Embattled, Page 2

  “Why are you here?”

  “I came many years ago as a reporter on assignment for a European news magazine.”

  “Years ago? You don’t miss France?” She half listened to his response. Her mind raced furiously.

  “Sometimes. I came to Raftan; fell in love with the people and the country. This is my home now. I have survived and have been able to live modestly working freelance.

  “But, madame, what you did … here … for the people…. I mean, I’ve heard of you, of course—”

  “You have! What? What have you heard?” Her heart pounded. Now she’d have some answers.

  Chapter 3

  “They said it was nothing more than the wild ravings of primitives—”

  “What? Who said?”

  “The natives in the South Pacific. Three days ago, they said you ended the jungle battle. Called you Miracle Madame.”

  The heavy ring on the second finger of her left hand vibrated. She looked down into the stone and saw brilliant green, marred by slashes of red.

  “Then, in Guatemala, two days ago they said you stopped a corrupt trial, saved many lives.” François’ hands flew wildly as he spoke as if they too could talk.

  “They called you la señora de los milagros. And now. Here. Madame, what you did… The square was empty. Suddenly you were there. And then the Spinda charged. I thought you would be killed. I was sure you would die.”

  So, this was the third journey so far. What would come next?

  She looked past François to the bleak town square. She’d been transported to this desolate pinhole somewhere in Asia. So like her beloved Sahara; but not. Key elements—the primal savagery, the welcoming embrace, and the prehistoric origins of man drawing her close; all that she associated with Africa was missing here. Nor would there be smiles in this country; none like the heart-wrenching wide warm smiles of African children.

  What did she know of Africa, anyway? Stupid, the places her mind took her. She swallowed back tears. The oppressive heat pushed down on her, made breathing difficult. The air tasted stale, heavy with dust.

  The broad unpaved streets beyond the square were lined with dull brick buildings, old and dilapidated, interspersed with piles of rubble. A country so poor that there weren’t even signs of garbage or remnants of plastic bags snagged in the debris. Not even the soft light of dawn or dusk would relieve the harsh edges and dismal atmosphere. Such a sad, sad place to live. Did she live in a place like this? Her whole body shuddered at the possibility.

  She stood, took a few shaky steps towards the center of the square, and turned full circle. She spotted a mosque, and despite being partially blocked by other buildings, she knew it was not like any she had seen before. The mosques in Istanbul dazzled with life and color, the ones in West Africa profound with character and dignity in the humble mudbrick construction. This mosque was square and sharp and stark; a harsh betrayal of the people who worshipped in it.

  There were no signs of life under the midday sun. Even the scurrying insects had taken refuge from the heat, burrowed into the sand, and found cool crevices in the bricks and mortar. Night would be another story. How did she know that? Had she travelled here before? She closed her eyes and let her mind wander.

  Woken in a strange room by scratching and scurrying sounds, rising to flip on the light switch to see moving walls of insects, all sizes and shapes, feeding on each other. No netting to build a fortress, to tuck securely around the mattress. Wild scramble for pagne, sandals, blanket; relief of cool night air. Snatched traces of sleep curled up in a chair on the terrace, enveloped in the blanket. Burrowing out from under a dune of sand in the morning, ears, eyes, nose, every body crevice, and pore plugged with grains of sand. Little dunes of sand in the bottom of the shower stall for days after.

  Attempting to grasp and build on these flashes of memory was futile. They evaporated into wisps of air that floated high in the sky.

  François spoke, in little more than a whisper. “Madame?” His voice, human and soothing, and here and now, calmed her. She was thankful for his presence and concern. “What are you going to do now?” he asked.

  What do I do next? I need an instruction manual, damn it. And you, Francois, can damn well stop looking at me like I have all the answers.

  Step one: Stop the Spinda.

  Step two: Order everyone to gather tomorrow.

  Step three: What would the magic manual say? Surely there was a manual somewhere for this sort of thing.

  François touched her shoulder. “Madame?”

  François was the answer. Yes, of course. Why hadn’t she thought of that sooner? She’d tap into his knowledge of the country, his ideas, anything he offered. She’d use him to hold her focus and get the job done. “You’ve been here for some time. You know the situation much better than me. Do you have any ideas?”

  He shook his head slowly, despairingly, she thought. No, François, don’t tell me you haven’t any ideas. You must have something you can tell me, something I can hang on to.

  “Madame, I have lived with the people here through poverty, war, the communist occupation, and now the Spinda. I have taken pictures, reported to the world, begged for help. You will do the right thing.”

  But, what?

  François opened his mouth and closed it several times. He was a reporter. He must have had hundreds of questions, and didn’t know where to start or if he should at all. She prayed he wouldn’t for she had no answers. She closed her eyes as her mind started to roller-coast again.

 

  Chapter 4

  I needed Elspeth. Now. She hadn’t responded to my signal. Painting again, if I knew her, and oblivious to everything else. I opened my receptors and scanned the park. Ah, yes, there she was.

  “What do you think?” Elspeth waved her brush at the canvas. I jumped back narrowly escaping a smear of red across my sleeve. As usual, paint splattered her robes, just as when we were children. Mother had long ago given up trying to keep her clean.

  I tilted my head and considered her latest effort. “It’s a little bright.” Swirls of red bled across the canvas.

  “You don’t like it?”

  “No, not really.”

  Elspeth studied the painting and then gazed around the park. “How can you not?” she asked, “when everything out there is so … so bland?”

  Bland? The shining green leaves, the sparkle of the sun on the white pavilions, the dots of colorful flowers…. “Our world is beautiful.”

  She plunged her brush into a jar of purple and attacked the canvas. “Dull. Boring. Dreary. Mind-numbing. Monoton—”

  “Elspeth! Stop.” I’d heard this litany many times. Her brush came maddeningly close to my robe again. Almost as if she’d waved it my way on purpose.

  “What do you want, little brother?”

  “It’s about Earth.”

  Elspeth dropped her brush, wiped her hands on an old rag. “I’m all yours.”

  I cleared my throat. “I want you to see what’s been happening down there.”

  “Am I allowed?”

  “No one has actually said not.”

  Elspeth’s tinkle of laughter assailed my ears. “But no one has actually said yes.” She grinned and rubbed her hands together. “Why do you need me?”

  Need was the word. How did she know? “You’ve always been … ah … you’re not….”

  Another tinkle of laughter. “Oh, Yves, you can say it. I’m emotional.”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Like those creatures on that planet of yours?”

  “Good Guardian, no. Not like them at all. Nowhere near as bad.”

  “And that’s what you need my help with? Humans and their emotions?”

  “Yes.” I blinked and an image of Earth shimmered before us on a plane of air. Elspeth’s intense interest aroused by curiosity; mine because my future depended on how well I did my job down there.

  “Oh!” Elspeth squealed and clapped her hands. “There
she is. Can we hear too?”

  I adjusted the volume with a flick of my wrist.

  “Oh my,” Elspeth whispered more than once as the woman I had chosen fought though the jungle, stormed the courtroom, and then faced the Spinda. “Oh my. Her emotions… Yves, does she not have any idea?”

  “Very little.”

  “You’d think the Guardians would do something about that. Show themselves.”

  Elspeth was right, but then what did we know about the Guardians? Precious little. You’d think they would have done more to make their existence known in the Universe. But, even here no one ever actually saw them. Maybe the upper class communed with the Guardians. We Drones certainly didn’t. We didn’t even commune with the upper class.

  “Can’t you do something? Use your powers to help her understand? I would if I were you.”

  “I’m not sure what to do. Don’t forget this is all new to me,” I said. “I am trying to send her messages.”

  “Telepathically?”

  “Yes, of course, what did you think? A cell phone? Ha, ha.”

  “No need to be sarcastic.” Elspeth shook a finger at me. “You’d better figure out a way to show her how she can survive this. I think you’re mean to dump her into such dangerous situations.” Elspeth turned her attention back to the Earth image. “And yet, your messages are getting through. Some of them at least. She knew when she swore at you that someone was controlling her.”

  “Have you ever heard anything like it?” I asked.

  “Mom says that bad language exists here too, or used to, but I’ve never heard those kinds of words before.”

  “Humph, you’ve been known to use a few yourself.”

  Elspeth glared at me. “Never like that.” She squinted at the scene on Earth. I adjusted the light. “What is the human saying now?”

  “She called me a magic manual. If only it was that simple.”

  “She’s right, Yves. You should be doing more to help her.”

  “She has nothing to worry about. I’ll take care of her.”

  Elspeth tapped her foot. “And just how is she supposed to know that?”

  I had set the ring to vibrating, sent her images. She looked at them, but the swirls of color meant nothing to her. My sister was right. I’d have to find another way.

  “All that emotion, the fear, the uncertainty, the tears, it boggles my mind,” Elspeth said. “Are humans always like that?”

  “It seems so.”

  “I may be a little emotional at times, but if we were like that, up here …”

  I shuddered at the thought.

  Chapter 5

  François studied her intently, then reddened and looked away. He shuffled his feet, looked at her again. “You know what I am thinking.”

  “I can pretty much guess. You’re a reporter and this story will make you famous. Monsieur, you’ll retire a wealthy man if I can pull this off.”

  “Madame, the fame and money will be nice. How do they say in English—the icing on the cake? But the real thrill will be working with you.”

  François was such a sweetie. Just the touch of gallantry she needed. “Okay then, let’s get going. Hopefully, we’ll have a big crowd here at noon tomorrow.”

  “People will start coming at the break of dawn to get the best spots.”

  “Won’t they be afraid to get too close to me? I’m a woman and look at this dress.” She held out the skirt with both hands and gave it a little shake. Were those sparks of light floating up from it, dancing like fireflies around her?

  “The dress won’t matter.” François’ tone was dismissive. Hadn’t he seen the sparks? She was afraid to ask, but he was speaking again anyway. “When word of what happened today spreads, everyone will be here. You must understand that no one has stopped the Spinda before.”

  “They’re not vanquished, only derailed momentarily.”

  “You will succeed. I am sure of it. How can I help?”

  “I need some sort of platform or stage. Do you think one of these buildings would do?”

  They had an audience as they searched. Small dark forms scurried between the buildings, peeked out from hiding places, undoubtedly driven by curiosity that overrode their fear. Or possibly they had been sent to spy. Either way, it didn’t matter. The tales the boys told would build and grow to serve her purpose.

  She and François climbed over and around piles of bricks and broken cement and the carcasses of wrecked and burned vehicles. Stymied by blocked and barricaded doors, tired and frustrated, she stood in the middle of a deserted store. The shelves were layered with dust, the floor littered with shards of broken glass. She swore under her breath and looked around for François.

  “Madame, venez ici,” he called from outside. “Je l’ai trouvé.”

  “Where?” She ran out to join him in the square. He pointed to a narrow three-storey structure squeezed between two larger buildings. On the second floor, a mini balcony protruded a few inches from the wall of the building with a wrought iron railing. A perfect little stage.

  They entered an empty but relatively clean room. She clung to the railing as she followed François up the stairs. Suddenly it gave way.

  “Attention!” François’ warning came too late. She stumbled, fell forward, and almost took him down too. He righted himself and helped her regain her balance. “Keep one hand on the wall. Don’t use the railing.”

  On the second floor they found two worn and battered divans, several faded carpets, and a lidless chest.

  “Alors?”

  “Yes, this should work.”

  François stared out the broken window into the stark empty street. As she watched him, she was overcome by melancholy. Would she ever know her home? Would she ever be able to lose herself in memories, good or bad?

  Her mouth flooded with the taste of raspberries eaten ripe from the vine and her nose tingled from bubbles of homemade root beer sipped on a hot summer day. She heard sleigh bells ringing under the moonlight, and horses’ hooves squeaking on hard-packed snow, shivered at the sight of the headless body of a butchered rooster leaping wildly across a field, and felt a thrill of fear at the garter snakes coiled together basking in the sun. She saw little girl arms attacked by thorns as the gooseberry bush protested raiding.

  “Madame, what is it?” François asked. “You look—”

  “Nothing … memories, I think. Of … of my other life. Nothing.”

  “Mais—”

  “Nothing!” He was wise enough not to push and she was grateful.

  “Eh bien, now we eat.”

  “A Frenchman never forgets his priorities.”

  “But of course not, madame.” His tone was all serious. Only the twinkle in his eye gave him away. “Come, I will take you to my home. Fatma, my cook, will have prepared a simple meal and there will be enough for two. She will have heard about you by now and will want to meet you.”

  “My dress will scandalize.”

  François looked at her dress as if seeing it for the first time. “It is beautiful, yes, but the legend of you will overshadow the dress.”

  “Legend? Surely you’re not serious?”

  “You will see. You are la madame des miracles.”

  *

  “So theatrical, what the Frenchman says to her. Of course, she thinks it gallant, but really….” I had to admit, though, that François was good for her. With him, she felt less alone, less stranded.

  “Well, little brother, I wouldn’t mind a bit of that chivalry up here. I like it.”

  “Humph! We’re fine just as we are. If you saw more of Earth, you’d know that.” But maybe Elspeth was right. The courtliness was nice.

  “Seeing herself reading the paper, doing the crossword, saving the comics for last, isn’t that dangerous for her?”

  I wished Elspeth hadn’t voiced my fears. I felt… was that anger? If so, anger at whom? “She has to stop all the maudlin nonsense. She has a job to do. This other life of hers cre
eping in is too distracting. Could be dangerous if it happened at the wrong time.” But, it’s not her fault her mind is so strong and isn't that one of the reasons I chose her? It’s my responsibility. I’ll have to come up with better blocks.

  “Her dress…” Elspeth sounded shocked, but was that a note of wistfulness I heard too? “The Spinda aren’t the only ones scandalized by it. She is too, a little. So am I.”

  I thought I’d done a good job picking it for her, feminine in an Earth kind of way, but sexy too by their standards. I liked it.

  *

  The main room of François’ house served as living area with a small square wooden table, three chairs, a divan, and a vinyl armchair sporting a spider-web of cracks. A communications system and two cell phone chargers sat on a low chest. A generator hummed somewhere in the background.

  François directed her through his bedroom to the bathroom beyond and went to fetch their lunch. She stared at herself in the small faded mirror for a long time, and then went in search of him.

  “How old do I look to you?”

  “Thirty-four. Thirty-five.”

  She returned to the mirror and stared again. The face looking back at her was certainly not as young as he said, but perhaps not as old as she felt either.

  In the mirror she could see the scoop neckline of the dress and the skinny spaghetti straps. God! To the Spinda, she might as well have been naked. The dress, fitted to the waist, flared gently to her ankles, with billowy pockets on each hip. She checked. One crumpled Kleenex. Nothing to give a hint of the “me” she knew had to be there somewhere.

  She ran her hands over the dress, luxuriating in the exquisite texture of the rich fabric. She felt a glimmer of shock at feeling so comfortable with the sensuality of it. Would the dress glow in the dark igniting both her and the air around with its power?

  Where did it come from, this provocative dress? Was it real? Was she? A wave of panic washed over her. She grabbed the edge of the sink and took several deep breaths. She stripped and considered washing her clothes, but they were spotless. Stepping into the shower, she found the water, warm from the sun-heated exterior pipes, soothing and refreshing.

  The threadbare towel caught on the ring as she dried herself. She’d been aware of the weight of it, heavy on her hand, but comforting too. She reached with her right hand to pull it off her finger and hold it up to the light. Something stopped her. A little voice in her head issuing a warning?