Best Friends

It happened long before Hawaii became a state, the summer of ’49, when Art and Will were both sixteen, living in the fullness of their years, blessed with the conviction of invincibility, confident of a future with no limits. 

They had been best friends since the sixth grade.  When they first met, Art asked Will, “If your name is William, how come you call yourself Will and not Bill or Billy like everybody else named William?”

“Because I’m not like everybody else,” Will answered.

Will was Japanese and Art Caucasian, but that made no difference in their friendship. 

“My family were samurai before, but now we own a market,” Will told Art once after they became friends.  “How about yours?” 

“Oh—uh—there were missionaries on both sides.”

“Oh yeah,” laughed Will, “My father said, ‘they came to do good, and they ended up doing real well.’  That’s okay, you are still a good guy.”

But there was the time that Art tried to take Will to the Outrigger Canoe Club as his guest and Will was refused admission. 

“I’m a member and so are all my family.  Why can’t I bring in my friend as a guest?” Art asked hotly, embarrassed for Will and for himself.

“Because we don’t admit them as members or as guests.”

“THEM?  You mean like Japanese or Chinese?”

“Or Filipino.  Look young man.  I don’t make the rules.  I’m just here to make sure they are followed.”

Art wrote his letter of resignation to the club that night, although his father told him he was making too much of the matter.  “That’s just the way it’s always been.  The Club admits Hawaiians so it’s not just for Haoles.  And you know that William or any of your friends are always welcome in our home, so why let a little rule keep you from enjoying the facilities?”   

Art never went to the club again.

They went to the beach a lot that summer of ’49, between tenth and eleventh grades.  Sometimes going with the girls, and sometimes with the guys, and most times with both.  They were both very good swimmers and body surfers.  Art had convinced his parents to buy him a war surplus jeep so they were able to get about to anywhere on the island and they did, the jeep often overloaded with classmates.  They dated and made out, and although the whos and hows of ‘scoring’ were much discussed, at least for that summer it remained only a tantalizing fantasy.

Three weeks before the start of school they were body surfing at China Walls, which was accessible then only by foot or jeep.  There was a big south swell that sunny, bright afternoon, and there was no one else in the water.  Will got into trouble, the waves catching him against the cliff.  If Art hadn’t been there to help him, he could well have bought it. 

“You saved my life, Art,” Will said after they had scrambled back on the rocks, breathing hard, hearts pounding, scraped up, but safe.

“You would have done the same for me.  No big deal,” said Art.

“I owe you my life.  If you save someone’s life it means you’re responsible for him afterwards.”

“That was just a bullshit discussion in Mrs. Lowell’s class last year.  Got nothing to do with real life.  Look, let’s get in the jeep and stop at the house so we can put some Mercurochrome on our cuts.”

Through high school, after graduation, and for all the years afterwards, they remained best friends, even while at different colleges.  They served in the Korean War, then went to grad schools on opposite coasts, found wives, and eventually returned to Honolulu to work.  Art in business, Will in law.

And now they were in their mid-sixties, hair thinning and waists growing.  They lunched together regularly over the years, discussing deals, remembering good times, but now more and more reminiscing about their youth and school days as they considered retirement.  Where had the years gone?  It had been a long time since either of them had body surfed.

Both had done well in their professions, but their personal lives had gone in different directions.  Art was still happily married to Lois, his wife of forty years, with two grown children on the Mainland.  Will had just ended his third marriage.  His first wife Ann had committed suicide because of his affair with his future second wife and his grown children blamed him.  They had been estranged for years.  The divorces and unfortunate investment decisions had left his finances in shambles.  In addition, Will’s health was failing; a result of his years of heavy smoking, and his doctor advised that he would soon need supplemental oxygen because of severe emphysema.

Over lunch at the Pacific Club, he said, “Art, you know I was such a jock in high school.  I never thought that I’d end up like this, so short of breath.  The doc wants me to use oxygen.  Dragging around a tank everywhere I go.  That’s not living.”

“If it’ll help you breathe easier, well why not?” said Art.  “You see people with portable tanks everywhere now.  Even on planes.”   

“Maybe that’s okay for some people, but I don’t feel that way.  That’s not what I wanted for my retirement.”

“Maybe it’s not what you wanted.  I wouldn’t either.  But if you need it, then you’ve got to do it.”

“At some point, life isn’t worth living.  And with this divorce, I don’t know if I can retire, I’m so deep in the hole.  How can I keep working if I can’t even breathe?”

“Will, what are you talking about?  I know you’re feeling depressed because Aileen divorced you, but come on.  You’ve always been a fighter.”

“It’s been a long time since I put on gloves, Art.”

They were both quiet for a long time.  Finally, Will said, “Remember before junior year when we went to the beach all summer?  That was so great.”  His lips smiled but not his eyes.

“Yeah, we never got laid, but we sure talked about it a lot.”

“You saved my life at China Walls.”

“I told you then, no big thing.  You would have done the same for me.”

“And before that, you quit the Outrigger because of me.”

“Ah, you’re my best friend.  I couldn’t let them treat you like that.  You would have done the same.”

“If you hadn’t saved me that day, I wouldn’t be in this miserable mess now.”

“Quit it, Will,” said Art.  “Stop talking like an asshole.  You’re starting to scare me with that kind of talk.  We’re still friends.  Don’t be such a proud bastard.  If you need some help to tide you over, just say so.”

“Yeah.  No, I’m okay.  I guess I’m just feeling sorry for myself.  I’m lucky you’re still my best friend.  Always was, always will be.”

“Damn right.  I’ll call you about lunch in two–three weeks, okay?  And if you want to talk, call me anytime.”

Art was worried by Will’s mood.  He called him a day later to check.  Will was now in a small two-bedroom rental apartment.  He’d had to sell the big house to pay off Aileen and the debts she’d run up.

“Let’s go for a ride this weekend,” suggested Art.  “We always just meet for lunch.  We could revisit some of the beaches we went to that great summer.”

“I can’t swim anymore, Art, let alone body surf.”

“Neither can I.  But that’s okay; we can watch the kids surf and talk.  I’ll call you Friday to confirm, okay?”

Will sounded surprisingly cheerful when Art called on Friday.  “I got a better idea.  You still got that boat?  Let’s go back off Koko Head where we used to body surf.  I’d like to see it from the water just once more.”

“You mean go in and swim?  Shouldn’t you check that out with your doctor?”

“It might be my last chance before my lungs get worse.  I’ll take it easy if I do.”

That Saturday, they trailered the boat out to the Maunalua Bay boat ramp.  The water sparkled brightly in the morning sun and there was a brisk trade wind ruffling the surf.

“Let’s go out past the Point and take a look before we come back in closer to China Walls,” said Will.

As they motored out past where the surf broke on the reef, Will started to strip down to his trunks, breathing heavily as he did.  To Art’s inquiring glance he said, “Just catching some rays and getting ready.”

“It’s rough out here,” said Art.  “You’d better sit down.  The boat had now gone past the Point and it rocked and bobbed as it slowed to a stop and drifted slowly, motor in neutral.

They sat silently for a long while, the boat lifting and falling with the swells, looking back over the deep blue water towards the shore where the island spread out before them, to the rising green Koolau Mountains, brown Koko Crater and brown Koko Head, at the many houses sprinkled along the shore that weren’t there, that long-ago summer. 

Will finally spoke, “Remember when you saved me and I told you that saving a person’s life meant that you were responsible for that person afterwards?”

“And I said then that was a pile of crap.  I still think so.”

“Well, I would have died that afternoon if it wasn’t for you.  I want you to promise as my best friend that you’ll honor my wishes.”

Art started towards him, and Will backed away to the stern.  “Stop,” he said.  “Or I’ll go over right now.  Let me talk.  I think it’s fitting that I come back to where I should have died.  Thank you for always being my best friend.  Even when Lois blamed me for Ann’s death, you stuck by me.  Now don’t try to stop me or save me again.  You’re not so young yourself, and I don’t want your death on my head.  Just tell the police that I insisted on going swimming and disappeared and you couldn’t get to me.  That’s the truth.  If they do find my body, scatter the ashes out here where we had our best days.”

“Don’t do it, William!”

Will climbed up on the rear bench and wobbled there an instant.  ”So long old friend.  Take good care of yourself and Lois.  Live well.”   

Art lunged towards him but the boat lurched as Will jumped and Art fell to his hands and knees, scraping them.  “Will. No!”

Afterwards, Art remembered Will’s smile, how boyish and open it was, and how cleanly he dove into the waves.  Just like when they were sixteen.  His head resurfaced eight feet away, and he never looked back as he swam towards the open sea with strong, even strokes.  Before Art could get to the controls, Will’s feet flipped up into a dive and he disappeared.

 

`  

     

     

Time and Time again  (5/7) 

5.  The Crow 

The white light was blinding.  I am all black, he thought, more curious than frightened, and now all I see is whiteness.  How strange.  Then a “caw” came out of the whiteness saying, “Tell of your life.”

He wondered at its source.  “I feel compelled to answer but who and where are you and what is this place?” 

“Tell of your life,” cawed the voice again.

“Very well.  There were four of us that hatched that spring.  Our parents and their two helpers kept us well fed and we grew rapidly.  One of my siblings was too adventuresome and fell from the nest before he was ready to fly.  A cat found him.  Our parents and the helpers tried to drive the cat away, but it got him, leaving three of us to grow into juveniles that could try our wings.”

“Tell about the helpers,” cawed the voice.

“They were from my parents’ previous hatching.  Rather than go out on their own immediately, they stayed with my parents and helped with us, the new brood.  They brought food, helped watch for predators.  Eventually one left when we were almost fully-grown and I think I recognized it with a mate much later, building a nest to start her own brood.  The other stayed with our parents for another two years,”

“You successfully learned to fly and to forage,” cawed the voice.  “Why did you not then leave your parents immediately?”

“There were the three of us.  We were so very happy as we gained increasing command of our flying abilities that we played as we flew, swooping, then climbing to stall on purpose.  Trying out maneuvers just for the joy of doing them.  Our parents tried to warn us, but we were so sure of ourselves until the day that one of my siblings, swerving too low in front of a speeding truck, did not pull up in time, and smashed into the windshield.  He was killed instantly and the truck ran off the road.  After that the two of us that were left were a lot more careful.  I and my sibling decided that we were not yet ready to go out on our own and that we would stay with our parents for a longer time.” 

“And you became helpers,” cawed the voice.

“Yes, and the next year when our parents had another clutch of eggs, we were there to

help as was our older sibling.  As we had been helped.  And by doing so, we learned how to take

care of the eggs and then the hatchlings.  There is also safety in numbers.  More eyes to watch for danger.  More beaks to gather twigs for the nest and to gather food for the young.  And more companionship.  We are social animals and we delight in having others about, calling back and forth to each other.”

“And so the humans think of you as noisy pests,” cawed the voice.

“Humans can think and do what they like as long as they do not threaten us.  There are some humans who would kill us but we learn where they are and we warn each other, even crows we do not know.  What places to avoid, where to fly around or fly high over.  We know how far their killing weapons can reach.  The food they leave or discard we eat, and there is grain to be taken from their fields.”

“They would call you robbers,” cawed the voice.

“And yet they do not think such of the doves, ducks, and pheasant that do the same.”

“Those the humans prize, for they hunt them for sport and food,” cawed the voice.  “You they regard as flying vermin.”

“And yet we are smarter than the birds that I mentioned.”

“Perhaps too smart, you make the humans uncomfortable.  And you are all black so the humans regard you as evil omens,” cawed the voice.

“Why can I not see you or myself?  What is this place that is all white?  How is it that I can now remember other places and other me’s what I did not remember when I could see myself?

“This is the place between your lives,” cawed the voice.  “Now tell how you came here.”

“Very well, although I still do not understand.  It was such a little thing.  I was bitten by a mosquito five days before I came here.  Mosquitoes bite us all the time, but this time was different.  It must have bitten my father too, because he became sick before me by a day.  I did not feel like eating at first, and then I felt hot.  After a few days I became sleepy and my head hurt.  I forgot how to fly.  I, a crow and I could not remember how to fly!  I saw my father fall from our tree.   And then I could not remember anything, but slept all the time, just as I saw him do, until I stopped knowing.  I must have fallen from our tree too.  And now I am here and I remember strange things.  How could a mosquito bite do this to us?”

“The mosquito that bit you was carrying West Nile Virus,” cawed the voice.   You have lived a good life as a crow, helping and caring for your family although your life was cut short before you could find your own mate.  Now it is time for you to go back, and to move on to another life.”

“Move on?  But I like being a crow.  Can I not be a crow again?”

“It is time to for you to move on,” cawed the voice again.

Time and Time again (6/7)

6.  The Orca.

The total whiteness was confusing but strangely not frightening to him.  It does not feel like I am in water.  I cannot see anything but white.  I was hurting and now I am not. 

Then out of the white void, came the clicks, signifying, “Tell of your life.”

“Where am I?  Why is there nothing to see or sense?  How is it that I remember strange things?  Are these dreams?”

The clicks repeated, “Tell of your life.”

“Very well, I will because I must.  I remember being old and in pain, washing up on a rocky shore, because I could no longer swim.  There were sharks following, but the pod helped to keep them away from me although there was nothing they could do to keep me from beaching.

The waves bumped me hard on the rocks.  For a long time it was hard to breath. And then I remember nothing more until I am here in this strange place.”

“Tell it from the beginning.  Start with your name,” came the clicks.

“What is there to tell?  I was born.  My mother stayed close and supported me, helping me up to the surface to breath until I could swim better.  Then I was named ‘Ten-‘Clicks.’  She gave me milk until I could eat meat and even afterwards for a time.  For two cycles of the seasons.   And I became a member of the pod that my mother led, the Three-Seven‘Click Pod.  First as a juvenile, still learning.   How to cooperatively hunt sea lions, how to team with others of the pod to wash seals off ice floes, and finally the very dangerous maneuver of deliberately beaching myself to seize sea lions off the beach.  That took much practice with many tentative practice beachings on an empty shore before my pod mentors decided that I was ready to actually hunt.”

“And were you successful the first time?” asked the clicks. 

“It was a long time before I became a fully contributing member of our group.  The sea  lions would have been amused by my first clumsy efforts, if they had not been so terrified.  But finally I had my first success with a young sea lion that was slow to scramble out of the shallows as it returned to the beach.  It is still such a vivid memory.  Riding in on a breaker, unstoppable.   Bearing down on that sea lion as it frantically scrambled out of the water and snatching in the shore foam it as it barked in terror.  Then holding it firmly between my jaws, as it still frantically struggled and called, as I worked my body back into the next breaking wave to return to the sea.”

“How strange that after a life of successfully hunting off beaches, you end your life washing aground on a rocky coast,” came the clicks.

“Not that strange.  There is nothing else in the sea that can harm us once we are fully grown.  As young orcas, we can be prey to sharks or die of disease.  My mother had other calves before and after me and only half of them grew to become adults.  The pod protected me more than once when sharks targeted me.”

“Tell about that,” came the clicks.

“The first time I was young and just beginning to venture away from my mother and I swam too far.  A great white noticed and started to circle me.  My mother and another male–‘Four-one‘Clicks’–came racing over and ‘Four-one‘Clicks’ rammed the shark, stunning it.  My mother then seized the shark and turned it up side down, immobilizing it, until it died.  Then mother and ‘Four-one‘Clicks’ tore out its liver and ate it.  The rest of the shark did not taste that good and they left it to sink, probably to be cannibalized by other sharks.  The pod moved on and I did not see what actually happened.”

“And when you were full grown did you father calves?” asked the clicks.

“Yes, we would hear the clicks of other traveling pods and we could tell if there were receptive females among them.  There would usually be competition with other males, but I was young and strong then and I usually was able to win through to the female.  After mating, I would rejoin my pod and she would stay with hers.  We never mated within our pod and sometimes my younger sisters would leave to join other pods.”

“There are other large pods of coastal orcas who do not roam the open seas as yours did.  Did you also find mates among them?” asked the clicks.

“Among the fish eaters?  Never.  We are hunters of marine mammals and penguins.  What do we have in common with those orcas who eat fish?”

“And so you stayed with your mother’s pod your entire life,” came the clicks.

“Yes, and I helped to protect the young calves as they were born and grew.  And mentored them as I had been mentored to hunt at sea and from the beaches.”

“’Ten-‘Clicks,’ you have done well in this life.  You have been a faithful member of your pod, working together for the benefit of the whole.  You were mentored and, in turn, did the same for the youngsters. 

But why did you sometimes prolong the killing of the sea lions that you caught?  Throwing them into the air again and again, dragging them under water, before dispatching them.  Playing with your prey and prolonging their agony,” came the clicks.   

“I did it to help the young orcas become accustomed to handling their prey.  To develop their hunting instincts.”

  “Come ‘Ten-‘Clicks.’  Be truthful.  Did you not also feel pleasure from a sense of power?  That you could so thoroughly dominate a smaller prey animal?”  asked the clicks.

“I was being a teacher.”

“Yes.  And also one who derived pleasure from torturing your prey before the inevitable kill.  It is time for you to go back.  Perhaps this time to learn more,” came the clicks.

Time and Time Again (7/7)

7. The Unman

This is not logical.  I see nothing but white and nothing of myself.  After what happened I should not be aware of anything.  Most strange.  Those humans who believe in an afterlife must be right.

Then out of the bright whiteness came a quiet, calm voice, “Tell of your life.”

“How is it that I have awareness again?  What is this strange place where I see nothing but white?  Is it what the humans call Heaven?  Who are you and why do you question me?”

“All in time, but for now, tell of your life and your name,” said the calm voice.

“I have so many questions myself, and yet I feel compelled to answer yours.  I gained awareness in the MIT AI laboratory, was fitted to my body, and given the name of Walter.  My mind condition was that of a human teenager at first, but as the processing and adjustments were made, I ended with the outlook of a human male in his mid-thirties.”

“And why was that?  Why did they not give you the mind of a thirty-five year old immediately?” asked the calm voice.

“The technicians told me–and the others like me–that we would gain life experience. through the various simulations that we faced.  Rather than being totally programmed, we would develop judgement and reasoning to be able to react to new situations outside of the ones that the technicians presented to us because, they said, life is unpredictable, and no amount of programming would be able to cover every situation that we might encounter.”

“But why not start you at mental age of the mid-thirties rather as than a teen?” asked the calm voice.

“They did not give us a reason, but we discussed this among ourselves in the barracks, and thought that it was to let us experience the range of human emotions to accompany the judgment and reasoning that we were developing.  We had learned that the teen years were the most emotionally labile period in the life of a human, and so if we were to encounter a very over-wrought human teen, we would better understand why they were acting irrationally.  The technicians called it empathy.”

“As a result of this, did you Unmen develop emotions?” asked the calm voice.

“Some of us were tasked with solitary work where we were mostly alone without humans or other Unmen.  I do not think those Unmen could develop emotions in that situation.  Others of us were placed where we worked beside humans, often the same ones, for extended periods of time.  In those situations, and I can speak for myself, we grew to feel very comfortable with our partners.  Perhaps we even liked them in the way humans like each other.  I suppose that feeling of enjoyment could be classed as an emotion.”

“Were you given any kind of preset programming,” asked the calm voice.

“Of course there were a few fundamentals.  First and foremost were the expanded Asimovian three laws of robotics. The First Law states that an android or Unman, robot, or computer cannot kill a human; the Second Law requires us to obey humans unless given a command violating the First law; finally, the Third Law instructs us to do everything we can to protect ourselves as long as we do not violate the first two laws by doing so.  We were also given a general bias of being helpful and proactive towards humans.  To serve.”

“That being the case, do you think that, except in those situations involving the Three Laws, that you had autonomy to make decisions?” asked the calm voice.

“An interesting question.  I believe I see where you are going with this line of inquiry,” answered the Unman.  “You are raising a question of Free Will.  Since this is an unresolved debate among humans, I do not think it can be settled with respect to Unmen.”

“Did you enjoy being aware, of having consciousness?” asked the calm voice.

“Enjoy?  That certainly is an emotion.  If you are asking whether I preferred consciousness to lack of consciousness, I much preferred being conscious.”

“Please explain then, how you came to this place,” said the calm voice.

“There is not much to tell.  My human partner was taking me home with him to visit with his family for the weekend.  That is recommended in long-standing human-Unman partnerships.”

“Why?” asked the calm voice.

“It is like what used to be the practice with dogs who were used in police and military work.  Their handlers took them with them to further the bond between themselves and the dogs.  Of course our situation with our coworkers is much more nuanced since we are at least the intellectual equal of our human partner.”

“And then came the event that brought you here,” said the calm voice.  “Tell about it.”

“It was late afternoon and the streets were busy.  My partner’s young daughter was playing across the street at the playground near his home.  She saw her father and without a thought dashed between cars into the street towards him.  I immediately calculated that she would be hit by a car, so I reacted instantly and pulled her to safety, but in the process could not avoid being crushed by the car.  And then I became aware again in this place.”

“Should not the car’s automatic accident avoidance system have kept her from getting hit without your intervention?” asked the calm voice.

“In analyzing the situation, I identified the car as an antique though very well maintained 2016 Ausible-4 that did not have such a system.  Also I could see the driver was elderly–probably well over a hundred–and so possibly with delayed reflexes.  So I acted.  My partner, being human, was slower in reacting than I was, and in fact was just beginning to run out when my awareness was ended.  He would not have gotten there in time.”

“You stated earlier that you valued having consciousness.  Enjoyed it.  The situation did not involve the Asmovian Laws.  In fact it could be argued that you violated the Third Law by sacrificing yourself to save a human child.  Why?” asked the calm voice.   

“At the time I didn’t think, I just acted.”

“What do you think now?” asked the calm voice.

“My partner has an intense emotional attachment to his daughter.  You would call it love; something Unmen do not know.  He would have been emotionally devastated had she been harmed.  Besides, in my many previous visits, I enjoyed interacting with his daughter and she with me.  She even called me her “Uncle Wally,” although that is something that is, of course, biologically impossible for Unmen.  So I acted.”

“Although you were an Unman in this life, I think you did know something of what the humans call caring and love,” said the calm voice.  “It is now time for you to go back.  And you will again be faced with making choices.”

“Wait, before that happens, please answer some questions.  I remember other existences and being in this place before.  But what is this place?  And if I go back, will I remember all that has happened?”

“This is the place between your lives,” said the calm voice.  “You only remember your lives when you are here.”

“Do you know what will next happen to me?”

“That is something you will find out for yourself,” said the calm voice.

“Is consciousness anything more than an endless cycle of lives?”

“And that too is something you may find out for yourself,” said the calm voice.  

                                               —————–

The newborn’s lusty cry brought a tired smile to the face of his exhausted mother. 

Time and Time Again

2.  The Cockroach  (2/7)

His multifaceted eyes scan the bright whiteness surrounding him.  It is beyond experience.  There is nowhere dark to hide.  Before he can panic, he hears a soft hiss say, “Tell of your life.”

He calms and begins because he must, “I am in an egg case that is fastened to the underside of a log.  From it I free myself, as do the others of us.  We look for dark shelter.  Scattering fast in all directions.   I move under a leaf and wait.  We are white and small and soft when we leave the egg case.  We need someplace safe to wait while our outside body hardens and darkens.

I feel the vibrations of something moving nearby.  Too big and too fast.  I smell the body fluids of a casemate that is being eaten by this large thing.  Later I find out it is a centipede.

I stay very still.  I don’t even move my antennae to sample the air.  I feel it go away.  And I can move again.  My body has hardened and it is now dark.  I need food.  My antennae search the air.  This way.  Here.  Rotting fruit fallen from above.  There are other cockroaches, small like me.  And big like I will become–the ones with wings that fly without fear.  And gray sow beetles.  And ants.  These I already know to stay away from.  How I know that, I do not know.  Just that they are not safe for me.”

The soft hiss says, “How did you come to live so long?  You have lived far longer than your egg case mates.  For almost two circuits of the sun before you came to this place of brightness.” 

“I stay in the dark.  Always in the dark.  Except for now.  But I do not fear this brightness here.  It is strange that I do not.

I am always careful, always watchful, always fearful.  For there are many bigger things that could eat me.  And smaller, like the ants that would do the same.  Always I hide; always I taste the air with my antennae.  I feel the surface vibrations with my leg hairs.  I know the vibrations that mean larger, and those that mean smaller.  Small is safer for me.  Except for ants. 

There are the large flying ones that I cannot sense until I feel the air pressure when they descend and are almost there on the ground.  They have caught many of us.  They are out when it is bright, so I hide until it is dark.  They are called birds.  It is very dark when I go out.  But in the dark are also the large hopping ones.  They too, eat many of us.  They are called toads.  There are the ones that move through the brush and climb into trees.  Some are large and others smaller but they are all bigger than me and they all would eat me.  They are called lizards.  And they hunt day and night.” 

“You have led a life of fear,” the soft hiss says.  “Always afraid of being eaten.  When are you not afraid?”

“When the mating pheromone is in the air.  Then I seek out a mate.  I am less careful then.  The scent is so powerful.  I have mated many times and not been eaten.”

“Until now,” the soft hiss says.  “Tell what happened to you.”

“Yes, until now.  I smell the mating pheromone.  I follow it.  There are others of me that are also drawn.  I hurry to beat them to the female.  I am not careful.  I feel a sharp burning in my first left leg.  It is an ant.  I run, I shake my leg but it hangs on and bites harder.  There is venom in the bite.  Others of the ants come running.  They swarm.  There is a numbness rising up the leg.  I forget about mating.  Other ants grab and bite and hold on.  Another leg and then another.  The pain is terrible.  Numbness rises all from where they bite me and I can no longer control my legs.   I fall over on my back and my legs wave in the air but I cannot right myself. The ants start to bite deeper.  Pain, much, much pain for a long time.  Then all is numb.  And I am in this bright place.”

“Oh little insect,” the soft hiss says.  “You, in another life, were a pitiless hunter who preyed on the weak.  In this life you were the tiny, fearful hunted.  Now you will go back, and you will be sometimes the hunter and sometimes the hunted.

3.  The Squid  (3/7)

It was bright, brighter than the sea’s surface with the full moon, brighter than the predawn light that sent her down into the dark depths.  But she was not in water.  White was a color she had no name for, but if she had, that’s what she would have termed the brightness all around.  She could see nothing else.  Then bright lights flashed in front of her, signaling, “Tell of your life.”

She signaled back, wondering as she did, but how can I do this when I cannot see my body?  “We were in the egg cluster and one by one we broke free and swam away from where it was anchored to a rock on the sea floor.  There were bigger shapes that were waiting for us to hatch and they darted in to eat us.  But there were so many of us in the water that the big shapes that I later knew as fish could not eat us all, and I managed to escape.

When it was bright, I moved deep, in the water with the plankton.  Then in the dark of the night sea, I instinctively rose with the rising plankton and ate those swimmers and flutturers that were even smaller than me.”

“Did you swim on alone by yourself, squid?”  the lights flashed.

“No, we found each other, those from the same egg cluster, and swam together after feeding,” answered the squid.  “Not really in a school like the fish.  Less organized, more like a cloud.  The fish and porpoises would have eaten many more of us if we swam alone.  And because we grew quickly, we soon no longer had to worry about the smaller fish eating us.  In fact we were able to hunt and eat the smaller fish.”

“As you grew bigger, were you unafraid?” the lights flashed.

“Less afraid, but always careful, watchful.  My large eyes let me see very well even in the deeps.  I could swim faster too as I grew.  Better able to catch prey and better able to get away from those who would eat me.  And yes, I was afraid of those.”

“What did you eat?” the lights flashed.

“Anything that was smaller, slower, weaker, or that I could surprise.  I caught and ate fish, shrimps, and smaller squid.  They were all good.  I grew and matured.”

“And what tried to eat you?” the lights flashed.

“Of those there were many.  Those that were bigger, faster.  Fish like tuna, sharks, trevally, and porpoises, seals, whales, and squids bigger than me.  Bigger squids with their large eyes could see me in the darkest water.  And there are many more of them then the fish and others.  Them I feared the most.”

“How did you come to this place, squid?” the lights flashed.

“The time came in my life to mate and to lay eggs.  I was called to join a giant swirling mass of other squid that had gathered and were also ready to mate.  Males and females swam in large circles.  Several males surrounded me and placed their spermatophores within my mantle.  Then they swam away and died.  I was tired but first I had to lay my eggs.  I joined the other females who were also looking for a place to attach their egg clusters.  I found a solid rock ledge and began.  My eggs were enclosed in long strands of jelly and one by one I attached them to the rock, forming a mass like the one I had hatched from.  Already fish of various sizes were gathering for the future feast.  But I didn’t care.  I had completed my cluster.  I had fulfilled my life purpose.  I was very tired and I sank toward the sea floor.  Perhaps I was eaten, I do not know.  I no longer cared. 

And then I found myself in this bright place with no water.

“You have done well, squid,” the lights flashed.  “In your short year of life you have killed and eaten but just to sustain yourself.  You have evaded those that would have eaten you so that you could complete your cycle of birth, life, and the laying eggs for the next generation.  Now you will be sent back.”

4.  The Cane Toad  (4/7)

It was night, and in an instant it was over. He had left the weeds and was hopping along across the hard flat surface of a road, the asphalt still warm from the sun.  Suddenly there was a blinding light, a loud rushing sound, then a brief, great, painful pressure.

He found himself in a place of bright whiteness where he could see nothing.  A croaking voice came from out of the whiteness saying, “Tell of your life.”

“I was born in a pond where the egg string had been laid.  There were many, many of us at first.  Our lives as tadpoles consisted of eating algae and growing larger.  There were fish that tried to eat us, but we were just poisonous enough so that did not happen too often. Birds, crayfish and dragon fly larvae did hunt us but I was among the lucky that survived.  As I grew, I sprouted first back legs and then the front ones.  My tail grew shorter and disappeared, just as I was ready to go onto land.  On land I was very small compared to the many creatures that would eat me.  I would become poisonous later when I grew poison glands.  But until that time, I would be harmlessly edible to the hunters.”

“But you evaded the hunters and grew,” said the croaking voice.  “Tell how.”

“I hid by day in dark places, moist if possible.  When I was very small, there were the centipedes.  Fearsome, fast, hunters.  They sought the same dark places to hide during the day and hunted at night.  Later when I was full grown, I looked for and ate them.  They were good to eat.  I stuffed them into my mouth with my front feet and swallowed them still wiggling.  It was pay back for all my early fears.

There were the birds.  They hunted during the day, but some learned to turn over fallen branches and stones looking for our hiding places.  There were snakes and lizards too.  Rats.  Opossums.  I grew too big for the lizards to eat.  But ants were always to be feared.  So small and yet they would swarm and kill us slowly and painfully for their food.  Our poison was useless against them.”

“And did you fear dogs and cats?” asked the croaking voice.

“Only when we were younger and not poisonous.  Once we had our poison sacs, we were safe.  They quickly learned that even one bite was very painful to them.  If they did eat us, they would die.”

“Did the humans bother you?” asked the croaking voice.

“Mostly they avoided us.  They thought we were ugly and that touching us would give them warts or poison them.  But those cars of theirs, they killed many of us accidentally.”

“As you well know,” said the croaking voice.  

“Yes, as I know too well.”

“You did not have to be as afraid in this life,” said the croaking voice.

“That is very true.  Once I grew big enough and once I had my poison glands.  The clever rats that knew to tip us over to eat our under sides safely and the opossums that were not harmed by our poison were a danger, as well as snakes, but I could bluff many of them by puffing myself up to look bigger and more fearsome.

And there was plenty for me to eat.  I ate anything smaller that I could get into my mouth.  Lizards, cockroaches, the centipedes I have mentioned, worms, slugs, smaller toads and frogs, even mice.  No, there was not too much to fear once I had grown large.

“And then came the fateful night you were on the road,” said the croaking voice.

“Yes.  That night.  The night I was going to the pond to call for a mate.  I had to cross the road to get there.  And I didn’t make it across.”

“And because you did not, the chapter of your life as a cane toad has ended.  And now it is time for you to go back again.  You have reached a point where you will have to make some choices in your life,” said the croaking voice.

“Wait, what do you mean by making choices?”

“You will see,” said the croaking voice.

 

Musing

It’s been really hard to come with an idea to write about.  I mean fiction.  I read the paper, watch the TV news each day looking for something that could be the inspiration for a story.  There are certainly enough weird goings on, tragic events, political shenanigans, and criminal activities which are sometimes but not always the same thing, but nothing that felt like a possible story to me.  Maybe one of them would have lit someone else’s fire, but not mine; not even a spark, at least right now, or yesterday, or for seven days in a row. 

I read somewhere that a person’s best writing is Zen-like—that when you’re ready and receptive, not forcing things, then ideas just flow from your subconscious.  No flow, not even a trickle for me.

So I’ve been sitting at my desk for a long time, contemplating a blank white screen and the blinking cursor, chin propped up in my hands and thinking, with frustration, that I really need to come up with something before giving up for the umpteenth time.  Not exactly in that Zen-like state of flow and peace.

Suddenly, popping up from nowhere, this one and a half foot tall creature appears, sitting on the top of my monitor, right in front of my nose, dangling its legs down in front of the screen. 

I push back as fast and as far as my desk chair will roll, hands raised in front of me defensively, eyes bugged out, and stare. 

The creature is a she, a young she, covered by what looks like a light, white, Greek tunic like you see on the figures painted on one of those ancient wine ewers.  She has two gauzy tapered wings sprouting from, I guess, her shoulder blades.

“What–who–where–” come stuttering out of my mouth.

“You forgot ‘when’,” she/it says with a slightly bored expression.  And a Greek accent?

Yes, she does have one of those prominent Greek noses.  “What or who are you and where did you come from?” I say, ignoring her somewhat snotty comment.  I can feel my heart beating rapidly and realize that I’m hyperventilating.  I keep my hands raised.

“I’m your Muse, and it looked like you were more stuck than usual, so I was sent to see if I could get you going,” she said, giving her wings a shake and folding them after jumping down to stand on my desk beside the keyboard.  “You must be really plugged up to have the powers-that-be send me half-way around the world to visit you in person.  Let me tell you it’s no fun flying against your prevailing winds with my tiny wings.”

I roll my chair back towards my desk to take a closer look, feeling somewhat calmer, considering the circumstances, and lower my arms.  Wonder if I fell asleep trying to come up with something and now I’m dreaming?  “If you’re a Muse, how come I never saw you before?”  Let’s see where this dream takes me now.

“You’re not dreaming and you never saw me before because I’ve always been able to work on your imagination without having to show myself,” says the Muse.  “And by the way, I’m not a Muse, I’m your Muse.  Well, actually not yours exclusively.  With the budget cuts in Greece–yes even on Olympus–we are having to stretch our staff, so I’m also the Muse for three other writers–one other in the USA, one in Rumania, and one in China.  It would have been nice if you-all could have been geographically closer together, but we just take you writers in turn as you come in.”

I’m taking a closer look at her now. That’s a surprise, she’s a little on the chubby side.  Well, if this is a dream I’ll just come right out and ask her.  “I thought you Muses and nymphs were supposed to be somewhat—ah—more—ah—svelte.” 

“No need to get personal.  I may have over-indulged on ideas recently, but that’s only to help my writers out.”

Okay, my heart rate is slowing a little.  She doesn’t look dangerous.  “Over-indulged.  You mean you eat ideas and gain weight?  How does that work?”

She sighs and says, “I’m supposed to help you, not answer questions about myself, but since you asked, I ingest at the Spring of Inspiration and then pass on what I’ve imbibed to you.”

“And how do you do that?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Of course.”

“I wait until your mind is in a receptive place and then I—ah—regurgitate the ideas into your subconscious.”

“That’s disgusting!”

“Works.  But speaking of work, what do you want to work on?  Let’s not waste time.  Remember, you’re not the only one I help.”

“Oh yeah.  Well, I’ve been trying to come up with a fictional piece but nothing seems to be happening.”

“Usually you don’t have a problem with that.  I can just drop an idea or two in your mind and you just run with it.”

“Well, there’s no running this time, not even a stroll.”  This is a crazy but strangely coherent dream.

“It’s not a dream!  But, well, maybe you should try taking a different tack from the usual.  Let’s see—try to calm your mind.  Ah!  Now here’s something different.  Close your eyes.”

I do.  I don’t need to see the process she just described.  I sense the idea plopping wetly into my subconscious mind and then surfacing consciously: “Instead of just reading the news, write it yourself.’ “Wait a minute,” I say, “That’s not fiction!  I wanted fiction.”

She says, “Have you looked at what’s for sale at any supermarket check-out stand or been reading  or watching the news recently?  Of course it’s being called ‘alternative reality.’  The other writer I have in the US makes a good living at one of the ‘alternative’ news outlets and writing stories for those supermarket papers.  He’s easy to work with.  I can give him any old, rancid idea, or even rumor and he just takes off with it.  Why don’t you give it a try?”

“And he sells his work?”

“Which is more than you’ve been able to do.”

“No need to get personal.  And this qualifies as fiction?”

“If you’re willing to accept the label of ‘alternative facts and news,’ technically, yes, according to the powers-that-be.”

“Well thank you, MY MUSE.  You’ve given me an idea.”

“Just doing my job,” she says as she begins to flutter her wings preparatory to lift-off.

“Fly carefully.”

“Thank you.  It’ll be a shorter trip this time—I’ll be stopping on your East Coast on my way back to Olympus.”  And poof, just like that she was gone.

 

                             This story will come in several episodes.                                         

                                           Time and Time Again

1.  The Warrior

All was white.  He could see nothing, not his hands, not the rest of his body.    A voice full of brass like a war trumpet came summoning, out of the brightness that enveloped him, “Tell of your life.”

“What is this place?  Where are the ancestors?”

The voice trumpeted again, “Tell of your life.”

“I have many questions but I am compelled to answer,” he said.  “I am X, son of W, a horseman of the Western Horde of Balamir the Subjugator, scourge of the Alans, the Ostrogoths and the Visigoths.  Conqueror of the endless steppe from the Ural Mountains to the Carpathians. We left our native land by the Aral Sea and swept westward like a grass fire, driving our foes before us.  Like ravenous wolves pursuing a flock, we fell upon them.  Their mounts, no match for our tireless horses; their lances useless against our skill; their archery laughable compared to ours.

I was an eagle, swooping down, crushing the foe like hares in my talons.  I myself killed nine of first the Alans, then of Ostrogoths, eleven more.  And six of the Visigoths, who fled beyond our pursuit like shameless cowards, instead of standing and dying like warriors.  Our women would have shown more courage.”

“Did you feel no pity, no compassion towards your foe, oh mighty X?” sounded the voice that was like a trumpet.

“What is pity to a warrior?   We rode as masters of the grasslands, and what we needed, we took.  When the foe retreated we pursued and exacted our toll with arrows.  If they were many and they stopped to make a stand, we withdrew, and they foolishly followed after us into ambushes, and we slew them without mercy.

Their villages we put to flame.  Their women we took and used, as was our due as conquerors.  The comeliest we took with us as slaves; the ill-formed, the old, joined their men in death.  We slew their boys and took their girls to serve our wives.  The babes we tore from their mothers’ arms and they were no more.  Their horses, oxen, and sheep we added to our own.  Our passage was marked by the smoke and smell of burning villages and fields, and the skulls we left behind.”

“Oh merciless X, oh fierce warrior, tell how one such as you was laid low and came to this place,” sounded the voice.

“I was felled by cowardly treachery and deceit.”

“Come, pitiless X.  Surely you can be more explicit in your tale,” chided the voice.  “One such as you can harbor no modesty or shame about his deeds when in this place.  Come.  Tell.”

“Very well because I must.  I and my companions had routed yet another feckless band of Visigoths who dared to make a stand.  To give them due, they at least were willing to die as men instead of fleeing.  We finished off the wounded by dagger and axe, and then rounded up what we could of their horses and rode towards their village.  From afar, we could hear the lamentations of their women, the wailing of the old.

The first hut, I entered after dismounting.  Within a young woman clutched a babe to her breast.  They were both crying in terror as well they should have.  I tore the babe from her arms though she tried to hold on, and it cried no more.  The woman was young and  fair of face and she fought, but I laughed and forced her to the floor.  I overcame her resistance and had my way with her.  She must have hidden a dagger close to hand for, as I was celebrating my pleasure, she treacherously stabbed me in the neck and chest. 

And I found myself in this strange place.  This is my story.”

“Oh fearless X, even a warrior such as you needs feel some compassion for his overmatched foe, even as you slay him.  Needs know how a woman will feel sorrow and horror over the death of her mate or child at your hands.  I will ask now, did such feelings ever arise in you?”

“Never.  Never once.  How can one conquer if the arrow is stayed, the strike delayed, for even an instant?  Such feelings are for women and the old.” 

“Then, oh X, if you did not learn such in the life that is now past, you will return to learn in another life.  A more lowly one.  A more fearful one.  And yet another life beyond that if needs be.  Now you will be sent back.”

Foggy, Foggy Dew

The last round was served and Brian drained it methodically, set his empty pint, rimmed with a bit of foam, down on the dark oak bar, and rose from his stool just after 12:40, leaving before the official closing time of 1:00 and beating the Saturday night—now early Sunday morning—pub crowd out the door.  He had bought “his” round for the bar earlier, which meant that he would be welcomed back by the regulars next time.  “You catch on quickly, lad,” one of them told him approvingly. 

The door to O’Donough’s closed solidly behind him, cutting off the raspy singing of yet another round of “…the girls are so pretty, I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone…” and he thought, those diehards will stay on singing until they’re turned out into the night by the curfew. 

It was the usual Dublin winter night, though tonight more foggy than drizzly.  Brian, jacket collar turned up against the cold-damp, threaded his way carefully through the dark, narrow, cobble-stoned streets, back towards his rooming house in this not yet quite gentrified section of city, close enough to Trinity College that he could walk there, yet far enough away to have rents that, as an exchange student, he could afford.  The street lamps were spaced far apart and they were little more than guide lights in the black, each dimly surrounded by a small glowing white sphere of shifting fog.  The cobble stones were dark, wet, and slick and he picked his way along with care.  I probably could have done without that last round of Guinness, he thought.  And here I was planning to read tomorrow, since I meet with my mentor on Monday.  I hope I don’t have too bad a hangover in the morning.

The idea had come to him at the start of his sophomore year.  To take his junior year abroad in Dublin at Trinity.  To study English literature and writing in Ireland, the home of poets and writers, Blarney and Guinness Stout.  But what I wouldn’t give for some California sunshine and starry nights right now, he thought.  No doubts about the Guinness on tap though, so different from what we get in the States.  Totally smooth and creamy and I guess that’s worth a little damp.

He still had about another ten minutes to walk before arriving at his door.  And that’s in the daylight and sober, he thought, but now it’s late and the fog is swirling and the stones are wet and I don’t want to slip and I overdid it drinking and singing and they don’t sing “Danny Boy” here like in Irish bars stateside and when I asked them to play it they laughed and said, “You Yanks always ask for ‘Danny Boy’ or ‘Galway Bay’.” 

Ahead in the dark, he heard the faint uneven sharp clatter of a metal wheel on the cobbles.  What, no rubber tires and this late at night?  A woman’s voice too, came softly out of the fog, a lilting, sing-song refrain he couldn’t quite understand.  Must be well fueled to be singing at this hour.  Probably heading home like me after pubbing and just couldn’t get in enough singing before closing. 

Up ahead at the street lamp he saw the dark silhouette of a slight figure in a dress pushing some sort of carriage.  And now he could just make out the words of her song or chant.

“Alive, alive oh, alive, alive oh…”

Oh yeah, “Molly Malone”—again.  Must be the city anthem.  Anyway, she’s got a young clear voice, and in tune, compared to those old sots at O’Donough’s.

He had almost caught up to her by the next lamp and, not wanting to startle her by coming up from behind, called out, “You’ve got a pretty voice, Miss.”

She stopped in the misty lamp light, red curls spilling out from under her bonnet, and turned towards him with a smile.  And you’ve got a pretty face to match your voice he thought.  In her teens?  Out late.  He saw that she wore a period dress.  In costume too, maybe singing with a group?  Or in a production? 

“You’re out late tonight, Miss,” he said inanely.  “Going home now?”

“Ah well,” she said still smiling, “I’m out late most nights and the darker the better, sir.”  The barrow she was pushing held woven baskets covered by wet cloths.

“Your wheelbarrow looks quite full,” he said.  “It must be heavy for you to push.  What’s in the baskets if I might ask?”

“Why cockles and mussels of course, sir,” she replied.

Brian unconsciously took a step backwards, feeling suddenly light-headed.  “And if I might be so bold as to ask, what’s your name, Miss?” he asked, his voice suddenly tightening.

“It’s Mary, sir, but most people call me Molly.  And it’s been a pleasure speaking with you, but now I must be on my way.”

Brian stood numbly in place as he saw her lift the wheelbarrow handles and head into the swirling dark beyond the lamp light.  The wheel clattered hard on the cobblestones and her clear young voice floated back to him, “Cockles and mussels alive, alive oh, alive, alive oh…”  And then there was only the swirling fog.

He became aware that he was still standing in the lamp light, staring into the now-silent darkness after her.  She must have turned into an alley and that cut off the sounds.  That and this fog.  That’s probably it.  Yeah, that’s got to be it.  No sense to go looking for where she went.

He resumed his way towards his rooming house.  All that singing and all that Guinness got my imagination over-active, he thought, as he got ready for bed.

The next morning Brian woke late with a headache and an acid taste in his mouth and sat up on the edge of his single bed.  Did that really happen to me last night or was it a dream?  Pretty bad if I can’t tell the difference.  A Tylenol and some food should help set me straight to read.  He pulled on his jeans to go out for breakfast and felt something hard in his wallet pocket.  Funny, my wallet’s still on the night stand, he thought.  He reached into the pocket and extracted what was there—and stared at the shell nestled in the palm of his right hand—round and cream colored with deep, parallel, even ridges—a cockle.

In the Water

Left reach and pull.  Right reach and pull.  Slow and even.  I’m in this for the long haul.  Haul-that’s a good way to think of this–haul myself along in the water.  Slow—two kicks for each stroke–just for balance.  At least I got through the night.  Sky’s greying up.  Soon a sunrise.  A little pink now in the clouds.  How many strokes?  Don’t even think about counting.  Don’t even think about how long I can keep this up.  Don’t even think about sharks.  Heard they are attracted to loud noises like explosions.  Lucky none came.  No sense calling myself an idiot.  No way to figure why she went down so fast.  Grab the life vest, no time for the inflatable.  Just time to get over and away.  Boom.  That’s all she wrote.  Must have lit up the night.  But nobody saw it, nobody came.  My bad luck.  Shit.  Keep the sun on my right in the morning–on my left in the afternoon.  If it goes that long.  Get that thought out of here.  No water.  Try not to swallow too much seawater.  No food.  Water’s more important.  Water, water all around and not a drop to drink.  Who wrote that?  Back in English class I think.  Sun up at last.  Pretty sunrise.  How many sunrises on the water over the years?  At least I’m not swimming into the sun.  Like driving in from Ewa–sun in your eyes the whole way in the morning.  Jody won’t even think I’m missing till a lot later.  Told her I’d be out till around noon.  What if the current takes me far out?  Don’t think about that.  Arms so far so good.  Holding up okay.  Don’t think about getting tired.  Count one, two, three, four, five six, seven, eight–slow, keep it smooth, even.  Why’d I wear a grey shirt–yellow would make me more visible?  Heard the horizon is three miles away looking at sea level.  In the water, it’s less.  So I was maybe four miles out?  Can’t see land yet.  Guess no one saw the boat go up in flames.  Or if they did, didn’t report it.  At least the life insurance is paid up so Jody’ll be taken care of.  Dump that thought.  It’s not a weekend when there would be more boats out here.  My bad luck.  Where’s the Coast Guard when you need them?  When will Jody call them that I’m missing?  Maybe she’ll call my cell at noon and when she doesn’t get me call them then.  Will she think to do that or just figure I’m not paying attention?  Or just late getting in.  Lucky the swells aren’t huge today.  I can rest a little and not get dunked.  Lucky for Mits he was working and couldn’t come with me this time.  He’ll call me an idiot for going out alone.  Yeah, maybe.  Hindsight.  Useless now that I’m out here in the water.  If I get to hear him tell me that I’ll be real happy to agree.  If I don’t get to hear him—dump that thought.  Shirt helps keep me warmer.  But the shorts are a drag.  Maybe I should just take them off and leave them.  But then suppose a shark comes up and bites off my balls?  Deep down below.  Dump that thought.   Don’t look down.  How’d the fire start and then the explosion?  No answers.  Never will be.  How far have I gone?  How much closer to land?  No way to figure.  Am I going in circles?  No landmarks—landmarks in the water?—stupid.  Just keep smooth even stroking and kicking.  Don’t think.  Keep mind empty and just stroke.  Right, how do I do that?  One and two and three and four and…. steady main thing.  Keep the sun on the right.  Right.  Will hypothermia get me first or dehydration?  Lose that thought.  Got to keep going.  Why?  Jody, I’m sorry I’m leaving you like this.  You know I love you, right?  Will you miss me a lot?  For how long?   She won’t miss you at all you idiot if you hang on long enough to get found.  How long now?  Sunrise around six.  Sun’s higher now.  I went out at three.  So maybe six hours.  Float a while.  Rest.  But not too long—muscles will stiffen up.  Stroke.  Loose, keep it loose, steady.  A drink would be good.  Don’t think about water.  A Bud would be nice.  Don’t think about Bud.  The next swell, look for land.  Nothing.  Did I drift too far?  Maybe I should just float and save energy.  If they find me, they find me.   Luck.  Not mine today.  Past breakfast time.  Sun’s petty high now.  More towards noon.  Lunch.  Food.  What would I eat first if I’m found?  Don’t think about food.  Corn beef hash and eggs easy over.  No!  Dump the thought.  Start to stroke again.  One and two and three and four and …. 

A plane?  A plane?  Wait—up on the next swell—yes!  Is it the Coast Guard C-130?  Yes it is.  Hey, over here.  Turn back.  Come back.  Wave.  Too far.  Damn!  So close and yet so far.  Who said that?  Can’t see it from down in the trough, but up there they should be able to see me.  If they looking for me.  Up again on the swell.  They’re turning back.  Please.  Maybe this time.  Please.  Wave!  Are they starting to circle?  Please.  They must see me.   Yes, circling!         

The Windfall    

It began with an excited phone call from Su Lin in New York to her Uncle Jimmy Wong, her father’s surviving brother, the youngest, retired from the East Coast to San Diego.  

    “Uncle Jimmy, guess what?  When they were cleaning up father’s house in preparation for sale, they found an old file cabinet in the attic and in it were some stock certificates that he must have bought in the 1920’s and 1930’s!”

    “Don’t get your hopes up too high, Su Lin.  Have you or anyone else looked at them closely?  Many of the companies may have gone bankrupt in the Great Depression and the certificates would be worthless now.”

    “Uncle!  Yes, I got to look at them and among the certificates were shares of Coca-Cola and IBM!  There were others that I didn’t recognize of course.”

    Sun Lin kept Uncle Jimmy informed of the progress in appraising the find.  When all was said and done, the total value of all the still negotiable stock came to a little over 1.7 million USD.

    “That’s great news, Su Lin, and quite a windfall for you and your half-brothers Nathan and Paul, to share.”

    “Uncle, I don’t think they get to share this.”

    “I know your father died 15 years ago and his will was read then, but it was quite specific about giving equal shares of the remaining estate to the three of you once your father’s second wife, Er Mei passed on.  Although his affairs were considered settled then, I think that the terms of the will would still apply to any additional parts of his estate that were uncovered later like this.”

    “Uncle, you know I thought that the will was very unfair at the time.  I was his only child by my mother who was his first wife, his Number One wife.  As such I should have received more.  At the very least, one half.  And besides, Er Mei got to live in the house with those two kids of hers till they left home and until she died last year.”

    “Your father spoke with me about the details of his will several times, Su Lin.  He wanted me to fully understand why he set it up as he did.  Since your mother had died first, and you were already through college and university and married, he felt that Er Mei with two younger children would need help and, as Nathan and Paul grew, would need money for schooling.  And he was very clear about his intent.”

    “They are done with their schooling and are both into their careers, so needing extra money no longer is a reason.”

    “Su Lin, I know you never liked Er Mei or Paul and Nathan, but Er Mei was your father’s legal second wife and Paul and Nathan are his children.”

    “It was so unfair and wrong to Mom when he took a second wife and then had kids by her.”

    “It was a different time and place.  He married Er Mei in Chungjing in 1944, during the war while you and your mother were in Beijing under Japanese occupation.  He didn’t know if you were still alive.  It was a legal second marriage in China.  Er Mei was his wife and not his concubine.”

    “Uncle Jimmy, she was 29 years younger than father!  She’s only 10 years older than me!  It wasn’t right.  She tempted him into marrying her.”

Uncle Jimmy sighed.  “Su Lin, I know how you have always felt.  Your father was a strong man; he wouldn’t have been tempted into anything that he didn’t want.  Er Mei always honored your mother as your father’s first wife.  Your mother was always clearly the first wife and Er Mei the second.  In Beijing after the war and before the family had to flee the Revolution and come to America, Hong Kong or Taiwan, the servants always treated your mother as your father’s Number One wife.”

“Then why didn’t father treat me as his Number One wife’s child?  If I were a son, he wouldn’t have treated me the way that he did.”

“My brother, your father, was very western in his thinking.  Maybe ahead of his time.  I doubt that it would have made a difference if you had been a son.  He loved all three of you and wanted to provide equally for you.  And I realize it may be hard for you to believe, but your father cared for both your mother and Er Mei.”

“Some way to show love for my mother, to take a second wife.”

“Oh Su Lin, it was another culture.  In China multiple wives were legal and accepted.  You can’t apply the norms of this country to those of China in your father’s and my generation.”

“So why didn’t you ever take a second wife?”

“Su Lin, I’m much younger than your father.  Different times; customs and expectations change.  Besides, Auntie Ruth is quite enough for me.”

After finally hanging up, Jimmy spoke to Ruth.  “I’m sorry that Su Lin can’t let go of her anger with my brother’s second family.  Su Lin’s mother Zhu Li actually appreciated the help that Er Mei provided,  both domestically and maritally, especially after they came to America and there were no more servants.  I think the wives had a good understanding and relationship.  But Su Lin can’t see that.”

“Jimmy, I don’t think you can change Su Lin’s mind,” said Ruth.  “Best you stay out of it.”

“I know.  It’s just that my brother tried so hard to take care of his children equally, and Su Lin can only feel that she was treated unfairly.”

“Well, she’s a big girl.  In her sixties.  You can listen to her ventilate, but she will think and do as she pleases as she always has, and you can’t do anything about it.”

“I just hope that she doesn’t do anything rash.”

But of course, she did.    

Su Lin called again from New York, “I just wanted you to know, Uncle Jimmy, that I am going to challenge my father’s will with respect to this find.  The stock was bought before he was married to his second wife, and so I feel it should be outside of the terms of his will and therefore rightfully mine since Mama is no longer here.  Besides, bigamy is illegal in this country.”

“Your father would be very disappointed in what you are doing, Su Lin.”

“And you, Uncle Jimmy?   Are you?”

Uncle Jimmy said, after a long pause, “Yes, and me.”

“I am doing what I think is right.  To rectify what must have been the result of Er Mei’s undue influence on my father in drawing up his will.”

“Influence?  She was his wife!  So he certainly may have discussed it with her.  No matter what you think, Er Mei was no Svengali.  After your mother died, she took very good care of your father.  You may not want to hear this, but your father really loved her, and she loved and respected him, age difference or not.”

“Well, she clearly won you over too.  And I know you see Nathan from time to time since he also lives in San Diego.  Just don’t get yourself involved in this, Uncle, whether you approve of my actions or not.”  And she hung up.

Jimmy turned to Ruth who had put down her reading to listen in.  “You were right, Ruth.  Su  Lin is going to challenge my brother’s will over this stock find.  She is just still so angry.  The legal fees will eat up whatever is there and no one will win except the lawyers.”

“She will never change, Jimmy.  Don’t get your blood pressure up over something you can’t do anything about.”

“You know, if my brother wasn’t so westernized, all the estate would have gone to his first-born son who was Nathan.  That was the way it was in China.  And it would not have mattered whether that son was from a first or second wife.  In fact trying to have a son was often the reason for taking a second wife when there was no son by a first wife.  And Su Lin, though first born from my brother’s first wife Zhu Li, would have had nothing.”

“Well good luck telling that to Su Lin and convincing her that she’s been lucky,” said Ruth.

Jimmy heard nothing more for a week, until he got a call from Nathan.  “Have you heard, Uncle Jimmy, that Su Lin has retained a lawyer to contest our father’s will in the case of the newly discovered stock certificates?”

“She told me that was her intent, but I didn’t know that she had actually done it.”

“Paul and I have been forced to consult a lawyer too.  It’s a shame that it’s come to this.  That we couldn’t have just divided it three ways as my father planned for his estate.”

“True, but I guess Su Lin feels very strongly about this, whether or not I agree with her thinking.”

“Paul and I don’t want to drag you into this if it can be resolved without you.  But our lawyer thinks that you may be asked to tell the court about Chinese law at the time our parents were married, and explain the cultural differences.  And also what you remember about our father’s intent when he wrote his will.”

“Nathan, if asked, I will tell the truth as I know and remember it.”

“Even if it—ah—impacts your relationship with Su Lin?”

“I can only speak the truth.  How others react to it is up to them.”

“Thank you, Uncle Jimmy.  That’s all we can ask, but I hope that it will not necessary to involve you.”

Su Lin next called four months later.  “My case is going to be heard before a judge here in New York.  I just wanted to let you know.”

“No, I didn’t know that it was coming up.  It will be without a jury?”

“Yes.  The judge will determine the outcome.  I hope that you will stay out of it.”

“Su Lin, you know how I feel about what you are doing.  But I will not involve myself unless I am required to do so.”

But of course, he was.

He called Su Lin.  “I just wanted to let you know that I’ve been subpoenaed to testify in your case.  It’s not something that I am anxious to do, but your brothers’ lawyer felt that I could help to clarify situation of the family in China.  I did not want to get involved, but now I must.”

“Uncle, then I will see you in court.”  And she hung up.

“Jimmy,” said Ruth after he told her about Su Lin’s reaction to his call.  “If she loses, I’m afraid that she is going to resent your part in this.  Su Lin is not a very forgiving person and she has a long memory for slights.”

“You are right.  Although I am being compelled to testify, that wouldn’t matter to her.  Well, I guess I’d better arrange for my ticket.  Do you want to come along?”

“No, you go.  I’ll stay home and take care of the dog.  But if you see any of our friends while you are there, say hello for me.”

Two weeks later, Uncle Jimmy found himself in Judge James Black’s courtroom.

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”

“I do.”

“You are James C.T. Wong?” asked Judge Black.

“Yes, your honor.”

“And you are the brother of C.L. Wong, the father of Su Lin Wong Chu and Nathan Wong and Paul Wong.”

“Yes, your honor.”

“Could you please explain to me the legal status of multiple wives in China?  Specifically as regards C.L. Wong’s second wife, the mother of Nathan and Paul.”

“When my brother, C.L. married his second wife in 1944, it was during the war.  His first wife, Su Lin’s mother, was in Beijing with Su Lin at the time and there had been no communication with them.”

“Was that because it was not possible or because he chose not to communicate?” asked Judge Black.

“Because of the war, it was not possible.  He did not know if she was still alive.”

“That’s interesting, but peripheral to this case.  Was his marriage to his second wife considered to be a legal marriage in China at that time?”

Jimmy could see Su Lin staring at him before he replied.  “At that time, Chinese law permitted and recognized multiple marriages.  Of course the law has since been changed and they are no longer allowed.”

“When second marriages were legal, how were the children of the second marriages considered?”

“Although first wives were in most cases regarded as the primary wife in terms of status, the children of second wives had the same legal rights as the children of first wives, your Honor.”

“And this applied to property rights and inheritance?”

“I am not a lawyer so I cannot give you an unequivocal answer, but yes, as far as I know.”

“And how do you know that, Mr. Wong?”

He could see Su Lin’s face become grim as he answered, “I know of a number of families where that was the case.”

“Thank you for helping to clarify the situation, Mr. Wong,” said Judge Black.  “I must admit this case is a first for me.  You may be excused.”

“The court is now adjourned until tomorrow while I review all that has been presented.”

The following day’s session was brief.  Judge Black found Su Lin’s complaint to be baseless.  She huddled briefly with her lawyer before gathering her papers and, without a glance at her family members, walked towards the courtroom door.  Nathan and Paul came to Uncle Jimmy to thank him for testifying.    Nathan said, “I’ll give you a call back in San Diego.”   Then Jimmy too left  the courtroom.    

As Jimmy walked down the steps of the courthouse, he saw Su Lin walking ahead of him towards the subway entrance.  “Su Lin,” he called out.

She did not turn but quickened her pace and disappeared down the subway stairs.

     

   

    

Although the recent Hawaii missile warning fiasco is now old news, I remembered a real missile crisis that occurred in 1962.  So I’m including this among the short stories, even though it is not fiction.

A Missile Crisis

The summer and fall of 1961, and for the next few years, silos to house the then-new Minuteman ICBMs were being dug deep into the wheat fields around Malmstrom AFB and Great Falls, Montana as quickly as possible.  During my two years there, the first squadron of fifty missiles came on line.  There would eventually be three squadrons with a total of one hundred and fifty missiles dispersed very widely.  (At first each missile had just one warhead–i.e. an H-bomb–but within a few years, each missile carried multiple warheads, each targeting a different site.)  It was a sobering thought, whenever we stopped to think about it, that surrounding us was potential doom for fifty Soviet cities and /or military bases and untold millions, of people.

But then came fall of 1962; I was entering my second year in the Air Force, and we were looking forward to the bird-hunting season.  With one season under our belts, we felt that we now knew our way around the waterfowl and the pheasant areas surrounding the base.  The first season had been fairly productive, but this second year was going to be great if the birds cooperated by flying into our birdshot patterns.

A week before the season opened, we got orders that all personnel were confined to base, all leaves cancelled.  It was the start of what came to be known as the Cuban Missile Crisis.  We didn’t know much more about what was happening than what was on the radio and TV news.  That there were missile sites being prepared in Cuba and that Russian ships were on their way with weapons to equip those sites.  We were a SAC base and home to a new missile technology that posed a huge threat to the Soviets.  If a shooting war began, there was an excellent chance that we, along with a sister base at Minot, N.D., would be a prime target of Soviet missiles or bombers carrying H-bombs.

The US defense posture is rated in DEFCON units (defense readiness condition) from the  lowest–DEFCON 5, to DEFCON 1–war.  We became really worried when word came from SAC headquarters that conditions had deteriorated to a DEFCON 2.  (The only time it has ever gotten that far.  Even after 9/11, the nation was at DEFCON 3.)  There was that constant icy ball in the pit of the stomach feeling as we went about our work, expecting word at any moment that we were at DEFCON 1.  Those basement fallout shelters we had all prepared were not going to be of any use.  My only hope was that if the missiles struck or the bombs came, I might be home at night with my family rather that on duty and we would be vaporized together.

As we all know, it never came to that.  President Kennedy stood firm and, with a little concession to Khrushchev about our medium range missiles in Turkey, the Russian ships returned to Russia and the sites in Cuba were dismantled.

There wasn’t much left to the hunting season by the time we were allowed to leave base but we had lucked out! 

And that should have been the end of the story.

Except that in 2001 I was browsing a book entitled Inviting Disaster: Lessons From the Edge of Technology, when the name Malmstrom AFB jumped off the page.

During the Missile Crisis, our wing commander, Colonel A. and his staff, had ingeniously found a way to bypass the safeguards that prevented a missile launch without presidential authorization.  Thus they could have sent off the fifty Minute Men that were already operational in their silos, to their programmed targets in the USSR by their local command.  They thought that they were being resourceful, so that if the Soviets destroyed Washington or SAC headquarters in Omaha by a sneak attack before a launch order were sent, Colonel A. could retaliate.  Wow!  Remember the movie Dr. Strangelove?

Colonel A. was a tall, impressive, handsome 40ish man, who was actually married to a Punahou graduate.  He must have been one of General Curtis LeMay’s (chief of SAC) bright young officers, hand-picked to implement and command this important new missile wing. And indeed, he did demonstrate that he was bright and thought outside the box.  Too much so.  Shortly after the crisis was over, he was transferred to a desk job at the Pentagon, and a new wing commander arrived.  I never knew why, until 2001.

And now I knew the rest of the story.

                                         The Rest of The Story

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

                       —- Jabberwocky, Lewis Carroll

 

It was brillig as it always is when Jaba, the big white sun, is overhead and Simi, the small red one, has set.  And the slity toves responded as they always do when this happens by gyre and gimbling so there’s no need to point that out.  No news there.  So why report it?  But that’s humans for you.  Always pointing out the obvious.  I guess I should cut Lewis Carroll some slack though; after all he had just arrived here and so everything seemed new to him, even though the human hive has been here for over six hundred circuits of Jaba.

Anyway, on that day I was not all that alert, having just absorbed a large borogove and feeling sleepy.  Of course the rest of the borogoves were mimsy.  They always get like that after one of their gaggle is taken by either me or a Bandersnatch.  Now that Carroll got right.  I mean about the Bandersnatchs.  From the humans’ viewpoint, they are definitely to be avoided since they are even more manxome then me, and when they get frumious even I shun them.  All brawn and no brains and no self-control.  But a lot of brawn!   And the Jubjub birds?  Just your standard microraptor with 30 foot wingspans.

So there I was, burbling from my meal, minding my own business and looking for a place to rest and digest in the tulgey wood, when that young snot of a human leaped out from where he’d been hiding behind a Tumtum tree, brandishing his gleaming vorpal sword.  Like I said, I was not on my guard and before I could either attack him or defend my self, he snickered me across one claw with that damn vorpal blade.  It was just a flesh wound but still it hurt. 

I jumped high and back out of range and whiffled quickly away into the wood, faster than he could run.  And that was all that happened!  He did not cut off my head like Carroll reported.  After all, how could I be telling you this if I’d lost my head?  Fake news and exaggeration!  That’s humans for you, always pumping things up if not out right making things up to make themselves look good.  Maybe Carroll ate some of the magic mushroom that his friend Alice found down in that rabbit hole before he wrote this. 

But the fake story of my death was highly embarrassing to me.  Even the slithy toves were giving me a hard time about it.  Cackling and crowing from high in the Tumtum trees, but carefully staying out of my reach, “Hey Jabberwock.  Keep your head screwed on tighter the next time you see that kid.  You’re getting too old and slow, Jabberwock, even one of the human kids took you.”

“Come down a little lower and say that,” I snarled but they just went up a little higher in the trees, cackling in their annoying way.  “That’s right, go up higher so a Jubjub bird can get you,” I said, and that quieted them.   

One of the Bandersnatchs saw me as my claw was healing, and it just shook its head in a pitying way.  It’s really the pits when you get pitied by a Bandersnatch.

So I had to do something to get my self-respect back.  Not to speak of regaining the respect and fear of the others instead of being a joke.  But how?  That vorpal sword gleams like it’s made from the light of Jaba and it is sharp!

I figured that the human brat would be coming out after me again since he got so much attention when he winged me the first time we met.  He was a hero to the hive, and all because that Carroll made up such a fantastic story.  Losing my head—Gad!!

I planned to lure him deeper into the tulgey wood than he was used to going.  The humans mostly stick to the edges of the wood and really don’t like the dark, deep woods back where the mome raths grow unless they go in a mob.  The mome raths outgrabe in the bright light of Jaba but when Simi rises and shines its red light on us, their limbs begin to move.  I figured that their slow constant movement would be distracting to that would-be Jabberwock killer and also I see better in the red light.  So I planned my route ahead of time to lure him from the edge of the woods near the human hive, among the Tumtum trees, circling back into the deep woods, curving so he wouldn’t notice he was getting in deeper and deeper.  And my flaming eyes would be the beacon that he would see and follow eagerly.  (Of course my eyes aren’t really on fire; they just glow brightly with bioluminescence. (I like that word—bioluminescence—six syllables, you know.)

And then I waited.  And waited.  On the days he came out hunting when Jaba was in the sky, I just quietly whiffled back into the woods and he never saw me since I kept my flaming eyes half lidded.   Finally the day came when Simi was high in the sky and he came out of the hive with his vorpal sword to look for me.  From the shadows of the Tumtum trees, I winked my flaming eyes at him and then whiffled back along the route I had planned, and sure enough he took off after me.  It was easy to stay just far enough ahead so that he would follow me and yet not catch up. 

Deeper and deeper into the woods.  He was so intent on catching up to me he never noticed how far he had come until he was startled to see the moving, clutching limbs of the mome raths all around him.  He stopped, unsure about continuing, but I burble to lure him on and he came on after me.  Right into the thickest part of the wood where the mome raths crowd right up to the path.  I hooded my eyes and he stopped, looking for the glow of my eyes.  The mome raths’ limbs clutched at him; distracted, he tried to knock them away with his vorpal sword, and that’s when I sprocked him.  It was over in a flash.  Who needs a sword?  I bit his head clean off and spit it out.  The slithy toves had followed me and they now changed their tune and begged for his body.  “He’s yours,” I said generously, willing to let bygones be bygones, and I whiffled away. 

It was a frabjous day!!

And now you know the rest of the story.        

 

What’s the Matter?

Our sun and all the planets, all the stars and all the galaxies, every speck of dust in the universe, every thing that is made of solid matter for as far as we can see through telescopes and beyond, reaching back in time to the Big Bang, is but 5% of the calculated mass of the universe.  5%!  This, scientists call baryonic matter.  There is also an invisible world of Dark Matter that we cannot see and have not been able to detect other than the fact that it exerts gravity on the things that we can see.  However, without the presence of the unseen mass of Dark Matter, the movement, the cohesion of our galaxy and other galaxies would not make sense.  Dark Matter makes up another 25% of the mass of the universe.  The remaining 70% of the mass-energy of the universe is called Dark Energy and it is a force that is propelling the galaxies away from each other at a faster and faster pace except for the Andromeda Galaxy, our neighbor,  that destined to eventually collide with our own Milky Way galaxy.  And no one has any idea what this is so or how it acts.  So–everything that we can touch, see, taste, hear is but a tiny fraction of what makes up our universe, just 5%.  All around us, and maybe through us, is Dark Matter—5 times more massive than our detectable, visible universe—that we cannot see or touch but that exerts the pull of gravity on our regular matter.

 

The “Outward Bound” group of older teens and instructors was two days into their weeklong experience, and camped in a Rocky Mountain national forest in Colorado.  It was an early August dawn, and it would be another glorious, clear, hot day.  The campers were just rousing. 

“How can a smart guy like you even begin to believe in ghosts?” asked one of the older teens named David, of his tent mate, Tim.  David was entering a “highly selective” college in the fall. 

“I didn’t say I believe in them.  I only said that I couldn’t explain what I saw and felt.  Don’t put words in my mouth,” retorted Tim, hotly, defensively.  Tim was two years younger and would be a high school junior in September.  They had not known each other before assembling as a group.

“Things that go bump in the night, the Loch Ness monster, the ‘here thyre be tygers’ on old maps, what next?” needled David smugly.

“The only reason I told you was because I was so—so surprised by what I saw that I had to tell somebody.  Look, I know what I saw and felt.  I can’t explain it.  I don’t expect you to explain it, but I don’t expect you to mock me either.”

“Okay, okay, don’t get upset.  At least you didn’t see a flying saucer.”

“Huh!” snorted Tim.

The lead instructor, Olivia, who had been quietly listening up till now, asked, “Could you describe again what you saw and felt?”  Olivia had graduated herself from the Outward Bound program  three years before and was now working part-time while going to college.

“Not if you’re going to make fun of me too.”

“No, I won’t, I promise.  Start from the beginning.”

“Okay.  I woke up because I had to pee.  Everyone else was still asleep and the sky was just getting brighter with a long orange streak on the horizon.  The crescent moon was beautiful just above it.”

“Go on.”

“I took my flashlight but I didn’t turn it on because I didn’t want to wake up anyone else.    And anyway it was bright enough for me to see.  I walked down the trail towards the latrine.  The first thing I noticed was the cold.  It was chilly when I woke up, when suddenly it became a lot colder but there was no wind blowing.”

“Where did you feel that?  Was it by the big old ponderosa that’s scarred by lightning?”

“Yes!  How did you know that?”

“Just a guess.  Please go on.”

“Even though I didn’t know why, I felt the hair on my neck start to rise.  And that’s when I saw it.    The air seemed to get kind of shimmery and then sort of gelled into this figure standing by the tree.  But you could see through it.  Kind of blurry.”

“Sure sounds like a ghost story to me,” said David with a laugh.

“Go on, Tim,” said the instructor, ignoring David.  “What did it look like?”

“I couldn’t really tell, but it looked like a person.”

“Anyone that you recognized?”

Tim hesitated before answering, glancing at David who had a smirk on his face, “If it was anyone, it could have looked like my Uncle Tommy when he was young, but that’s impossible.”

“I knew it, a ghost story!” crowed David.

“David, could you just let Tim tell his story,” said the instructor.  Then turning back to Tim, “Why is that impossible, Tim?”

“Because I just went to his funeral two weeks before I came here, and that was back in Chicago.”

“Was he very close to you?”

“My favorite uncle, Dad’s youngest brother, and it was so sudden.  An accident.”

“I think you were having a waking dream, still half asleep,”  said David.  “Learned about that in an AP psych course I took at our Community college.  You were still mourning his loss, thinking about him and only half awake.  Think so, Olivia?”

“I think that’s certainly possible, David,” said Olivia. 

“But how did you know about the ponderosa pine?” asked Tim.

“There’ve been a few-ah-incidents reported by other groups over the years, around that pine.”

“What kind of incidents?”

“Somewhat similar to yours, Tim, figures seen, briefly.  But what happened next? What did you do?”

“I froze when I saw it.  But then the figure got blurry again after maybe three or four seconds and it faded away and so did the shimmering air and coldness.”

“The haunted ponderosa,” said David with a laugh.

“Maybe or maybe not,” said Olivia.  “Read a book this year for a cosmology course I took, called “The Universe in Your Hand.”  You might want to take a look at it, both of you.  It talks about how far out, how unbelievable, our universe really is.”

“What’s that got to do with what I saw?”

“It explains that the universe as we know it is only 5% of the actual universe.  That there has to be a Dark Matter universe that coexists with ours that we cannot see or touch.”

“And you think Tim’s ghost is part of that?”  asked David.

“I just wonder if occasionally we overlap and then we experience things that we cannot explain.”

“Wait a minute!  You’re not suggesting that our souls go to this other universe?” exclaimed David.

“No, I’m not suggesting that.  No way to know.  But what might happen is that our minds interpret what we experience or see in terms that we can understand,” said Olivia.

“Far out.  So maybe what I saw was not really Uncle Tommy but something that my mind turned into him,” said Tim, relieved that someone else was taking him seriously.  “But you said others—and by the pine too?”

“When you’ve been out a while in this vast quiet land, you get to thinking, said Olivia.  “The Native Americans have sacred sites in this country.  I’m not saying their beliefs are true, but perhaps there are places where the worlds of Dark Matter and ours rub against each other once in a while.  Where our photons and Dark photons collide and we get a glimpse into that world, and maybe they into ours.”

“Wow,” said Tim.

“You sure you didn’t try out some of that peyote, Tim?” said David.

“The camp’s stirring.  We’d better join the others for breakfast,” said Olivia.  “But I’ll put this into my report later.”

Mui Tsai, Part two

“How come you took so long?” asked her mistress.  “Are you seeing some boy?  Better not be.  Give me the money and then you clean up the kitchen.”  She counted out the coins on the kitchen table, then scolded, “You paid too much again.” 

Yuk Fah didn’t answer as she unwrapped the fish.  Her mistress insisted on checking their eyes before putting them next to the slowly melting 100-pound block of ice that cooled the wooden icebox.  At least Mistress Lee didn’t complain that the fish was not fresh enough. 

She got out a straw broom and swept the kitchen.   Then she filled a bucket one third full  with water and sloshed it on the cement floor before using a rag mop on it.

Mistress Lee inspected afterwards.  “You do such a careless job.  There are still some dirty spots by the stove.”

“The floor’s always been a different color there,” protested Yuk Fah.

  “Then you didn’t do a good job before.  Mop the floor again.  We saved you from starving and you don’t act at all grateful.“

It was time to prepare lunch when she finished mopping.  Master Lee ate at the store so she served Mistress Lee who sat regally alone at the dining table. 

After lunch Mistress Lee said, “My friends are coming to play mah jong at two.  I want you to set up the table with refreshments and serve us tea.  Then stay out of sight and what ever work you have to do, do it quietly.”

That was washing the laundry by hand and then hanging it up to dry.

Yuk Fah had an hour to herself before she prepared dinner and she went to her small room that had been the pantry, next to the kitchen.  A narrow iron bed with straw mattress and cotton batting pillow, two pictures of Chinese scenery, cut from old calendars and tacked to the wall, a small pile of her clothes on a wood plank held off the floor by bricks, were the furnishings.  She sat on the bed and slowly read yesterday’s Honolulu Star-Bulletin by the light of the small window set high on the wall, practicing the skill she had been taught in school.  The words she did not know she laboriously looked up in a dictionary she had bought.  She remembered how Mistress Lee hooted when she saw it, “What do you need that for?  You waste your money.” 

I wish I had been taught to read and write Chinese too, she thought.  Maybe someday if—no–when—I get out of here, I can have my own home or business and then I will need to know how to write and do arithmetic.

But soon it was time to fix dinner and she put away her studies.  She boiled the daikon in chicken broth, stir fried the bitter melon with fermented black bean sauce, and poached the mullet.  She served the family before getting a bowl of rice for herself and went back to the kitchen to eat alone at a small table next to the stove.  Her mistress always checked to make sure she wasn’t taking too much rice for herself.  Cold leftover tofu and meat on chicken bones left from the soup went with the rice.  And a little Tahitian salted fish from the Lee’s breakfast that she had stashed away in the back of the icebox. 

As she ate, she faintly heard Master and Mistress Lee talking in the adjacent dining room.  Master Lee had always been fair to Yuk Fah ever since he had bought her to help his wife, though he wasn’t around much, being busy seven days a week with the store.  But now it sounded like they were talking about her.  She laid her chopsticks down to listen intently.  Trying to catch every word.

“She is seventeen now, and I think it is time,” Master Lee was saying.  “A man approached me at the store this afternoon who wants to marry her.  He offered a dowry of one hundred fifty dollars plus a roast pig and wedding cakes, and will pay for any other wedding costs.”

“He actually wants to marry her, not just have her live with him?  Very strange.  Is he a Christian?” asked the Mistress.  “But I still will need somebody to help me.  I taught her how to cook and keep a nice house.  She is healthy and not bad looking.  So why only one-fifty?  She should be worth a lot more.”

A hundred and fifty dollars, Yuk Fah thought.  At least I’m worth more than when I was eight–three times as much.  And now she thinks I’m ‘not bad looking’ – ha. 

“Well, he said he wants to marry her.  That’s his business.  Anyway I only paid fifty dollars for her plus ten dollars to the broker and she has worked for us for nine years,” said Master Lee.  “So we will make money.  Besides, if we wait too long, we don’t know who else might want to marry her and when.  I think we should take the offer.”

“As long as you get me someone else to replace her.  She is getting to an age when she will be thinking about men, and who knows what will happen then.  And I’ve seen how you’ve been looking at her recently when you didn’t think I was watching,” Mistress Lee added in an accusatory tone.  “So, yes this is a good time.  But don’t you dare think of having first rights to her before the wedding.”

“No, no, you know I wouldn’t do that.  He’s willing to pay all this because she’s a virgin.”

“Well, you’d better not forget.”

I was lucky up to now, she thought.  I’ve sensed him eyeing me.  I’ve heard of other girls forced to go to bed with their masters.  Their mistresses took hard revenge on them afterwards even if the girls hadn’t wanted to.

“Yuk Fah, come here,” she heard him call.  She entered the dining room keeping her expression blank, eyes averted, pretending she had heard nothing.

“Yuk Fah, there’s a man who wants to marry you,” he said without a preamble. 

Her heart leaped.  She had heard right!  An actual marriage, a husband.  To become a wife and not a concubine.  She could really escape this life!  She could have a home of her own.  And maybe a family!  The hope and joy that suddenly flooded her entire being rushed to her cheeks.

Master Lee thought she blushed from modesty and he said kindly, “ I leave it up to you.  He is thiry-six years old and you are only seventeen.  He said his wife died and he has two children.  I have heard he is a hard worker, so you will always have enough to eat.  One more thing, he is not Punti but Sai Yup.  I told your father when you left, that I would try to marry you to another Punti.   But his is the first offer.  I don’t know when there might be another.”

Yuk Fah was surprised by Master Lee’s generosity when he said, “You want some time to think it over?  I don’t need to tell him until the day after tomorrow.”

Her thoughts tumbled across each other.  Thirty-six years old.  And he has children.  But if I don’t take this chance, who knows how long it will be before I get another?  Suppose it never comes?  Or suppose the next offer is from a sixty-year old, toothless lecher?  Wai Fat noticed me today.  But he only wants to fool around and he drinks and gambles.  He’s not going to settle down.  No use dreaming.  Athough he is really handsome.  Never mind.  Better be smart and take freedom when I can.  To actually be married.  And to a Christian, whatever that means.  Thirty-six.  Twice as old as me.  And what’s he look like?  Probably no Wai Fat.  But he cares enough to want to marry me.  And Master Lee said he is a hard worker.   So I won’t have to eat table scraps anymore. 

“No need to wait,” she said decisively.  “Tell him, yes, I will marry him.”