Sandra hesitated. “I think you’re capable of great things.”
Mevia shook her foot, flinging the crab into the sand and watched it dig itself in, gone in a heartbeat. Two spots of blood poured from the tiny pinches. She clenched her toes making it gush thickly. Then she met Sandra’s eye. “I am,” she said evenly. “I am fully capable of taking them down.”
Then Mevia walked off the beach and pushed her way into the jungle.
Chapter 52
Eli
Eli and Kilt sat across from one another upon folded bath towels, cushioning their rear ends against the cold tile floor.
The apartment was quiet except for the periodic bubbling of the hookah water. They each took a hit from the snake-shaped pipe, passing it back and forth in synchronized beats like two tired heart chambers.
On his way home from work Eli had stopped at a popular restaurant called SweeD and picked up a large take-out meal. He had often passed by, jealously watching the exhilarated patrons, drinking, laughing and gorging on overflowing plates.
It had become a ritual now for him to bring home something from a different restaurant every night. He liked to watch Kilt eat the gorgeous food and hear his reaction.
“Bland. Like eating liquid cardboard.” Or “The over-salting almost covers up the chemical taste. Almost.” Or, Eli’s favorite. “Trash. You’re not missing out.”
It had evolved into a game. He would go to the most popular, most expensive restaurants in CorMand and ask them to package up the chef’s best dish. And each time Kilt’s response was the same: “These Corp-guys just don’t know what they’re missing.”
Pretty soon Eli noticed that the radiance of these fine dining establishments had begun to lose their luster.
That afternoon he had also stopped at a small Middle Eastern shop called Pharaoh Pharaoh. He bypassed the ornate Egyptian rugs and picked up a hookah. He figured that since they were avoiding leaving the apartment, they had to do something besides critique tasteless food. Plus he felt guilty for leaving Kilt by himself those extra hours he was visiting with Dr. Hersche.
Although Hersche was reluctant during their first meeting to help Eli, the doctor now seemed to enjoy the examinations. “Your condition is most interesting, Eli,” he often commented. “Very dis-advantageous, but interesting.”
Eli had also figured out the man had an extreme case of Mysophobia, hence the reason he wouldn’t shake hands or touch anyone or anything not sterilized. At first Eli found it off-putting, now he just thought the old man was a card. He even played jokes on him by pretending to “accidentally” touch the petri dishes. Dr. Hersche would click his tongue and get to work washing the little discs. Then Eli would touch them again just before leaving. Elyse, Hersche’s assistant, eyed him reproachfully, but didn’t say a word. Meaning, she was on to him, but understood he wasn’t being cruel. Actually, Dr. Hersche seemed to enjoy the cleaning. The man was always looking for something to do. Perhaps he too was lonely.
Loneliness, yes that must explain Eli’s reasons for the hookah, he had told himself at Pharaoh Pharaoh. That, and he didn’t want Kilt to murder him in the middle of the night simply for entertainment. What a ridiculous thought. Eli chuckled.
Out of the twenty-something tobacco flavors, ranging from blueberry to popcorn, Eli chose strawberry. It reminded him of his old balcony garden. Strawberries were the fruits he missed most.
“Good choice,” Kilt commented blowing sweet smoke into the air.
Eli nodded, adding his own puff. “So, have you come up with any ideas for Project Pina Colada?” He was referring to their mission to reunite with James and Mevia. They chose the name Pina Colada after discovering the island was located in tropical waters.
“I have,” replied Kilt. “But it’s risky.”
“Risky? For who?”
“Well, you.”
Eli stared at him.
“Hey, whaddaya expect?” Kilt shrugged one shoulder. “I’m not the big shot here. You are.”
Eli rolled his eyes. “In other words, I have the most to lose. Alright. Lay it on me.”
Kilt blew a mouthful of smoke and leaned forward, his eyes reflecting the glowing coals. “As you know, the tracking device I gave them is not only a location tool, but it has a guidance system that will direct James and Mevia to us.”
“Right,” Eli adjusted one of the coals with a small pair of tongs. “By the way, how did someone like you come by such a powerful tracker?”
“Don’t ask,” Kilt said sharply, but he seemed pleased with himself. “All you need to know is that we can go get them. Well, not us personally, but we can send someone.”
“Ok, then can you at least tell me who we’re going to send?” Eli asked. “If,” he held up his hand, “I even agree to this plan of yours.”
Kilt looked him up and down and appeared to contemplate his question. “Ok, fine. I’ll tell you.” He lowered his voice, “I know the captain of the ship that takes the Demo winners to the island.”
“Seriously? H--?”
“And don’t ask me how.”
Kilt explained that he had lost track of the guy recently for reasons he could only assume had something to do with the captain’s drug problem, but, he tried again that day on Eli’s computer and had located him.
“He has a drug problem? Who is this guy?”
“His name is Captain Bora and he’s good. Trust me. Besides,” Kilt held up a chicken thigh from SweeD, “everyone has a drug problem!”
“True. Anyway, so you found him. What does that mean?”
“It means he’s back on his boat! Now we can communicate, send him the map, wire him the money—“
“What money?”
“The money you’re going to pay him.”
“Uh huh?”
“And then he’ll bring Mevia and James back to the mainland.”
Eli rested his lips against the pipe. “And after they get ashore?”
Kilt pointed. “Now, that’s up to you. Use that big brain of yours to figure out how to bring them to us.”
“So we’re not going to meet them?”
Kilt shook his head. “Too risky.”
“You really think so?”
“I know so.”
“You’re probably right,” Eli said noticing that Kilt was avoiding his eye.
“Let’s just get this plan ironed out.” Kilt set down his pipe.
They spent the next few hours discussing the details. Most of the conversation consisted of Eli asking him questions—some Kilt would answer, others he bypassed. Eli asked him, why, if he knew Captain Bora so well, did he go to the trouble of planting a tracking device with James and Mevia? After all, the captain could just tell him where they were.
“I asked, but he wouldn’t. It’s too dangerous.”
“Then why would he help us now?”
“Because now I can afford to give him lots and lots of money,” He looked pointedly at Eli. “Oh and did I mention he likes drugs?”
Eli thought it over. “Nice. Good plan.”
Kilt narrowed his eyes.
“No I mean it,” Eli said. “It really is a good plan.”
Kilt didn’t reply. In fact, he seemed suddenly uncomfortable.
Eli didn’t know what to say, so he stood up and paced with his hands linked over the back of his head, his elbows sticking out. “So, uh, can we contact him tonight?”
“Probably.” Kilt went to Eli’s computer.
“Hang on.” Eli left the room and then returned with a different computer.
Kilt laughed. “Oh so you gave me a ‘throw away,’ and kept the good one to yourself?”
“Five,” said Eli. “I have five good ones. All locked up in a safe.” He gave Kilt a look. “No offense.”
“None taken.”
Eli’s fingers pattered along the keyboard at a downpour.
“Wow,” Kilt whispered.
Eli worked for nearly half an hour every so often mumbling his progress. “Just need to ge
t into this database.” “Secure network.” “Encrypted files my ass.” Finally he hit his last keystroke with flourish. “There.” He turned the computer screen. “We are in a secure network. Now, show me how you communicate with old Captain Bora.”
Kilt took a seat and slowly placed his fingertips on the computer as if he were touching Eli’s wife. “Um.” He typed in the address he had for Bora and then glanced at Eli. “What do I say?”
“Well, how do you usually ask him for things?”
Kilt nodded, typed a dollar sign and turned back to Eli.
Eli sighed, “Really?”
Kilt shrugged.
Eli reached over and typed a number.
Kilt leaned closer to the screen and frowned.
“What’s the matter?” Eli challenged.
Kilt shook his head. “Not enough.”
Eli squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Fine.” He raised the offer.
Kilt studied the numbers as if they would change before his eyes. Finally he nodded and pressed [Send].
He stood up and stretched. “He’ll ask for more, so if you don’t have any more money, you should go find some.” Then he went back to the hookah.
Eli joined him. For the rest of the evening, the two of them sat in silence, smoking, waiting to hear from Captain Bora who now held four destinies in his two salty hands.
Chapter 53
Mevia
Over the beach, the black clouds grumbled like a pack of domineering watchdogs. Heavy with rain, they prowled the distant skies. Mevia looked on begrudgingly. They had only enjoyed a two hour break from the “big, wet rain” Cree had accurately predicted and no one was ready for another round.
She held down the angry, silver-skinned fish Thomas had named breadbringers for they were the “bread and butter” of their ocean meals. It flacked about, objecting to being struck handicap among the land beasts. Her forearm pinned its gills, careful not to get stabbed by the jutting prong sitting just below its head. Her right hand held a knife mid-air.
She came down on the breadbringer flesh just behind the gills and with two slices it separated. Thomas stood over her shoulder and nodded in approval.
While Cree and Lin were in the ocean wade-fishing, Thomas was guiding her through the gutting processes, instructing on the proper technique of cutting the meat from the skin and bones. She could do without the gutting but was pleased with the results when the pink, clean meat was free and she could add it to the bowl with the other fillets.
Thomas patted her back. “Good. I think you’ve got it now.” He gazed out at the fishermen for a moment before he reached over and picked up a stick poking out from the sand. “Now you just have to learn how to gut while sitting in a boat on the choppy sea.”
Mevia smiled and glanced at him, but he had his head down, drawing in the sand. All morning Thomas had been giving her lessons on fish: how to catch them, which were good for eating, and which to avoid. It was baffling how much work and expertise went into catching their meals. She feared she would forget most of his instructions.
“So.” Thomas drew a circle in the white sand. “Sandra told me about your plans for the mainland.”
She shifted uncomfortably, waiting for him to give her a lecture telling her not to go and that she was crazy. But, Thomas only continued his drawing. “You should keep up with your artwork. You’re a talented painter.” He smiled through his beggar’s beard.
Mevia blinked. “I’ll try,” she mumbled. She held down the fish and thought about the mural. Someone who did not appreciate her creation had taken a pot of water and brush to the wall. Except they did leave the tern.
The mural was good for what she had to work with, but it certainly wasn’t her best. Yet Thomas didn’t view it as a political stance—graffiti. To him it was art. She was a painter. It sounded so personal, internal. An artist was stationary. They had a studio. They had a home. An urban artist was always on the move. Their studio was in their back pocket or a duffel bag. What, Mevia pondered, could she create if she had a studio, where she could spend days, weeks, months on a piece instead of a few hours in the dark, constantly checking over her shoulder? How differently would her work develop knowing that it was going to be hung up on a wall for years to come instead of washed away come daylight? If she didn’t paint something in protest, then what would she paint? Landscapes? Schools of fish? Goats eating lichen off the rock? Not likely. Or maybe she would learn to express the hidden beauty in the world. Laughter, friendship, flirtation, love, all themes she had experienced and yet, despite her misfortunes, was confident they were still out there. All she would have to do was take the time and capture them. Maybe someday, when this was all over—whatever this was—she would sit down before an easel, brush in hand, and paint.
The wind picked up, Thomas stood as if it had spoken to him. “I’d better go help.” He tossed the stick into the bushes and nodded out to sea.
“Ok,” Mevia said. “I’ll take care of the rest of these.” Amused at how itchy he was to get out there.
Thomas joined the others out in the surf. Mevia watched as they bobbed up and down, adjusting the net. They never seemed to speak, and yet were in constant communication, experience being their dialect.
Out beyond the horizon, the cross, purple clouds huddled together as if rallying for a dog fight. The rumbling bark of thunder confirmed their course of action.
Thomas, Cree and Lin took brief notice, mentally calculated its threat, then silently and simultaneously made their decision to go back to work.
She could never picture that group of men in any other scenario. They were mermen of the sea and had staked their jurisdiction along the edges of ocean where man could still rule.
Looking back, it should not have come as a surprise that he and Sandra had decided to stay. Nearly a week had passed since that day on the mountain top when Sandra told Mevia she wasn’t leaving. Now Mevia was waiting for the day when Cree would announce he wasn’t joining the “boat people.” That was the state of affairs among the Tritons. In fact they were no longer Tritons. They were divided: the “boat people” and the “island people.” Two groups of opposing philosophies. Seceding in peace. The first ever truly civil civil-war. It once was said that the best way to unite a nation was through a common enemy. Why was it the opposite here? Because they weren’t fighting. They were running.
The thunder growled.
Mevia dropped another pink fillet into the clay bowl.
The wind picked up, blowing in cold air from somewhere on the sea far, far beyond the borders of her perspective. The storm would be there soon.
As her hair whipped fiercely around her face, she looked out to the water, checking if they were reeling in the net—her signal it was time to go back to the Clearing. But Thomas was standing in place, hands on hips, thigh deep in the lapping waves, looking out to the horizon. His form took on a dark grey tone from the shadow of the clouds and he looked like a statue, a permanent welcome for future visitors to the island.
Cold droplets speckled her arms causing the tiny peach fuzz hairs to rise. Thunder and lightning argued back in forth in rapid fire. Mevia wondered how the approaching Poachers would fair in the storm with only the jungle as their cover. She hoped they were struck by lightning and fried like frog’s legs.
The boys began to reel in the net. Mevia gathered her supplies and headed in.
***
Everyone sat around cavern fire, minus James who volunteered to stay on patrol duty. They were all wet, hair darkened, matted with rain. Kurt laughed and shook his head like a dog, throwing water from his hair and beard onto Telly who squealed with laughter. This bout of playfulness was contagious and seemed to set the mood for the tribe. Soon everyone was smiling and talking excitedly. No one was happy to see it raining again, but then for some reason, at that moment, it didn’t matter.
As they sat encircling the blazing fire, laughing, Mevia regarded each person, taking them in one by one and then as a group wholly. The air was t
hick and humid as the fire heated the huddled bodies. Mevia inhaled the pleasant scent of rain, smoke and the salty skin of her tribe.
But they would only be hers for a little longer and then she would have to say good-bye forever. Soon she would be on the road somewhere in the burnt land of her country, alone, but on a mission.
But alone. As you were meant to be.
As if by reading her mind, Sandra sat down and wrapped her arm around Mevia. Mevia leaned her head against the crook of her shoulder and allowed Sandra to stroke her soggy hair just the way her mother used to after bath time.
Alright. I’ll sit here like this with my ear pressed against your shoulder. I’ll stay. Just for now though.
Someone began singing. Everyone recognized the song except Mevia and Wil, who were the same age. It was an old tune from the mainland, before there was regulation on such things. Henny clapped the beat and they all joined. All except for Mevia and Sandra who swayed gently back and forth like a lullaby.
Through the singing and laughter Mevia listened to Sandra’s heartbeat vibrating through her bones and into Mevia’s ear.
Da-dumm. Da-dumm. Da-dumm.
Mevia soon felt her own heart join its rhythm like a pair of dancers, moving in time.
Da-dumm. Da-dumm. Da-dumm.
She watched the tribe sway back and forth, shoulder to shoulder singing, wondering if those who stayed would always be just like this: pretending there was no storm, no Poachers, no GovCorps or Eurasia. How long could they go on thinking they lived in an oyster on an island far away from the troubled world? Maybe forever? She desperately hoped so.
Just then a burst of thunder erupted, and everyone jumped in their seats. Mevia was startled but kept her head perched on Sandra. Only now, their heartbeats were off, dancing to two separate rhythms.
Telly tapped Mevia on the shoulder and asked if she could help in preparing some root teas. Sandra released her and Mevia left the warmth of her side.
Later that night, in the wee hours before morning, Mevia awoke to voices, whispering in the darkness. She lay in bed and listened. It was James and Thomas. They spoke in hushed, important tones that pricked Mevia’s ears.
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