Whirlwind

by David Klass

  28

  Perilous clamber down pebbly mountainside. The slightest misstep will trigger a landslide. Gisco has an easier time of it. Four feet are better than two on a slope like this, and the potbellied pooch has the center of gravity of an earthworm. I walk hunched over, arms out.

  Come on, Jack.

  This is as fast as I can go. Gisco, I really think we should be careful.

  I can smell food. Chicken. Nicely spiced.

  I myself can’t smell it, but Gisco is infallible in certain areas. I’m willing to believe he could sniff out some well-peppered poultry at a distance of half a mile.

  I’m sweating despite the cold. I can see the hut more clearly now. It’s made of wood, with branches and leaves strewn across its roof for added concealment.

  We cross what looks like a giant pumpkin patch. Neat rows of plants. No pumpkins though.

  I can smell the chicken now. Gisco’s right—it’s a tantalizing aroma. I climb down much faster.

  Something glows ahead in a rocky ravine. A fire. The mountain men are having a backyard barbecue!

  Two chickens cook on wooden spits! Talk about hitting the jackpot! Smells pretty good, doesn’t it, Gisco?

  My dear boy, the word “good” doesn’t begin to describe that aroma. I wish I could bottle that smell and use it for cologne. I wish I could crawl into the cavity of that roast chicken and eat it from the inside out. I wish …

  Gisco, before your appetite gets us both killed, allow me to point out that the longest knife I’ve ever seen in my life is lying on a rock near those two chickens.

  That’s not a knife, it’s a machete—more of a tool than a weapon. It’s used, no doubt, for clearing brush and slicing the heads off plump chickens before they’re plucked and spitted. But it’s not necessary for unspitting them.

  Gisco dashes across a final small cucumber garden, or whatever those green plants are, and grabs one of the spits in his teeth. I can’t quite work out how he unspits it, but in a fraction of a second the golden brown bird is no longer being cooked but rather devoured.

  I myself haven’t had a good meal in weeks. The sight of Gisco gorging himself and the sound of his tongue slurping chicken fat off his lips is more than I can bear.

  I grab the second spit, slide the chicken off onto a fat rock, and rip off a drumstick. It’s piping hot, but I couldn’t care less—I’m famished.

  That’s the spirit, Jack. Binge with gusto! That’s my motto, anyway, the masticating mongrel announces as he practically inhales a chicken wing and snaps the bones in his jaws, so that they sound like small fireworks popping one after the other.

  No, wait. Those are footsteps, racing toward us! We both whirl around.

  A girl is standing there. I can’t tell her age. Eleven? Twelve? Her long black hair is tied in a braid.

  I smile at her, and then see my mistake. It’s not a girl but a thin slip of a boy. His large dark brown eyes are childlike and bright with life, but they shine out of a face that is haggard with suffering beyond his years. He looks shocked to see us. When he opens his mouth he’s too frightened to talk, so only a few surprised sounds come out. He waves his arms at us wildly.

  I guess I can understand his shock. When you’re roasting two chickens high up in the Andes, you don’t expect an American teenager and a corpulent canine from the future to fall out of the sky and help themselves.

  Tell him we’re friends, not foes, Gisco suggests. Thank him for the superb chicken. Politely inquire if there’s any dessert. I believe we’re in custard country, and a nice flan would be just the thing.

  I took French in high school, I inform Gisco. I don’t know a word of Spanish.

  Must I do everything? the hound asks huffily, spitting out a small bone. Try to get the accent right: Buenos días, señor de las montañas. Gracias por el delicioso festin de pollo.

  I begin to repeat the words out loud. “Buenos días …”

  The boy waves at us even more frantically. Gisco, I’m certain he’s trying to tell us something.

  The linguistically dexterous dog ignores me. Try this: ¿Tiene usted algún otro alimento? ¿Un queso tradicional de la región, quizás?

  Gisco, he’s trying to warn us of something.

  Don’t be silly. He’s delighted to have company. Didn’t I tell you about the camaraderie of the mountains? In the Andes, we are all mountain brothers and sisters—

  Gisco breaks off as two burly men with ragged mustaches emerge from around a rock outcropping. Both are carrying Uzi submachine guns, which they point at our heads. One of them grunts something in guttural Spanish.

  What did our mountain brother just say? I ask Gisco.

  The big dog doesn’t look particularly happy. He asked his buddy which one of us they should shoot first, the golden-haired gringo who needs a bath or the dog-faced pig.

  29

  The mustachioed mountain men with Uzis bark a few questions at us. Gisco translates. I try to respond with polite and creative answers. But we can’t even begin to explain how we parachuted into their neighborhood.

  They lose interest quickly. Bind and gag us, and toss us into the hut. One of them mutters a threat that Gisco doesn’t quite get, but it sounds to him like they plan on returning early the next morning to finish us off for target practice before breakfast.

  Foul-smelling hut. Tight ropes. Hours drag by.

  We’ve been dumped in a corner, like garbage to be disposed of when the time comes. Knots bite into my wrists and ankles. Gisco has been hogtied.

  Ouch. My cramps are starting to cramp up.

  It’s not the most comfortable position, I agree. What was that again about the camaraderie of the mountains?

  This does seem a rather stiff punishment for stealing a couple of rotisserie chickens, even if they were well spiced.

  This has nothing to do with poultry, snaggletooth.

  What then?

  Did you notice that this hut doesn’t have any beds?

  I’m upside down and facing into a corner. All I can see right now is your dirty feet. Maybe they sleep in hammocks. Maybe they snooze on the floor. I don’t see that it makes a heck of a lot of difference. Tomorrow morning they’re going to come back and machine-gun us as they eat their huevos rancheros.

  There are no beds, no chairs, no table, no clothes. Nada.

  I’ve got Gisco’s attention now. Okay, there’s nada. The significance being?

  This isn’t a home. It’s not a dwelling place.

  Then what is it?

  A lab, I think.

  What?

  Don’t you smell those chemicals?

  No, they muzzled me with some stinking rag. I can’t smell anything. If I twist my head, maybe you can tug the cloth off a bit.

  Yeah, I’ve got it. I’m tugging. It’s stuck. I’m going to give it a hard yank.

  OW! That’s my ear!

  Sorry.

  Okay, that’s the muzzle rag. Good. Can you move it a little more? Ah, fresh air! Or should I say foul air.

  Can you tell what those chemicals are? Come on, any dog who can pinpoint a chicken at a half mile should be able to spitball a few chemicals in a home laboratory.

  The dog sniffs. Hydrochloric acid.

  What’s that used for?

  I’m not sure. Gisco sniffs again. And something fruity. Lime, I think.

  Hydrochloric acid and citrus? Weird. What else?

  Alcohol.

  Are they mixing margaritas?

  Gisco doesn’t find this amusing. Jack, we’re in mucho trouble.

  Why? What is it now?

  Remember those green plants in neat rows?

  You mean the pumpkin patch? Or I thought it might have been a cucumber garden.

  Coca plants, Gisco corrects me. They’re using this mountain hut to process a crude form of cocaine.

  A shiver of cold fear travels rapidly down my spine like a mountain centipede seeking a new hiding place. Are you sure, Gisco? It’s hard to believe we randomly crashed our balloon ab
ove a nest of drug smugglers.

  Growers. Distillers. Smugglers. Killers. Whatever. It explains why they’re so suspicious of strangers.

  Yes, I agree. No wonder they’re planning on shooting us. Okay then, we have to escape and find a way to patch our balloon before they return. Any bright ideas?

  No, but some more bad news. Our situation is deteriorating by the second.

  Gisco, we’re marooned—or maybe I should say unballooned—high up in the Andes, imprisoned by drug smugglers, who are planning to return in the morning and Uzi us into condor feed. What could be worse?

  I hear footsteps. They must be coming back a little early.

  30

  The door of the hut is yanked open. I prepare myself to be dragged in front of a two-man firing squad.

  But something’s wrong. These aren’t the thudding footsteps of swarthy drug smugglers. These are the soft, padding, scared footsteps of one relatively small person.

  Gentle hands on my back. Tugging me over. The good news is it’s the boy with the braid! The bad news is he’s holding the machete in his shaking right hand. Is he going to slit our throats? No, he begins sawing at the ropes.

  Gisco, it’s that kid! He’s setting me free.

  Remind him not to forget about a boy’s best friend.

  He looks terrified. I think he’s risking his life to help us.

  We’ll find a very nice way to thank him. Hurry up and get free so you can set me free.

  Seconds later the ropes are in a bunch on the floor and Gisco and I are both taking awkward, reeling steps, waiting for the blood flow to return to our legs.

  “Thank you,” I say to our rescuer. “Muchas gracias.”

  The boy looks back at me, and for a moment his worried face softens just a bit. He opens his mouth, but again no recognizable words come out.

  Maybe he’s mute, Gisco.

  No. He can make sounds. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Jack, but I think somebody cut his tongue out.

  Gisco’s observation makes me feel disgust and a surge of fury. This boy is barely out of childhood. He should be playing tag and hide-and-seek. Why would anyone do such a cruel thing to a young kid? I ask the dog.

  It’s a precaution. They’re probably keeping him here as a slave, and they wanted to make sure he stays quiet.

  I’ve seen news stories about child slaves taken from their families, confined and abused, and forced to work their whole lives for scraps of food and the clothes on their backs. Such exposes always seemed distant and remote to me—outrages in countries so far away that I never imagined I would meet such a kid face-to-face.

  Now I’m looking back into this boy’s dark brown eyes. They’re big and frightened, like the eyes of a rabbit that has been chased down and cornered.

  I can only imagine the amount of courage it’s taking for him to help us, knowing he may be brutally punished for it later.

  Gisco’s right—we have to find a way to thank him. He looks so lost, so completely alone on this mountaintop.

  On impulse I take off the necklace that Eko gave me on the Outer Banks. There’s a locket with a tiny image of my mother, Mira, who lives in the far future. It’s my only picture of her, but I sense that this brave, solitary boy needs a mother even more than I do.

  I unstring the locket and show him the portrait of the beautiful woman with kind features and lustrous hair. Then I tie it onto the leather thong around his neck.

  The boy looks back at me for a long moment, and then motions us to the door and thrusts his arms downhill.

  He’s showing us the way out, and telling us we should take off, Gisco. And he’s probably right.

  No, he’s probably wrong. Gisco has gone over to the side of the hut that’s used for a laboratory. There are vials and chemicals, and bundles wrapped up in orange tarps. If we try to escape down the mountain either we’ll be caught or we’ll starve to death. Neither is particularly appealing. This is our only way out.

  A drug lab is our way out?

  Check out these tarps. They’re using them to make sure their cocaine stays dry and waterproofed.

  They look like old raincoats.

  Nylon. We can use them to patch the balloon. Gisco begins sniffing various vials and jars of chemicals. I can improvise a powerful adhesive. It won’t hold forever, but it will get us out of these mountains. Let’s go to work.

  Gisco has the chemical know-how. I have the hands, critical for pouring and mixing. The young lad with the braid stands in the far corner of the hut and watches as we cook up a steaming witch’s brew. Occasionally he snaps open the locket and looks at the image of my mother.

  The sun is starting to sink as we finish.

  Are you sure this will work, Gisco? It smells awful.

  I wasn’t exactly baking an apple pie. Let’s go.

  We hike back up the mountain to where we crash-landed near the glacier. The descent was easy, but the steep climb makes us sweat, even though a freezing wind whistles through the high mountain crags. I’m huffing and puffing by the time we near our deflated balloon.

  The boy follows us. He seems intrigued by what we’re doing, but also frightened. I see that he’s brought the machete along. He has the constitution of a mountain goat—he’s not breathing hard as he trails us up the steep slope.

  I’ve heard that mountain sunsets come on fast. It seems to get colder and darker by the second. My hands shake as Gisco directs me to spread his odious adhesive on the torn balloon envelope.

  The paste works like quick-drying epoxy. As soon as it’s on, I press one of the orange tarps over the rent in the nylon. The pungent mixture hardens like concrete, and now our balloon has a bright orange Band-Aid.

  Voilà, Gisco exults. Not bad, huh?

  Do you think it will hold?

  Only one way to find out.

  How are we going to reinflate the balloon? I ask. Old Houlihan probably had some special fan or air hose to fill it up.

  Necessity is the mother of invention, Gisco declares impressively. As Archimedes’ dog once said, give me a bone long enough, and I will move the world!

  Wasn’t that a lever? And I never heard that Archimedes had a dog.

  Bone, lever, whatever . . . Gisco’s ears prick up and he glances down the mountainside.

  What is it?

  The banditos have returned! I can hear them at the hut, searching for us. Let’s get this thing up, up, and away!

  31

  Gisco grabs one side of the mouth of the balloon in his jaws, and I grab the other side with my hands. We try to stretch it open, but it’s bulky and awkward, and Gisco can only hold his end two feet off the ground.

  What’s your plan, Gisco?

  I was hoping the wind would gust up this mountain crevice into the balloon and reinflate it.

  But the wind isn’t gusting into the balloon, I point out. It’s blowing all around the balloon and blasting me in the face, which might explain why my nose and mouth feel frostbitten, not to mention that it’s also getting darker and there are bandits with submachine guns looking for us …

  Kvetch, kvetch, kvetch. Why can’t you look on the bright side? We patched the balloon, didn’t we?

  A deflated hot-air balloon is of no use at all—

  An earsplitting RAT-TAT-TAT of submachine gun fire rattles the nearby rocks. Gisco, they’ve spotted us!

  The dog opens his mouth and spits out his end of the balloon with a resigned shrug. That’s it, then, he says. There’s no way out of this.

  Maybe we can escape down the other face of the summit. Come on, Gisco. What about looking on the bright side?

  There is no bright side. The other face of the summit is a sheer cliff. We’ve got a deflated balloon and no weaponry to fight back. We’re done for, Jack. Lower Gisco into the mountain grave and roll the boulder over his remains. The dog peers around at the windswept crags. Strange, I always pictured my final resting place as a grassy glen, with willows weeping down while bluebirds sing. Not this godforsaken precipice,
which is fit for the fossilized carcass of a mammoth, perhaps, but hardly an appropriate tomb for a dog of culture and accomplishment …

  Gisco, snap out of it. You’re not dead yet, but they are closing in on us. We have to do something.

  Then, suddenly and incongruously, I hear a woman’s soft voice, singing.

  I turn my head and see that the boy has walked close to us. The locket on his neck has opened, and the eyes of the tiny image of my mother appear to be glowing.

  The voice issues from the locket and swirls around us. The song has no words, but it’s soothing, as if meant to comfort children—a lullaby from a thousand years away.

  I drop the balloon and stand there, numb. Somehow I know that I’m hearing my mother’s voice for the first time. It’s a sweet and melodic voice, but its true beauty comes from a deep reservoir of personal anguish.

  Up till this moment, I felt fury toward this woman in the far future who sent me away when I was a baby. Night after night on the tramp steamer I pulled out the locket and studied her image by moonlight. A dozen times I was tempted to hurl it over the side. How could she have abandoned me to be raised by strangers? What coldness and cruelty would make a mother do such a terrible thing?

  Now, hearing the sadness in her song, I consider for the first time the possibility that she might have had her reasons. As I stand motionless on the cold mountaintop, I suddenly understand that events which seem cruel and heartless when looked at one way may appear selfless and even heroic when viewed from a different vantage point.

  Regret infuses my mother’s voice, pulsing in her pitch and deepening her tone. I wonder what dire events forced her to give me up. Was I her only child? Has she thought of me every day and every night since then, wondering if I was alive somewhere, being taken care of, being loved and fed and comforted, even if by a stranger’s hands?

  The boy with the braid is also standing motionless, listening to the song, perhaps remembering his own mother. Then, as if sensing something, he walks over and picks up the side of the balloon’s mouth that Gisco dropped. He reaches high over his head, stretching it wide open.