ALEC: An Action & Adventure Fantasy Novel (Alexander Trilogy)

by Stan I. S. Law

  It had to be something else.

  This was the Next Step. He knew it instinctively. The answer lay right here before him, if he could only see it. For a moment he felt like trying to move himself forward in time. Surely, by then he would have found the answers to these questions. On the other hand, if he knew the answers, then he wouldn’t be here looking for them. No. It all had to do with the Next Step. And only Sandra knew about that. And Sandra was nowhere to be seen.

  ***

  The next step for Alicia was to take the boat solo. It was still chilly but warm enough for a quick sail. Alex Senior thought it was like with flying. Sooner or later you had to prove to yourself that you could do it. No matter what. Alex knew that if he suggested to his wife a solo sail she’d never do it. He had to devise a way to make her take the helm into her own hands, so to speak.

  But it was not to be.

  He had it all figured out how he’d pretend to twist his ankle and thus have to stay below, while Alicia would be forced to cope as best she could on her own. He was ready to suggest the trip to Lake St-Louis where he could easily rent a boat for a few hours, when he’d learned that he had to take another commission, this time in Saskatchewan, in central Canada. Apparently, they faced annual flooding. They wanted him to consult on permanent measures to alleviate the problem. He left early in the morning, for what looked like two or three days. It turned out to be almost a whole week.

  Alicia didn’t seem to mind. She and her group of artists had hired another model to pose for them. She was wondering what it would be like to strip naked in front of other people. She went upstairs and stood in front of a mirror. For a while she contemplated the dilemma and then, slowly, not taking her eyes from the mirror, she began to take of her clothes.

  She got as far as her slip when music reached her from Alec’s room. It was the latest bestseller tune that only the youngest generations could dance to. Their dancing consisted of twists and hops and jerks such as no sane person could possibly call dancing. She thought they called it break dance. She was sure that sooner or later she’d break a dozen bones if she’d ever tried it.

  Yet the music, if one could call it music, persisted with hypnotic consistency of jungle drums.

  The image she regarded in the mirror seemed to have a life of its own. As she took off her slip, standing there in bra and panties only, she unwittingly began moving her hips to the powerful and unrelenting sound of the percussion. She continued to regard herself in the full-length mirror. She completely forgot about the model in her painting club, and began to wonder, instead, what would a stripper feel like if fifty of more pairs of men’s eyes regarded her over their glasses of beer.

  For some reason, her hips began to swing even more, then the rest of her body…

  She stopped abruptly.

  “What on earth are you doing, Alicia,” she asked her own image. What she saw in the mirror was a broad grin, flushed cheeks and a figure that her husband called, “to die for”.

  Regretfully, she picked her slip and bra from the floor, and put them on again. She preferred not to look in the mirror again. There was a person there that she hardly knew.

  And yet…

  Slowly, almost reluctantly, she got dressed. I’m a mother or a teenage boy, she told herself. I must act my age.

  And yet…

  She shook her head. Thinking of her son she smiled. Last week he’d asked her if her father would still marry her if he knew how to cook.

  “What on earth makes you ask such a question?” she was amazed.

  “Well,” Alec confessed, “Dad is completely useless in the kitchen. If he could cook he could be gay and cook his own meals.”

  “But your father is gay. He’s always full of humor, darling. Why would you ask such a thing?”

  “Gay, Mother, gay as in homisexy.”

  He called her ‘mother’ more often lately. She wondered what had happened to ‘mom’.

  “You don’t mean homosexual, do you?”

  “That’s the word! Don’t men marry women because they can’t cook?”

  She was determined to force her husband to have a birds and bees talk with Alec. She was told that they took care of things like that in school, these days. Evidently, there were gaps in Alec Junior’s enlightenment.

  “No, darling, they don’t marry because they can’t cook. There are other reasons.”

  Suddenly Alec’s face turned bright red. She thought that he’d just put two and two together. All by himself.

  Bright red. A little like her face was, just minutes ago.

  Alex Sr. called later that same day. He sounded tired.

  “You won’t believe it, darling. For the last twenty-something years at the very beginning of spring, they wait till the water starts rising. Then, in a great hurry, they start piling-up bags of sand around their houses. The bags are never enough. Water seems an inch or two higher each year. Next year they add an inch or two. The water goes over again. Each time they claim compensation from the Provincial Government, as insurance companies have long refused to cover them. What do you think of that, darling?

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “The water has since receded, and they want me to stop the water going over the bags next year, would you believe it?”

  Alicia didn’t know what to say.

  “Alicia, are you there?”

  She cleared her throat.

  “Darling, did you ever dance a thing called break dancing?”

  This time there was silence at the other end.

  “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he said after a little while.

  “Good night, darling…” she replied, her voice just a little bit dreamy.

  Somehow she forgot to ask Alex if he could cook. It didn’t seem that important. Frankly, she didn’t care. She didn’t care at all.

  17

  Lake Champlain

  Alec’s father had bought a boat. No, it wasn’t a forty-two-foot Katrina, or whatever the rich Texan’s boat was called; but it was a twenty-seven-foot O’Day, and it was definitely a proper yacht. She had a four-foot keel, a smooth bottom, a large rudder, and a cabin in which five people could sleep. Two-and-a-half cabins, to be exact. A vee-berth at the bow that dad called the fo’c’sle, which he explained was English for forecastle. But dad was born in England, and every English name was almost holy.

  Dad said the yacht was small, but to Alec it was by far the largest boat he had ever sailed. And he did sail quite a lot. Practically every holiday since he was five or six. First with his parents, then the school had organized some sailing holidays. Dad had always had a weakness for water, and Alec strongly suspected that the O’Day was at least a partial fulfillment of his dream. So to Alec the boat wasn’t small at all. The mainsail, or the main’sl, as dad preferred to pronounce it, alone was as tall as his house. And the jib, the genoa, was wrapped around the forestay. It was called a furler, because you could just pull a string (a sheet, dad corrected), and it furled itself around that tube up in front. I mean at the bow.

  In spite of Alec’s fair sailing experience, there were many words on board he had never heard before.

  Dad bought the boat because, he said, they needed a country cottage. And since he couldn’t afford a cottage on a lake he really liked, he thought a boat was a good alternative. Their very first sail was going to be all the way to Valcour Island, the site of one of the biggest naval battles of the Revolutionary War. Alec read up all about it before they left.

  The trouble started, he learned, in the spring of 1775 when Ethan Allen and Benedict Arnold led their colonial boys across Lake Champlain from Vermont and captured Fort Ticonderoga, held by the British Garrison. There was no way the Brits could ignore such a slight. Things went from bad to worse, until in October of 1776 Benedict Arnold’s fleet, led by his flagship Congress, and accompanied by galleys, cutter-galley, topsail schooners, a sloop and gondolas, was overtaken by the British Fleet, resulting in the Battle of Valcour. The British fleet was le
d by the Ship-sloop Inflexible, supported by radeau (some sort of raft), topsail schooners, a gondola and some twenty smaller vessels. No mean confrontation. Arnold’s fleet waited for the Brits to arrive from the North. On October 11th, the Royalists, riding a north wind, spotted the colonial fleet anchored in the lee of Valcour Island. The battle started in late morning. The Brits turned north and had to beat to windward to get within cannon range. After a few days the British eventually won, but that didn’t really matter to Alec. He was ready the first morning on the deck of his flagship, the Congress, to fight the British fleet again.

  At sunrise, he fired all cannons across the enemy’s broadsides. The battle continued until the smell of fresh morning coffee dispelled the morning mists. The other yachts at anchor in Spoon Bay retreated into their original shapes; the brisk wind subsided, the six-foot waves that had been hammering Alec’s flagship resolved into a glistening mirror. The battle was over, but not before Alec had sunk at least three topsail schooners. Luckily the northern wind turned 1800 to blow from the south, and Valcour Island offered a beautiful protection for a quiet breakfast.

  There was no end of fun.

  Alec regretted that there were only three weeks left of his summer vacation. After that they could still sail, but only on weekends; and on weekends there were many more people. It’s not that Alec didn’t like people, but they did nothing to contribute to his fantasies. And the yacht offered a needed rest from the abysmal experiences of his Home planet. Anyway, Sandra didn’t push him. They were meeting about once a week, but only in his night-dreams. She was always the same, the same age as he, as beautiful as ever. And she did repeat that his first duty was just “to live.” Now, on the boat, he could “just live” with a vengeance!

  Sailing as such was only part of it. He had to learn the skills of rigging a larger vessel, of tacking and yawing with sails twice the area he’d ever handled before, as well as the skills of navigation. And all that only after he had learned to wash down the whole deck with a plastic bucket and scrub it with a long-handed brush. On completion, dad would make an inspection and declare the yacht shipshape. Or Bristol, as he called it. Alec thought the boat hadn’t changed shape or colour regardless of the scrubbing, but dad had it his way. Dad carried more nautical words in his head than Webster’s Dictionary, and then some...

  But the rest was short-lived. His parents had gone ashore in their inflatable dinghy, for supper. Alec’s stomach was a bit upset, probably the aftermath of his first real sail, so he chose to stay on board and look after the yacht. Just as well. To go ashore, his parents had to motor around the North end of the island and cross over to the Snug Harbor Marina at Olde Valcour. That’s right Olde with an ‘e’. It was a good fifteen-minute spin at six knots, each way. The moment his parents left the boat, he began to feel queasier. He assumed it was his stomach. He sat down on the berth but not in time to stop himself from falling. He tried to brace himself against the landing, but he kept falling and falling and falling.

  “Not again,” he whispered, while he still had lips to whisper with. And then there was only darkness.

  ***

  “For a moment there, I thought we wouldn’t make it,” Alicia said, hoping that pallor of her skin wouldn’t show through her suntan.

  It was her fourth outing, and she was still scared out of her wits each time a gust of wind would clear one of the islands, and the O’Day would lean more than ten degrees off the perpendicular. After the stability of the Catalina, which sported almost fourteen-foot beam, to her the O’Day felt like a canoe abandoned in the middle of an ocean.

  Alex Senior was learning to ignore her little qualms. Most sailors feel queasy before they learn that when the boat heels, she spills wind from her sails, and thus rights herself automatically.

  At least the O’Day did—a lovely little boat. A yacht, he kept reminding himself. At long last I own my own yacht. It didn’t quite match Commodore Thémens’s boat, but it was his own. He was the skipper.

  Actually, officially Alicia, the President of the Aspiring Caribbean Cruisers’ Club, was the Captain, but only when she wasn’t hiding below deck.

  Yes, she had delivered a lecture. She’d filled it with lots of humor and got away with it. And she threw in sufficient number of naval technical terms to make herself sufficiently incomprehensible to most attendees as to be convincing. The ladies were impressed.

  Actually, Alicia’s real or imagined pallor was not due to abject fear for her life. Today was the first time that she took the boat out from the marina, sailed her all the way to Valcour Island, took her around the island, and dropped anchor on the lee side of Spoon Bay, with good protection from the prevailing winds from west by northwest. And she accomplished all this almost singlehanded with appropriate amount of huffing and puffing and wiping the sweat of her forehead.

  Hence the celebration.

  Normally they ate on board. But Alex, Alex Senior that is, thought that she well deserved to stay out of the galley, and be treated like a skipper should. With a dinner and a bottle of Champagne.

  Their little dingy took them ashore to the best restaurant in a marina south of Plattsburg. Alec phoned ahead to time to get a table overlooking Valcour Island. Once seated, Alex didn’t wait long.

  “Champagne,” he said, gazing sidewise at Alicia.

  Her eyes perked up.

  They were seated with a beautiful view of the Valcour Island, with sunrays just touching the very tops of the trees.

  “Dom Pérignon, 2000, Brut,” Alex spelled out, as if he was having it daily for breakfast with orange juice.

  Actually he hated Mimosa, and didn’t think much of Champagne. As for Mimosa, he thought it was a waste of good fruit juice. He’d rather have a good red wine, later on in the day, but this was Alicia’s day, and he’s been married long enough to know what women liked, and Alicia was very much a woman.

  Around ten, with moon just clearing the trees, Alex asked for the check. He paid with a credit card. They were still sipping coffee. He was in a splendid mood. In spite of Alicia’s apparent demands, he was taking a big risk buying a boat, before he was sure that his wife would really take to it. Now he was sure. He could see with satisfaction that when she gave commands to drop anchor she kept her eye on the depth-finder. And only seconds after she told her son to drop sails. For some reason she’d done it all without firing the engine. It was as good a mooring as he’d ever seen.

  “Isn’t it time we got back to Alicia?” he asked, now regarding his wife with additional admiration.

  “I’m right here darling, and it was a wonderful dinner,” she replied.

  “And now back to Alicia?” he repeated.

  She gave his a slightly puzzled look.

  “Darling, don’t you remember? You share your name with our boat, Alicia. Do you mind?”

  Two tears of joy forced themselves into her eyes. She did her best to blink them away. There were just too many emotional events taking place today. Her ‘solo’ sail, then the docking, then the unexpected dinner, then the Dom Pérignon… It was all too much. It was all just too much!

  “No, darling, I don’t mind at all,” she replied, “and I didn’t forget.”

  And she couldn’t hold the joy out of her voice. She also got up, walked around the table, and planted a great big kiss right there, in public, on Alex’s lips.

  And then they left without a word.

  ***

  For a long time Alec remained motionless, waiting for something to happen. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he prodded the space around him. There was nothing. No life, no volcanoes, no rocks. Nothing. He reached farther out. If this was the Far Country, then he’d traveled in the wrong direction. In the Far Country there were countless stars. Here, there was only a yawning void.

  Even the darkness wasn’t intense. Not like the black velvet of the Far Country. It was not the presence of black; it was the absence of any colour.

  The loneliness became palpable. It was pressing on
him from all sides. It was stark and empty and without thoughts or feelings or... without any signs of life. He screamed and no sound emerged from his innards. He had no innards. He didn’t really exist, either. He was as much a part of the darkness as the darkness itself. No amount of probing revealed anything. No sound, no matter, no energy. Nothing. Whatever existed, existed only in his mind. And his mind swept about and found nothing. All there was… was darkness. And emptiness. Emptiness except for himself. He was everywhere yet nowhere. Because there was no everywhere.

  Soon things started to emerge in his mind. Thoughts, ideas, places. He remained in the non-space for what seemed like eons, and he began to fill the endless void with innumerable possibilities. Countless, wondrous possibilities. With ideas that heretofore had their being only within himself. Things from within his deeper mind.

  It now was a void that was no longer void. Countless invisible sparks traversed immeasurable substance of time. Ideas? Concepts? The sparks multiplied, exploded into stars, invisible stars, seen only in his mind’s eye. They, too, were swept aside by oceans of his swirling thoughts. The next instant they also disappeared, only to be reborn, expand, and once again dissipate throughout the original void. A void that was now no longer gray but vibrant with innumerable colours.

  “Light is knowledge,” he heard deep within himself.

  Wherever he now looked, the void was filled with his presence. His thoughts were not manifested as yet, but they had the potential to become anything, almost everything. They had no form, no substance. They were pure ideas. Unpolluted by compromise. They were perfect. Perfect in every way.

  And he dreamed for a few more eons. Yet he still felt lonely. Perhaps more so than ever before.

  Before there had been just emptiness. Now it was filled with infinite potential. It could be converted into vibrant forms, into concrete ideas, into self-reproducing ideas. How could he do it?