most are still young and very new to this world. Many nod their heads and pretend.

“Have fun my friends. Explore what you don’t know. But before you get lost, there are rules! Most of you can’t swim. I am too small to drag you out. The ocean is hungry this time of the day. Don’t go into the ocean any deeper than the knee. I want you to enjoy yourselves. You have behaved well this day. Don’t go far off. I will need you in a bit. When I whistle again, please come quickly. The day is far from over. We still have much work to do.”

Little Cloe nods her head, and the tribe once again scatters. She watches the children for several moments before her gaze shifts out to sea. There is a smile on her face as she looks out upon the ocean. What has the girl’s attention? It is a vessel far off on the blue horizon.

A dark spot forms where the sky meets the ocean. This dark spot slowly transforms into a tiny black box. The box becomes a thick line. The thick line soon resembles a ship. A small plume of smoke tells us that the thing is crewed by men. Masts stand tall. Containers litter her decks. In time the ship grows close enough that we can read the name on her side.

Children on the beach stop to watch the large vessel. Most of them have never seen anything like this. The boat is quite large and moving very quickly. It tacks slightly and is now heading straight for the shore. There is a growing rumble from the small crowd as the sea craft grows very close.

“When does it stop?”

“What happens when it hits?”

Boys who play games know much about what happens when you quickly stop and go. Momentum always carries. To stop you need opposing force. Force means hitting. Hitting brings purpling and pain. Sometimes there is blood. Sometimes there are broken bones.

There is a tension in this crowd of small boys. There are wrinkles in their brows. Concern creases faces. Boys bounce on their toes. Expectations shift for the worst. There is more discussion about the if. There is an excitement about what might result. Small wagers have been placed.

The ship races towards land on a straight perpendicular path. It is about fifty meters to the boys’ left. The boys brace for the impact. They expect a large crunch. What happens next is an unexpected surprise.

The boat disappears into the edge of the beach. As if it is eaten, the ship is swallowed whole.

Some boys smile. Some boys frown. Some boys pay off their friends from stashes of hidden treasures. There is a twitchiness to their expressions that asks how and why. There is a secret to this magic trick. The answer lies in perception and space.

The line of the horizon curves away from the boys. Things are hidden that the boys can not see. The first clue is a great whistle from the distance. It is deep and loud and reverberates through steel. The double pitch burst signals the ship is still alive. The deep rich sound leaves ears hungry for more. Several of the tribe crane necks and listen hard. Just at the edge, stuttering under the steady beach wind, is the intermittent tap tapping of hammers far away. Just behind this is the hard sleeping of saws. Speckling this landscape are faint whistles and cries. They might be the local animals. They might be something else.

“What is that?” One boys asks, “Can the rest of you hear that noise?”

“It sounds like men building.”

“Building what? I can not see.”

The conversation is interrupted before it gains momentum. A high shrill whistle fills the air. This is not mechanical. This sound is fully little girl. Cloe stands at the top of the beach with two fingers on her lips. Mouth puckered, full cheeks slightly red, she fills the air with another mighty blast. The boys quickly turn. They immediately react. Up through soft sands they struggle. Up the steep bank they climb.

The eleven now gather around the little girl. She says thank you to the boys then turns on her toe. Cloe said there was business unfinished. Business is where it is at. The twelve move back down the tended road of dense dirt and stones. Five minutes in, the gang finds a fork to the left. There are murmurs among the boys about not seeing this break in the road before.

The sounds of men grow louder as the children move down this new path. After a short distance, the world opens up. Again the children take a moment to stop and stare. So much is happening in such a small space of time. The boys get their first look at the Puerto do Tegalupa.

There are roads of wooden planks. When people walk they make a hollow sound. Men carry large boxes. Some carry large sacks. There is much conversation. There is laughter and funny smells. The crowd that moves is quite dense. People shuffle and jostle. Some yell for right of way. Behind this busy push are the rising sides of boats.

They bob in the water in time with the slap of hidden waves. Boxes and sacks sit along their decks. There are animals and snorts. There are shiny things that twinkle. There are fabrics with strange patterns and tints. There is so much that the boys have never seen. Cloe checks boyish urges with her steady gaze. Each boy glances back nervously waiting for permission to explore this new place.

“There is much here that you don’t know. There are many ways that you can be hurt. Stick close to me. I have no time to chase. The ones that we seek are very close.”

Men pull on long ropes attached to pulleys. Muscles bulge. Crates and barrels begin to dance. Practiced moves and careful coordination guide heavy nets with the lightness of spinning ballerinas. Nets touch the ground. Callused hands pull away restraints. Carts are pulled forth and parcels are quickly stacked.

Men toil with all manner of barrow and transportation moving goods from ships to wagon. A long string of carts and horses stand tethered to the far side of the port. Cloe looks long and slowly while the boys stand to the side.

Voices of men cascade like soup. They call each other in many strange ways. There is haggling and the clinking of coins. There are a few skirmishes along the way. Smells fill the air that are repulsive and inviting. Children catch glimpses of so many things that they have never seen. Cloe spots what she has been looking for off to the far side of the docks.

There are the two men and their wagon. They are the same two men who passed the twelve earlier on the path. A large wooden carton is balanced between the two. The men struggle. A horse whinnies. The wagon moves. The crate they are manipulating comes crashing down.

One man is tall. The other man is short. The two are as completely different as two fellows might be. A discussion begins. The sound of which is much louder than a chat. One man stomps. The other one waves his hands like a bird. The first man spits. The two men yell and shout. There is anger in their words. Frustration is the cause. The steam that has collected inside eventually empties out.

A long stare denotes an impasse. The two men sigh then begin to play a simple game. The outcome of this activity will determine the next choice the two men make. They face each other nearly toe-to-toe. Like mirrors of one another, each man places his fist on top of his open palm.

The game is very simple, any child can say. Hit your fist upon your hand three times then make a choice. A hand displayed flat beats a hand balled into a fist. A hand spread like scissors cuts the flat hand right in half. Rock, paper, and scissors, one peron wins and the other person boasts. The men square off like cowboys. They showdown with hands at their sides. “Three! Two! One!” Hands shoot out like guns. The two men play with the enthusiasm of children, hoping to win the best two-out-of-three.

A decision has been reached. Men take their positions. The tall man climbs into the back of the wagon. The shorter one struggles to heave overweight sacks of goods up from the ground. The wagon is quickly loaded to the point where sacks are falling out. Ropes are tied. Cracks are filled. Horses protest and begin to release gasses. Half a crate of goods remains. The men once again show their unease.

“The wagon is full,” the short man says.

“I can see that with my own eyes,” says the taller of the two.

“What do we do with everything that is left?”

“I told you at the beginning that we would run out of space.”

The shorter man almost screams, “What would you have me do?”

The taller man lets out a sigh, “We had an option for a larger cart.”

“These horses we have can hardly handle what they are tied to. The larger cart would have been too much for these horses to bear.”

“But everything would have fit inside.”

“Kill the horses, and then you would be the one who pushes from the back?”

“We could have taken the job that Guello offered.”

“And be in debt to your sister’s husband for the rest of our lives?”

“We would only work long enough to make up for the loss on our last haul.”

“Your brother-in-law is a thief.”

“The man is blood to me now. He would not take advantage. He would help us out.”

“He would pay us half of what we can make selling this haul.”

“But we need to move all these cartons of goods or else the money is almost the same.”

“Then dear brother, what do you propose we do with the broken crate?”

As frustration blooms between the men, opportunity is presented. With a tug on a pants leg, Cloe makes her presence known. It takes a few moments for the two men to bring their gazes down to the little girl dressed in white. Here they find themselves staring open mouthed and uncertain. It is a peculiar thing when something so small has an impact that is so large.

The tall man smiles and waves.

The little girl smiles back.

The small angry man does his best to push little Cloe away, “Shoo little monkey! We have grown-up work that needs doing. We have no trivial time for you.”

The little girl winks to the taller man. She turns to the angry partner and addresses him with a tone that is pointed and quite firm, “I could go away now, but that seems a bit unfair. I can see that I am just the person that you need.”

“What do you mean? What can you possibly do?” The man spills these words over furry crossed arms.

The girl smiles, “You seem frustrated. You have a dilemma on your hands.”

“What are you talking about little mouse?”

Cloe taps her foot as she responds to the men, “You think that insulting a helping hand is the smartest course of action to take?”

“What do you want?” the angry man persists.

“She wants to help,” the taller man pronounces.

The girl points out the obvious, “You have two horses that are tired. You also have a wagon that has no room.”

“What do you know of horses?” the short man declares more than asks.

“What I know is not as important as what I can see. You have so much stuff in your wagon that neither of you will be able to mount and drive.”

“You are awfully smart,” the tall man compliments.

“For a child of six?” the little girl bats her large eyes.

“What business is all of this to you?” the short man continues to rattle.

“It is a business where I would like to get paid,” states Cloe.

Laughter erupts as the short man studies the small girl, “Paid? You? Now why in the world would I do that?”

“You look at my size and assume that I am stupid. Size is not the matter here. The matter is you need to be somewhere else.”

“Somewhere else. That sounds like a good place. Why don’t you go there. Now get!”

“Stay!” says the taller of the two men as he stomps the ground. Bending to the little girl’s height the tall man looks the short girl right in the eye, “Please little miss, what service do you suggest to provide?”

“We are capable children.” Cloe states with a flourish of her hand. The eleven boys that have been waiting quickly form up behind her. They all stand strong and tall while the girl continues with her pitch, “We have been on our own for a very long time. What you need is simple. You need someone to watch your goods. You need someone to keep things safe long enough for you to return.”

“Watch our stuff? says the short man, “You are likely to steal what is not tied down.”

“Take a good look at us. What do you see? Is it possible that any of us can lug away this large crate full of things?”

“Not all of it at once, but certainly piece-by-piece.”

“What good use do you think children will find for metal poles, cigars, and rum?”

“What indeed!” says the short man.

“You could sell them,” states his partner.

The short man kicks the taller man in the side of the leg, “Don’t give her ideas.”

The little girl touches her nose in a way that says thanks. The taller man winks back at the girl. The short man turns red as he studies the conspirators in the ranks. He bodily grabs the tall man by the elbow. Off to the side, another discussion ensues.

The tall man takes control of the situation. He brushes away presumptive hands. “We have no other option. What else do you propose we do?” The tall man looks to the girl with a question, “Tell me straight. How much will your services cost?”

The short man turns livid. He face runs from pink to purple to bright red.

The little girl smiles, “I will be fair. Of that you can be sure. We are all grown-ups here. If your partner will settle down, then we can figure out terms.”

Red fades to tan then slowly fades to pale. The short man waddles over. He seems a bit in shock. The three huddle up. Negotiation is the matter. The little girl takes first measure. She uses a stick to draw a large number in the sand.

The short man regains his composure. He quickly crosses the number out.

The girl scrawls a figure that is even larger than the first. She stomps her foot to exclaim her point. A small puff of sand rises in the air.

The large man coughs and sputters within the cloud of dust. He takes some time responding, “That’s an awfully large number for someone so small.”

Cloe returns. Her words are quite pointed, “You mean that it is a very small number for a group of so many.”

The small man begins to grow angry. He sends a sizzling look to the taller man. The small man wobbles his head as if he is trying to decide. He turns to the little girl with a scowl on his face, “If you want this business so badly then you must stay here in this exact place. You stay until sundown. We will need some time to get back. We will drop off this load of cargo and then come back this way.”

The little girl winks, “I think your plans will change once you have some coins in your hand. A few drinks and a late night. I think we will be lucky to see you tomorrow at dawn.”

The man’s face grows pinched as if he has swallowed a spiny fish, “Don’t worry little girl about us taking drink. At least one of us will be back before the night gets too old. But you had better be here once we get back. You better be here or else there will be hell to face.”

The little girl steps up. She meets her detractor with a long steady gaze, “Men and their money are easily parted. We may be small, but we know this truth very well. If we are to do business and you want to keep your possessions, then now is the time to pay.”
“What? Pay you before you have provided service?”

“Pay in coin now. Buried later like treasure. Isn’t that what the pirates tell one another when they are sitting at a bar?” The girl says this to the man with a knowing wink and a nudge of her elbow. What escapes this small girl sometimes far exceed her years.

The little man is too angry to know when he has been bested, “Scampering rabbits are difficult to catch. If money goes in your pocket, then you will never come back.”

“With no payment there is no deal. In these parts what is not nailed down often disappears.”

The little man wants to lock horns. He stands stiffly with fists planted on hips. He presents himself as a wall. Cloe smiles at the annoying man. She turns and faces away from the two. It is time to change her disguise.

When Cloe turns back, the war is already won. The child’s hair is pulled back to accent her round cherub face. Her sad soulful eyes are impossibly large. Tears brim the edges. One tear rolls down her cheek. The voice that fills the child tugs at the heart with its concern, “Sir, look at these children.” Her band of eleven boys gathers around. “You have much more than they will ever have. Their feet are riddled with calluses. Their shirts are mostly rags. They need clothing, good food, and shoes that fit well. They need a good place to rest. Good lord they need a bath. We don’t ask much. We can certainly help. How difficult is it to watch one carton of orphaned goods?”

There is a nervous tension as the smaller man looks to his mate. The two men exchange words for a time. A gesture is made. The little girl approaches. An agreement is reached on three sides. Cash is handed to the girl. It quickly disappears from sight. The little girl turns. She imparts a small kiss on the cheeks of both men. Cloe’s tone is compliant as she finishes the deal, “We will secure your treasures. Go on and do your trade. When you come back, your goods will be here.”

The men hesitate for a moment then head into town. It is a humorous procession as the two men trundle about. Sacks are cast. Excuses are made. In the final round of bickering a sort of compromise is reached. The fat man takes a seat at the top of the very full cart. The taller man walks beside and guides. Slowly the two begin their journey up the hill and back into the town.

At the top of the rise there is a comical release. With the fat man on top, the cart reaches a copse of overhanging trees. The man moves a bit, but there is no avoiding the low lying branches. Branches remove the man like a stick attacking a ball.

The short man rolls like a barrel. Off the back of the wagon, he spins and turns. He bounces off the last box and rolls down the hill. Ten meters later, the man comes to a stop in ankle deep mud. Splayed in dirty water the man is now covered in gray and brown. As he makes his way back up the hill he looks back for just a moment. The face of the man is sour and uncertain.

The moment deserves laughter. But this is certainly not the time. Cloe waves a warning finger. The boys show amazing restraint. Some titter behind hands but no one cracks. At the top of the hill the men exchange words then quickly move along their way. The children stand still until the cart trundles deep into the jungle. The explosion of laughter that follows brings tears to every ones eyes.

Once laughter has subsided, the children begin their work. The girl chirps in the air, “Hide it well. Protect what you have been given. We will hand it back just as it has been found.” Eleven boys scamper like ants stripping the large box to its bones. For each piece that they hold there is a perfect hiding place. Deep into the jungle they disappear. There is a method and madness to how and where each boy picks and hides. It is a matter of practice and pride.

A short time has passed and all boys have returned. Something unspoken passes between the workers and their queen. A metal can is tossed. It clanks on the stones. It flies through the air. Balance is back. Play and laughter fill the world. Boys rush and shout. A new game is afoot.

- - -



Ch 5 - Suffering, Treasure & New Tools

My encounter with Tierno still has me guessing as I make my way towards the upper deck. The night is clouded and devoid of stars. Because of the war we run without lights at night. With no illumination the world is black on black. Place your hand in front of your face. You can not see it. If you can not see it, is the hand at the end of you arm actually there?

The black encloses. It does have weight. Cut a piece of the night. Chew on it slowly. Dense like dried meat. Devoid of taste.
So many moments don’t sit right in my head: the storm, the rescue, the last three months. So much conflict. So much pain. Weight closes in. Tension releases in short sobs. Tears flow in the silence. They last only a short time.

Wet becomes dry as the wind picks up speed. The blackness of night steals the bad things from my mind hiding them deeply in her folds. The light vibrations of the motors play at my feet. The deck slowly wobbles atop the changing sea. The small gasp of the ocean splashes along the side of the boat.

The ocean’s gasp? The Old Man and I argue about this. It is a long standing exchange that never sees an end. The Old Man believes that the sound we hear is water tearing underneath the prow of the ship. I say that the sound we hear is applause: the spirits of the ocean putting hands together as we brave the unknown and face our own insignificance upon the high seas. She is the mother and we are just specks upon the surface of her vastness.

The Old Man tells me that I have grown very dark since The Greek ended me. My response is, “We endure in our own ways.”

The Greek gave me a difficult problem to solve. I have just recently started to whittle it down. Managing chronic pain in your legs and your head is a bit like building a house out of sticks. Your technique may improve, but your foundation is fundamentally flimsy. Like the itch that you sometimes feel deep within your ear. You snort and blow your nose until you feel raw. You can poke or prod. This may lead to more damage. You can never get your finger in deep enough to scratch at the source of the discomfort.

Pain is angry child. It loses its power once the parent has decided to ignore it. Outbursts may continue, but what gravity does the child hold when no one is paying attention? Distraction is one key to alleviating constant discomfort, but how do you get to root of the infection? How do you get inside of yourself and cool the source of your persistent pain?

The sailor may get paid in script or hard coin but the greatest currency they pass along is a good story. Some are fictional and some are fact. Some I have retrieved right from the source.

There was a sailor named Ajit. An ocean accident had taken his hand. From just South of the elbow his right arm was gone. Some would say the man was feeble. Ajit would say he was not.

Sailors were put off, not by Ajits missing arm, but more by the man’s drive to do well. Despite his lack of digits, Ajit worked just as hard as the other men. In some cases he even made them look lazy because he was determined never to be outdone.

In a moment of confidence, Ajit told me that his hand was still there. He explained that the body might be gone, but the substance was still intact. Ajit claimed he could wiggled his fingers. He could feel hot and cold. He swore that as long as he never thought about it, he could even lift his mug or swing a hammer to drive a nail. I never had the fortune to witness a ghost hand lifting a mug for a toast. But in the mind of Ajit, he believed all that he told.

There is a woman named Luella. When she hears the bell on the cooper smith’s wagon she immediately begins to smell lemons. When she hears a certain lullaby played on a music box, she claims that she can tastes cherries fresh from the tree.

In another story there is a young child. While riding in a wagon there is an accident. The boy falls out and cracks his head. His head opens like a broken cookie jar. A small stick of wood gets stuck in the open wound. The boy runs home with a sliver sticking out of his brain. He doesn’t realize there is a problem. He is more concerned by the frightened look on his mother’s face.

Mind, memory, will, and other things are connected. Whatever exists inside of us, between our ears, in our hearts, there is a connection that I have been exploring for quite some time.

As a child, a friend bet me a penny that I couldn’t make my ears wiggle. “Give me one month,” I said. Every day of that month, I spent short periods grinding my jaw and moving my eyebrows, willing those ears to dance. By the end of the second week my ears where twitching in small fits. By the end of the month they were dancing.

Life on the farm is all about survival. Livestock and crops, nothing is misused. Once you have finished slaughtering, harvesting all of the good cuts inside and out, you are left with a pile: bones, fat, sinew, and odd pieces of flesh. This pile is a testament to a creature that lived for a purpose. The animal was sacrificed to give you life. In a world where every piece is precious, it would be disrespectful to let anything go to waste.

The easiest way to use this pile of parts is to start a fire and begin to boil. After a time the pile is cooked. Bones and hard pieces are removed. Before you is the essence of the beast rendered into delicious soup. Eat your fill then pour the remainder into a large round bowl. Not too large, about a hand width wide and a hand width deep.

Let the soup cool just for the night. In the morning you will find that the liquid has changed. Flip the bowl over. What you have now is a soft jelly like mass: part fat, part water, and a grayish brown. This is about the feel and consistency of the gray mass inside of your head.

The brain is the safe containing our most personal possessions, all the knowledge we have accumulated through time. The brain serves as the fuse box for sensations that torment us, yet the brain itself feels no pain. The brain controls blood flow, muscle coordination, and how we sense our surroundings. It houses our soul and defines who we are, yet it is no more stable than a wet paper box.

Incredibly stupid or amazingly insightful is a wet sack full of gold. Human hands will easily destroyed it. Peer inside and the treasure can not be seen. I need new tools to get at what torments me. I reflect on my ears as I turn to my will. The body can heal itself if I can just show it how.

- - -

Ch 6 - Stories, Stars & Tezufachi


The afternoon grows old and begins turning towards night. As the children break through the cover of trees the sun is on fire just dipping beyond feathers of purple and pink. The sky to the East is already blue and black twinkling with stars. There is something magical about the presence of the lights that calls the attention of the little boys.

Cloe is always finding stories and pictures in the sky. She is the one who spins the yarns that keep the flock entertained. Her small finger points as she slowly begins to describe what she sees, “Just on the horizon where the four stars form the cup. That is the belly of Tezufachi, the trickster and beguiler of men. He eats small boys who do not behave. He pretends to be many things that he is not. Never believe the words of Tezufachi. Always keep your eyes open. Never turn your back.”

Tezufachi is the boogyman of this part of the world. He is a story told to young ears to keep impulses for bad behavior in check. Tezufachi is said to appear as a young man to those who misbehave. As the story goes, Tezufachi will leverage your trust with kind words and willful gestures. When he is ready to claim you, his hair will be on fire. Look down and you might notice that the creature’s feet face the wrong way. You would most probably be lost deep in the jungle at this point. Fire is only one method that the beast uses to claim his catch. Be wary, the jungle is a treacherous place.

Cloe points to the stars as she looks upon her friends. Cloe and the boys begin to play a new kind of game.
The game begins with a question, “Palmier, what is Tezufachi’s favorite thing to eat?”

“Grown ups tell us naughty children are quite sweet. Yet, you claim that Tezufachi also has a love of jungle fruit.”

“That is correct. What is there not to love. So much to choose from. So many things that are truly sweet. But to the point here, what fruit does Tezufachi love the most?”

Palmier is quick to the answer, “It is the apple that he wants. This thing he wants more than all!” There is bright enthusiasm and pride.

“An apple? Now why is that?” Cloe directs her question to another boy.

“The apple is hard to find?” responds Pieto with a question in his tone.

Cloe encourages the young child, “Good response my young friend.” She turns to the crowd and asks a new question, “Someone tell me, where does the apple grow?”

Hands go up throughout the small group.

“Aresio, what do you think?”

The boy answers quickly, “The apple grows in cold places. Tezufachi’s home is the jungle floor. It is hot in his kingdom. The apple is difficult to find. Because it is rare, it is a treasure in Tezufachi’s eyes.”

Cloe addresses the group, “If Tezufachi does not get the apple then what happens?”

Pieto speaks up, “One story you have told us states that Tezufachi will be good if he has the apple.”

“Do you agree?” The girl pushes the small boy with the question.

The boy’s brow bunches while he forms an opinion, “Tezufachi is never nice. Once he has the apple, I do not think he will change. Mean things are always mean. Tezufachi will always want more.”

Cloe once agains asks the group, “So, we should never give in to Tezufachi’s wishes?”

Aresio jumps in with enthusiasm, “You tell us that Tezufachi is a trickster, that what he says at best is only half true. Then we must play the game. We must be more cunning.”

“Yes you must.” Cloe nods. “Your point is very true.”

Cleo looks to the crowd for another face. This time she calls on Dedric, “Who can find the apple? Who knows apples very well?”

The little boy smiles as he speaks, “Kokawai knows apples because of Sabio Neves.”

“And Sabio Neves knows apples well because..?” little Cloe lets the question hang.

Dedric finishes, “Because he is a magic cow. He has been to many places. Some say that he has even flown with the birds around the top of the Aconsagua Mountains.”

“He doesn’t fly! Sabio Neves is a cow,” interrupts Palmier.

“But he is a magical animal, just like the Adarna birds. If he is magical who is to say what he can or can not do,” insists Pieto.

“Who is stronger? Sabio Neves or Tezufachi?” inquires Aresio.

“Sabio Neves is stronger than Tezufachi,” concludes Palmier.

“Is he stronger or smarter?” asks Cleo.

“Savio Neves is smarter. The things in his head are his strength!” declares Aresio.

Cleo draws the game to the conclusion she had hoped for, “How does one defeat Tezufachi? How does one escape?”

The boys look to one another. Palmier is the one who speaks, “We trick him. We convince Tezufachi that we have what he wants then we hide it in a place where it can never be found.”

Cleo looks to Palmier and the other boys with a broad smile on her face. Her mouth is full of sound. A response forms as the earth begins to growl.

Her words are swallowed just as the explosion rips through the far north. The eruption is massive even this far away. The largest tree falling close might make the same cracking weighted sound. The explosive air is matched by the low grumbling earth.

Cloe closes her mouth and gathers the children closer. A growing cloud of fire rises into the sky. A mushroom made for the gods, a stem of grey smoke and fire, belches from the ground and climbs. Higher than the tallest jungle tree the column of fire grows. Broader than a baobab, the explosive column quickly expands. A rolling cap of yellow and grey dances with turbulent oranges and reds. The darkening night is violently transformed back into day.

The roiling clouds rapidly change shape. Faces form within the ring of fire. Some are animal. Some are not quite men. Faces of fire and smoke look out upon the land. They frown. They smile. Sometimes they laugh. Little eyes on the ground take close notes of the show. The boys look to Cloe hoping for stories to appear. The look that she returns is really quite sad.

“Brace yourselves!” instructs the little girl. Her mouth is tight. Her brow is now furrowed. The message is delivered just as the ground shakes. The air growls loudly as the wind blows.

The shudder grows to the point of full bounce. Children lose their footing. Feet fly up into the air. Smiles and shrieks give way to splashing thuds. Backsides of flying children land hard in soft dirt.

The flushed face of Cloe is sober and pinched. Simmering below the surface is bordering rage. The children understand that something is different. Laughter in their bellies turns to something cold. What was once magic is now something obscene. One small voice can be heard in the back. “Tezufachi, what have you done?”