Perhaps this war itself will see me clear to understanding.
Three days on, I attend Jiplee’s funeral under gentle lights within the adobe structure of the First Faith Church.
Inside cooler air brings relief from the baking sand outside. Floors and pews are of faux wood, which appear all too real. Overhead large fans stir air confined by walls almost free of windows. Only two stain-glass windows high up on each of the steepled front and rear walls allow sunlight in. Their stained-glass filtered light mixes rainbows which shine across the exposed rafters creating a melting pot of color.
On a table in front of the dais stands a blue urn half covered by a simple black cloth. A Priest, dressed in a long flowing red frock, waits with arms crossed and face pointed to the sky as though seeking divine inspiration.
Madsen shuffles in next to me grunting-n-wheezing as per usual. I ask him if he found what had led to her death.
“She was foolish, ill-prepared, unaware an’ made a mistake an’ all,” he says in a hushed, breathless voice.
“No, Madsen!” I whisper upon recovery. “We must be honorable one to another. Is this Neatness?”
“You tease my patience, Once-Other. Ask no more of her incompetence! Attend to duty if you are able.”
I stare at the floor my teeth grinding and glancing across note his indifference to my shattered demeanor. I’m quite confident all those present can hear my teeth grind together as I hold anger at bay. I remain staring unfocused a long time thinking on Madsen and his ongoing insults and barbs.
About to send a hard-worded query, I instead remain silent as the Priest concludes. The church doors swing wide flooding the walls and pews with sunlight. They come alive and glow as though washed and cleansed by a new measure of life.
I step outside in the wake of Jiplee’s family. Her husband places the urn atop a Farewell Stone. Her children move to either side of him. We gather in a farewell circle around them.
Their memories unfurl and flow over us revealing Jiplee alive, vibrant, intelligent and attractive though more handsome and motherly than stunning. Reggie’s shoulders straighten, their memories retract and he communicates.
“Understand these ideas my family, my friends, my enemy.
“We seek no revenge against those who attacked us yet failed to declare war on us. Nor do we seek conquest. We seek but a fair measure of freedom and our full measure of Rights. We desire to live in peace as do most fair people.
“Now please! Let there be no heavy-handed intrusion from our own government let alone from a foreign Earth-Born one.”
“Is this too much to ask?” we mourners chorus.
And Reggie says, “Today you’ve taken from me something that can never be replaced. You’ve stolen a mother’s life from her children and theirs from her.
“But even now Jiplee harbors no hatred for you despite that I do!
“We believe she lives, but we know not where. To my hate, she will lend a loving hand. Which hand will ease my pain and eventually replace it with that which we seek—our Freedom! Our Rights!”
“Amen,” we mourners conclude.
The Priest hands him a Fragger.
He fires at the urn. It bubbles, becomes vapor and ten finger wide sheets of rainbows fire in all directions. A flash of bright white light and contents and urn vanish.
Reggie drops the Fragger from lifeless fingers, nods, takes his daughter and son’s hands, bows to us and turning, sets off into the desert to say a final and private farewell.
But he pauses, looks back to us and says, “I thank you Once-Other. We three appreciate the time you took. The children could not have received such news from someone better qualified. Thank you.”
I nod in return, sadly pleased
Madsen strides to his SandRider, mounts and heads off. I wave, but he holds his attention dead ahead. Can I trust him? No. He is a friend who appears long-gone with no cause other than to become my senior and who lost himself in the process.
Do those higher up trust me?
Wait and see I advise self.
And it suddenly strikes me...from the instant Madsen insulted Jiplee to the conclusion of the farewell sermon I’d not received a single word spoken by the Priest.
I shade my eyes and glare at Madsen’s dust-trail.
Damn!
Just then, the Priest’s closing words return as though he were once again communicating them. “Our religion, the Church of the First Faith, honors all religions everywhere. For quite naturally, all those who have a religion...for each theirs is the first religion, the first faith.
“Amen.”
And I sigh a measure of peace and so does Mother Wind.
CHAPTER 5
Of Differences
Waves lap upon a virgin EB beach. Sand slithers backward, dark eels embroiled in thick sea foam. The ocean retreats and sand settles as it has always done.
Sentinels guard the beach standing tall and strong. Their endurance as great an affront to Mother Time as sand is. At night, they cast a dark patchwork against a star filled sky. By day, their many arms sway in the wind and their leaves dance, waving at the sun.
A carpet of decaying leaves several inches thick lives at their feet. From it, life seeps into the fertile soil, up roots, to trunks, to branches, to living leaves, and shares its wealth, its treasures, each time it rains.
The Sentinels stood tall and unyielding for eons assuming they were bound for eternity but were unprepared for a changing future. Strangers arrived, carrying cutting stones and fire. And later, came fine steel to replace sharpened stone.
The Sentinels fell to their cries of, “Timber!”
Each toppled in a slow arc shaking the land and parting the sea with thunderous crashes. And there to lie, their towering demeanor forever humbled. They huddled together stripped of branches and leaves, naked to the sun and tropical rain.
From this their Caribbean home, they traveled to distant lands to become planks, furniture, and homes. In these times, they have set sail for galaxies too far to imagine.
***
I raise an elbow staring at real wood.
The bar’s counter and back cabinet are the only actual wood artifacts on all of Here-Born. Some look with envy at what they fancy is carved mahogany. Most others wave such wistfulness aside claiming it is no more than the stain of varnish upon a lesser wood.
The shelves are stocked with bottled invitations in strengths ranging from pink to green up to the various shades of golden brown. They grow darker stopping up at the darkest brown of all—Ferryman’s Blast. Rumor says a single shot of which will plunge one into blissful unconsciousness...well more-or-less.
Fancy crystal stands proud amongst these invitations. A leaping dolphin with tail well clear of the water intrigues me most. Are the oceans they travel as vast as pictured?
I am alone at the bar of the Drinks-n-all sipping beer, minding my own inner store, and counting glasses with frothy residue versus those with hard liquor. Spotted like circular holes in a mirror, empty seats and tables speak of the late hour and of my internal struggle.
I’m afraid of shadows these days and wound up even tighter with the balancing act I’m performing. I have to maintain a normal appearance as a one-on-one tourist guide and pre-owned vendor, alongside my campaign duties.
My freedom and life depend on it.
The only way of doing this is to make daily life appear as normal as possible. But I struggle terribly with subterfuge. Then as well, I can feel her, touch her—Jiplee, as though we have melded. Her death now stalks me as if my own.
I’ve since questioned my own religion, which makes no mention of the spirit alive beyond physical death. At the same time, it refuses any official denial thereof. We of Here-Born are evenly split on whether this is fact or fiction.
Despite such competing philosophies, we do agree our Constitution embraces the idea that life follows death into an infinity of tomorrows. Therefore, it stretches all Rights into the individual’s future beyond p
hysical death and so too includes pre-birth.
In words colder than a true Arctic many believers point ahead and backward saying, “Make repugnant laws, rules or regulations today and live under them tomorrow as a helpless child lacking any memory of a past. Yes, the jokes on you lawmakers!”
Now if life and death were that way—but with memory intact? Would those grim and overbearing control addicts pass the laws they did back on Earth-Born—if there is no escaping their own creations?
I sigh and Jiplee’s haunting words whisper from out our youth. “Having no recollection of life before birth sure don’t prove you didn’t live before birth. Can you recall what you did when three years old? No. But you were alive before then.”
I shake her image off and run an eye over the semi-dark interior.
Synthetic tables and chairs cast as wood surround the dance floor. Wall panels are of the same. Floors are concrete covered with vinyl disguised as wood—not high class but blessed with endurance. There is a deep yearning on Here-Born for things natural.
Another security twinge but a scan of all patrons reveals no apparent threats. Dancers on the dance floor pound their heels as though digging for gold. Some wave to me. I nod but remain alert. Couples dotted by singles soloing prance-n-jig beneath the moist-n-cool breeze blowing off the cooling system.
Wild strobe lights make aliens of locals and locals of aliens. Bright colored evening-wear smiles in cheerful contrast to the brooding sand beyond these confines. I examine the dancers for danger once again and grin. Most patrons breathe air straight while all dance on two legs waving two arms. Nevertheless, three have on masks with converters changing air into the poison they breathe. The masks remind me of Jiplee and Halloweens long gone.
A shudder cascades through me just as the music ends. EB voices hit hard and loud and I regret coming here even more. I sip at my beer.
Why I drink, I’m not sure for headaches always follow. Perfume drifts by carrying a sweetness too thick for my liking. Louder music starts and more couples move onto an already densely populated floor. Elbowroom shrinks to almost zero and the sea of dancers move as one.
I think to leave and so end the pretense of normalcy for another day. I desperately need to set distance between self, drink and thought. I also have no wish to bury myself in fear nor grief nor bottle. It is time to leave.
I set off but unfortunately at the same time an EB tourist sidles on over. In his haste, he slops his beer. I would retreat but alas, he waves and so Neatness demands a minimum degree of manners.
Up close he and I are quite similar—neither too tall nor too short. He is not as broad in chest as I but sports a thick black mustache of horizontal hair begging a trim. A pale blue full-body fan-n-fit, air-conditioned suit clings to his compact frame.
Fan-n-fits provide cooling for any not born to desert temperatures. They range from casual to formal, cheap to expensive, and are worn by tourists alone. The picture of a virgin beach is printed across this one’s upper body. A forest tops the beach while the beach edge cuts along a blue ocean that is wrapped around his waist.
Its beauty contradicts the scowling face he offers me in greeting. “Evening,” he shouts over the deafening music. “Smooth music. Could be louder, eh? What’s up?”
“I’m admiring the paneling and all,” I reply.
“Cheap junk. But I get it. You’re too boring to talk to. I don’t care. Tell me. You know?”
“Our Ultimate Weapon of Mass Destruction?” I ask.
“Yeah. Right! Explain.”
“Really?” I say and access his mind. What returns is muddled, incomprehensible, virtual beer fumes.
“Ah-ha, really-really,” he says, leans closer, peers at the scars around my neck and grunts. “Seen them on others. Never mind. What’s this so-called UWMD?”
He throws more beer down his throat, burps and I figure him for a drunk.
I stare at the ceiling as though thinking on his question. Ever since our politicians betrayed us, campaigners fear any mind barred to them. I personally gnaw at each one afraid they harbor secrets, hidden agendas or even actual betrayals.
Jiplee’s death has compounded our anxieties and further darkened our world with grim suspicion.
He leans closer and his alcohol stained breath—is breathtaking. He examines me and raises a disapproving eyebrow at my green outfit boots-n-all. He’s about to say more, but I cut him short.
“Well, okay then. You see, our Ultimate Weapon of Mass Destruction has never been used, so most of us don’t know much at all. And you guys? You figure it’s nothing more than rumor.”
He nods as does a drunken sage upon hearing stale metaphors, and says, “Yeah. Right. Heard that one before. Rumor says it all pal.”
“Thank you,” I say coldly.
“What’s your problem?” he demands.
“Your underhandedness, your Earth-Born politics, your oppressive taxes, your laws, and your damn ignorant educational system,” I snap back at him.
He staggers backward in pretended horror. Sways for an instant, holds steady, pinches his nose closed and bursts out laughing.
I raise an eyebrow.
He sobers, waves and calls out, “Hey ‘tender—same again,” and points to the two of us as though he’s Chief of the Generosity Clan. “Tell me more pal and watch what you’re saying. Y’all got the Right to Happiness as we do, but talking that way could get you arrested.”
“You’re too drunk for this,” I say and wave the subject aside.
“Naught. No. Stone cold sober. Come on. Go!”
I lean closer and peer into his eyes proper. They are clear and focused. Strange for someone who sways drunk as can be? Warning bells alarm but ignoring them I charge onwards a little too eager to spread the word of Here-Born Rights despite my contrary attitude.
“Well then, to begin with. You forced EB’s laws on us in an underhanded and devious—”
“Hey, pal. Get a grip—it was in your face.”
“Before that you left us alone. Beware! Our UWMD exists.”
“Sure it does,” he says.
I nod saying, “I know. You won’t hear let alone listen until it’s too damn late.”
I throw the last of my beer back, hand him a printed copy of our final Warning Notice and head for the exit. He slams his empty mug down and reaches for me. I evade his groping fingers and merge into the crowd.
“I’m Gordon Odentien,” he calls out. “Look me up sometime if you’re interested. Hey! I didn’t get your name.”
“That’s right!” I call back. “You didn’t and I’m not.”
He waves and starts reading the notice aloud.
“Dear Citizens of Earth-Born,
“It’s Earth! Anyway….
“As in 4008, you’ve once again attacked our Freedom, our Declaration of Independence, our Constitution and our Bill of Rights, both covertly and overtly.
“This you’ve done by corrupting our politicians and enticing them to commit Treason.
“We the People of Here-Born have since voted for and initiated self-defense.
“The weapon we choose is our Campaign, our Hope. Ideas alone are its ammunition.
“Please understand an Ultimate Weapon of Mass Destruction waits in the wings.
“We will never surrender.
“We will never go quietly.
“The Committee for Freedom and Personal Rights, Here-Born.”
He searches for me, waves frantically and shouts, “I’ve read this before, it’s hogwash!”
And I cut out all sound and the club is quiet save for the noise of flashing lights.
Doors swing closed and from overhead, the night sky welcomes my presence upon Here-Born’s moonlit sand.
CHAPTER 6
Of A Prior Arrest And Conviction
Upturned eyes examine our night skies in the hope of finding distant planets upon which most Here-Borns will never tread. Closer above the desertscape circle the Half-Day-Moon, the sun, and the Star-of-Hope.
Together they imbue vast lakes and oceans of quicksand with low and high tides.
Over the heights of the far north mountains, sand-falls thunder where once waterfalls sprayed mist and cooled the air. Rivers of sand more turbulent and treacherous than water driven rapids snake into lakes, seas, and oceans...of sand.
Day burns faces and hands often beyond repair. Night threatens more so eyes and bones, the ravages of cold being harsher than that of heat. Daytime seems endless but nights measure longer lying awake listening for the hunters—it is too easy to become prey. A rapid heartbeat, a stagger to one’s stride, a failure to perceive what is or a step into quicksand or blinded by driven sand are all preludes to a sudden death.
But neither days nor nights are as long as they could be.
This planet Here-Born upon its creation was rendered three times larger than Earth-Born but rotates about her axis many times faster. With her speed, she clocks sunrise-to-sunrise, a mere four hours longer than EB’s twenty-four and so makes her gravity violent by comparison.
Newly arrived EB tourists stare at our night skies coddled in hotel rooms with air-cooled and carpets plush to cushion footfalls. Relaxed, comfortable, they will practice walking as toddlers do the first time out. Much as with jet lag most take a day or two or several to acclimatize.
Outside and on their own feet those endowed with courage greater than the norm whisper of how different our world looks and feels compared to theirs. More entertaining some will sometimes hint.
“How different the colors of the sand are,” they will muse. “The sand is different at sunset to sunrise,” and so on and often more so than a local can easily tolerate.
We, the natural born of Here-Born, are comfortable with both heat and cold. Nights belong to us, as does the heat of day. Cloaked in darkness, we race SandRiders across sand braving dangers and even death—should one’s chariot fail.
The bolder ride until day erases night and fuel tanks run dry. Mind-to-mind has its advantages if one does not stray too far and holds course to within hailing distance, for aid is a simple hello away.
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