by CW Hawes
“We’re doomed,” he said.
“Yes, we are,” Dunyasha told him. “So be prepared to die like a man.”
Poor Malz. He began to cry and Dunyasha shook her head.
His office had a window. I looked out. There were a few trees and shrubs visible. I called Dunyasha over.
“There aren’t many partisans out there, are there?” I said.
“No.”
“Do you think…?”
“Little Kitten, you are crazy, and, yes, your idea might work.”
There was a thud and then another. Branson must be dropping grenades from the roof.
“Maybe when it gets dark,” I said.
“Dru, it will be very risky,” Karl said.
“Staying here is more so,” I replied.
“What are you going to do?” Klara asked.
“We’re going out this window and try to escape with the fleece,” I said.
“Oh, my lady, that is crazy. They are out there.” Klara was nearly hysterical.
Dunyasha got our attention. “Listen.”
“It’s quiet,” Karl said.
“Klara, stay here and protect Mr Malz,” I instructed.
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You are in better shape than he is,” I told her.
Dunyasha, Karl, and I left Malz’s office. The central area of the ground floor was a mess. The fighting at the back of the building hadn’t been especially ferocious. Nevertheless, both Sax and Milano were wounded. At the front, where the fighting had been vicious, the dead and wounded were everywhere.
“I need to know who is wounded,” I said. “The worst will be healed by the fleece first.”
I took the golden fleece out of the satchel and became the healing magician. The dead, though, could not be healed. Not even the fleece can bring someone back to life. After the tenth man had his wounds miraculously vanish, an idea came to me. One that just might, I thought, get us out of the mess we were in and get us out alive.
Thirty
Wearing The Golden Fleece
Kutaisi and the Georgian Countryside
Night
Sunday, 25 April 1954
Branson said he now had an idea how the Texans must’ve felt at the Alamo.
The failed assault by the Czarist partisans was costly on both sides. Aside from the wounded, we had eight dead. The partisans lost at least forty. Our group’s ammunition was almost gone. The Pinkerton men had enough to hold off perhaps one more assault, depending on how vicious and extensive it was.
Nothing more happened until after sunset. Czarist snipers began taking potshots at us once the sun went down. I think it was an attempt to wear us down psychologically.
I told Karl, Dunyasha, Branson, Kit, and Sergeant Sax my idea. Which was, I would wear the fleece and walk out of Hall Media with everyone following me.
The looks on their faces clearly indicated they thought I was suffering some sort of battle-induced dementia.
Dunyasha voiced what those looks were saying, “Dru, you are insane.”
I replied, “Listen. You haven’t felt the power in that thing. Well, you have, Branson. Tell them.”
“Lady Hurley-Drummond is right. You can feel the power in it. But honestly, Ma’am, wear it?”
“Yes. Then the power of the fleece will be at my fingertips,” I said.
“No, offense, Ma’am,” Branson continued, “you don’t have any idea if it will stop a bullet.”
“No, I don’t. What I do know, from what the professors and Mr Smith have said, is that it will enable the wearer to do great things.”
Karl said, “Dru, I can’t allow it.”
“I’m sorry, Karl,” I replied, “but you have no say in this. I’m doing it and you all can follow me or not. It is our only option.”
Dunyasha was looking at me very intently. Finally, she said, “Our other option is death. I don’t think we want to take that one, do we?”
Head shakes all around.
Dunyasha continued, “Someone has to do it and Dru has volunteered. If I recall, Branson, everyone at the Alamo died.”
He nodded.
Dunyasha continued, “I have no wish to die and our Man Friday hasn’t come up with an alternative. Perhaps we don’t have enough shoelaces.”
Smiles and smirks appeared on faces.
“So, I say,” Dunyasha went on, “we go with Dru’s plan. If we do die, we will at least not do so like rats in a corner.”
Karl, with a resigned look on his face, said, “When?”
“I think just after midnight,” I replied.
“Very well. I’ll tell the others,” he said.
***
I took the fleece out of the satchel a little before midnight and wrapped it around me. I felt a tingling, a surge of power coursing through me. I could see with greater clarity and, I’m not sure how to describe it, “into” everyone and everything around me. I could see their souls, as it were. I felt in control and that it was my right to lead these people.
Shortly after midnight, I led a double column of what I could only think of as my people out of the bullet riddled building that had contained the Kutaisi branch of Hall Media. Malz had destroyed anything he thought would be of a sensitive nature. All evening, as bullets pinged the walls, he burned documents and broke up the ashes. For now, at least, the Kutaisi branch of Hall’s media empire was closed.
Behind me were Karl and Dunyasha. Through the doorway and out into the night I walked. The Czarist partisans were no longer hidden by the night, for I could see them as though the time were noon on a brightly sunny day. I heard Dunyasha tell Karl I was aglow and illumined the night.
I sensed, and then saw, the sniper taking aim. I raised my hand and said, “No.” A beam of gold light shot out of my hand. The light touched the partisan. He relaxed and laid down his rifle. There was no more danger.
Down the street I walked with thirty-four people following me. I thought of Moses and wondered if he had the fleece when he left Egypt with the Children of Israel. There was no Red Sea for us. What we had was about fifty miles of Georgian countryside to cross before we reached the coast south of Poti. And that would be daunting enough. Yet wearing the fleece, I felt I could overcome anything.
The ram, whose fleece this was, was the offspring of deities: Poseidon and a nymph who was the granddaughter of Helios, the personification of the sun. Perhaps that is why, wearing the fleece, I felt I had the power and wisdom of the divine. Yet there was more: the seeming knowledge of the truth which later became mythologized. A truth too fantastic to believe true and yet it had to be true. The ancient beings who became gods and goddesses, titans and demigods, nymphs and satyrs, were in fact real beings whose origin may have not been on earth.
We walked for an hour and rested. I found myself exhausted. Completely drained. It seems the fleece gives power to the wearer but also draws vitality from the wearer. I took the fleece off, put it in the satchel, and promptly fell asleep.
When I woke, I found myself on a makeshift stretcher. Branson was at the end where my feet were. His back was to me. I turned my head and saw Sergeant Sax was the one helping Branson carry me. I smiled and he smiled back. Dunyasha was on my left and Karl on my right. The sky was light. I guessed sunrise to be an hour away.
“Our sleeping beauty is awake,” Dunyasha said.
“I am,” I replied with a smile, “and I think I can walk on my own.”
Branson and Sax stopped and I got off the stretcher. Karl had the satchel with the fleece and I took it from him.
“How far have we walked?” I asked.
Branson replied that we’d covered about ten miles.
“Any sign someone is following us?” I asked.
Both Branson and Sax said they hadn’t noticed anyone.
I looked over the group. We were a ragtag bunch. All of us looked battered and bloodied. The Pinkerton men. Malz and his staff. Most of all, we remaining Argonauts. The end, though, was near. I think we could all feel it
. And it was that which gave us the drive to keep marching to the coast.
By noon, we were exhausted. Even with my nap, I was tired. We’d covered twenty miles. Branson and Sax thought we should stop, set up a camp of sorts, and try to find food and water. Karl agreed.
We were in farm fields south of Samtredia on the bank of the Rioni River. Not far were the highway and railway bridges crossing the river. Surprisingly, they were still intact. The farm fields were pockmarked with bomb and shell craters. A testimony to the Italian attempt to take Kutaisi.
Karl, Dunyasha, and I found a crater to our liking and spread a couple ponchos out to form a roof of sorts. We had one C-ration for the three of us. Mighty meager pickings. At least there was water from the river, which we boiled to purify. Branson, Sax, and Milano went hunting for small game. Klara, Kit, and Elise Rodman went into Samtredia to see if they could buy food. If they found some, hopefully rubles would be accepted.
Since we were in a fairly exposed position. Karl made sure there were two pairs of guards keeping watch for trouble. At the moment, the region was a no man’s land. The Italians hadn’t yet pushed in even though the Georgians appeared to have abandoned the area. The GLA had probably retreated to the mountains. Which meant we could encounter anybody. Italians moving in to take over the area. Georgian snipers and fighting units trying to create havoc for the Italians. Locals who might trade their own mothers to secure favor with the GLA or the invaders. Soviet commandoes could be operating in the area to create havoc for anyone who wasn’t a Soviet. And we couldn’t rule out a possible strike by German forces under SS-Sturmbannführer Leiprecht, Czarist partisans under Count Neratoff, or a combined force of both. It looked like us against the world and we were greatly outnumbered.
I kept the fleece with me at all times. If necessary, I could put it on and hopefully save the day. I also stayed to myself. People gave me funny looks. Dunyasha said it was due to the fact I had a golden aura around me.
The mighty hunters came back empty handed. Kit, Klara, and Elise came back with a liter of milk, a liter of wine, a dozen eggs, and a ham weighing two kilograms. We had a tasty if rather spare supper.
Karl said he wanted to leave a little before midnight so we could make the greatest possible distance under the cover of darkness. After supper most everyone tried to get some sleep, including Dunyasha and I. Karl made the rounds of our makeshift shelters to ensure everyone was okay. When he came back to our crater, I don’t know for I was asleep and dreaming of gods and goddesses and that I was welcome amongst them.
Thirty-One
On Our Way To The Sea
Georgia
Monday, 26 April 1954
Fifty miles to the coast as the crow flies. Unfortunately, we had to resort to ground travel. From our makeshift camp, by the road in the valley at the foot of the mountains, we had another thirty-four miles before arriving at the coast of the Black Sea.
With everything repacked, we began our trek at two minutes before midnight. The air felt chill. We crossed the river and followed the road which ran along the foot of the mountains. A wall, reaching almost two thousand feet at their highest peaks. The mountains to our south and the open, war-torn valley to our north.
Our bedraggled group was not making great speed. The walk was going to be a long one. Being in the middle of the night gave us the advantage of having no one around.
About 2 am we walked through the hamlet of Sajavakho. Here the Rioni River nearly touches the Lesser Caucasus mountains. Ahead of us, the valley was loosely under Italian control. According to Malz and Vanderhagen the Georgian Liberation Army, however, makes frequent forays out of the mountains. They attack Italian convoys and camps. In turn, the Italians bomb and shell the mountains. The civilians are caught in the middle. As in most wars, the majority of the people just want peace and a chance to get on with their lives.
Most of the homes in Sajavakho looked to be in ruins. Where the road crosses the railroad tracks we encountered a heavily sandbagged checkpoint. A trench, machine gun nests, and barbed wire stretched from the rising hills to the river. I guessed the line to be a thousand to fifteen hundred feet long.
Dunyasha told the GLA soldiers, in Russian, we were headed for the coast and hopefully a new life in America. Because she spoke to them in Russian, they were suspicious. Karl produced gold coins, which, like a magic wand, dispelled their suspicions. They let us pass and even wished us Godspeed. Nothing like gold to open doors for you.
By sunrise, we were just east and south of the village of Nigoiti. A cluster of houses and shops around the train station. All along the road we saw houses. Most in ruins. We stopped to rest for a few minutes, then fanned out to see if there was anything to eat or drink lying in the ruins, waiting to be scavenged.
An hour passed and very little was found. Rats, though, we found aplenty. What we did find was parceled out to everyone. Like an oyster cracker to someone who hasn’t eaten in a week. Branson tried the radio to see if he could hail the Argo, but we had no luck with that either.
We were back on the road by eight. The light rain which had fallen since our leaving Sajavakho, had now stopped. The sky remained dull grey and overcast. On the western side of Nigoiti, we left the road and walked north to the railroad tracks. Branson argued the railroad was straighter than the highway, which threaded its way along the edge of the foothills, and by following it would give us a shorter route. Branson also argued we’d be less likely to run into Italian military traffic on the rail line than on the road. And everyone liked the thought of that.
The railroad was one in name only. In reality, as far as we could see in either direction, the line was a mess of craters and twisted steel. We followed the track west, continuing our trek to the Black Sea.
We hadn’t gone far when an Italian patrol opened fire on us. We hit the ground. I opened the satchel and hauled out the fleece while we fired back. With the fleece wrapped around me, I stood. I held out my arms and yelled, “No!” Golden light shot out of my hands and the Italians were bathed in the light. They lay down their weapons and went to sleep.
One soldier was apparently separate from the group. All at the same time I saw the bullet coming, heard the sound of the rifle firing, and saw a hand come out of the west, from the direction of the sea, and grab the bullet. I couldn’t believe what I saw. Then a voice sounded inside my head. It said, “You are mine and nothing will harm you.” I lowered my arms and sank to the ground.
Everyone gathered around. Karl was yelling, “Stand back. Give her breathing room.” The fleece was pulsing, as though it had a life of its own. Then the voice said, “You are safe, my precious one, you may continue on your journey.” And for one moment the clouds cleared and a beam of sunlight shone down on us. Then it was gone. I removed the fleece, put it back in the satchel, and we continued on our way. Everyone looked at me in awe, for I was gleaming. I was shining with golden light. I then led the way to the west, walking along the bombed out rail line.
In Lanchkhuti, a city of under ten thousand, we encountered a significant number of Italian soldiers. Even though Private Milano speaks Italian, we kept up the ruse of being Russian speaking refugees trying to leave Georgia for America. Dunyasha was our spokeswoman. We also didn’t want to run the risk of Milano being shot as an awol Italian soldier or revealing he was an American. We were stopped only once. The Italian captain wanting to know where we were from, where were our papers, where did we get weapons, what town were we last in, were we ever in Kutaisi, and on and on.
The situation was deteriorating. Milano, who was close enough, to catch any Italian that might be spoken, whispered to me the Captain had said to his lieutenant we were a bunch of liars. I suppose there was a large measure of truth in the Captain’s statement. I don’t think, though, you will find fault with us, given the situation.
Since I had the fleece, I slowly edged away from Dunyasha and the Captain. I opened the satchel and none too soon. The Captain threw up his hands and yelled something in Ital
ian. Soldiers started to roughly grab members of our group. I pulled the fleece out of the bag, wrapped it around my shoulders and commanded the soldiers to stop. I don’t know Italian and I’m quite convinced they didn’t know English. It was as though the fleece translated what I said. They stopped and stared in awe at the gleaming golden ram’s skin.
“Alright, people, let’s go,” I said to my ragtag fellow adventurers.
The Captain drew his service pistol. I pointed my finger at it. A gold beam of light shot out of my finger and touched the weapon. The Captain dropped it immediately and held his hand as if it had been scorched. I showed him my palm, said, “Peace”, and he became still.
We followed the railroad out of town. I spread my arms out wide and a golden bubble surrounded us. Once we were well away from Lanchkhuti, I dropped my arms. The bubble vanished. I took off the ram’s skin and dropped to the ground. I was thoroughly drained and exhausted from using the fleece. Branson unrolled the makeshift stretcher, I lay down on it, and fell asleep.
When I woke, the time was the middle of the afternoon. We were near the Jumati rail station.
Karl was watching me.
“What is it, my darling?” I asked him.
“I’m worried about you putting that thing on,” he said.
“It’s strange. I feel full of life when I’m wearing the fleece. The moment I take it off, I feel incredibly drained. Empty, really. I want nothing more than to put it back on and never take it off.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of, Dru. It’s as though the fleece is a drug.”
“I don’t wear it all the time, Karl.”
“I know. However, you might start. Do you think about it?”
“Some. Mostly dream. I saw Poseidon, or someone who looks like those classical images, and he spoke to me. He called me his long lost Theophane, reborn.”