Cassidy St. Claire and The Fountain of Youth Parts I, II, & III

by A. H. Rousseau

  Inside, the saloon was doing a bustling business. Nearly forty men were engaged in various activities, be it drinking, games, or simply talking. A single bartender leaned on the bar surface with an arm, talking with a barmaid. The various oil lamps provided a dim but enveloping illumination to the room.

  The doors were already open, propped by ropes connecting to nails in the wall. The well-dressed man walked in, back-lit by the glow of the powerful oil lamp hanging above the entrance outside. He stood there, looking about, conspicuous in his finery, gripping onto the handle of his black and ivory cane in one hand. The man removed his top hat and held it to his side. The bar went almost silent. The well-dressed man had slick hair and small, circular glasses, framing large, sleepy eyes. He was utterly unfazed by the distrusting welcome presented by the other saloon patrons. He looked about the saloon and eventually fell upon a table in the far corner, abutting the same wall as the entrance. A single oil lamp hung from above the table. Sitting at the table, hunched, was Mr. Caesar. The well-dressed man walked over.

  Mr. Caesar looked up through grizzled, tired eyes. “So soon?”

  “Yes. Circumstances have changed.”

  Mr. Caesar looked back to his arrangement of glasses on the table. “Guess that's good. Gives me something to do.”

  The well-dressed man looked about the saloon. “I'm surprised to find you in such a... colorful place, especially considering your wealth.”

  “Yes, well, unless you have desires, wealth doesn't do one much good.”

  Across from the room, sitting at the bar, yelled one of the various men. Muddy and drunk, his words fell out like bricks. “You look pretty damn rich. Why not buy us all a drink! Be a good man!”

  The well-dressed man stared at the drunkard with a flat, unimpressed expression. After a moment of silence, he turned back to Mr. Caesar.

  “You don't have dreams?” he asked.

  “My dreams have abandoned me.”

  “I've usually found that it is not dreams that do the abandoning, it is the dreamer.”

  “To dream means to sleep. And to sleep means to otherwise be awake. Otherwise, the dream becomes life... and I am dissolute.”

  “I'm afraid that I do not understand. Do you believe yourself to always be asleep or always be awake?”

  “I believe that there is no distinction.”

  The well-dressed man paused, looking at Mr. Caesar. “I find the persistence of the world to be rather assuring,” he said. “There is no fluidity to it. When I put something in a box, it remains in that box. It does not suddenly appear on a shelf.”

  “You misunderstand me. I do not believe that I am dreaming. I believe that it doesn't matter if I am dreaming or not. The world persists, but it may be fluid. In dreams, the world is always in motion but we are unaware of it. In life, indeed, this may also be the case. But then there must always be something beyond it. A dream within a dream.”

  “Or a dream within a dream within a dream,” added the well-dressed man. “Like all we see and seem.”

  Mr. Caesar smiled.

  “Perhaps there is a futility to even the quest for a new dream?” Continued the well-dressed man. “An infinity of dreams extending in either direction. A disquieting thought.”

  Mr. Caesar chuckled. “Indeed,” he said, taking another swig of liquor. “Maybe, then, that is my dream. To escape the bounds of dreams entirely.”

  “Do you wish to die?” asked the well-dressed man.

  Mr. Caesar stared blankly for a moment. “I wish to sleep.”

  “Is that why you do what you do?”

  “I do what I do because I do. It's better to set sail than simply float.”

  “This all seems a sad boat. And, again, what's a boat without a destination?”

  “You act as though others have destinations of their own. They may think they have a destination, but they never make it. We bob up and down on the ocean as our ships slowly fill with water. Some unfurl their sails and charge out into the unknown, far away from everyone else. Others wait and drift with the winds. But it is a sad fate — the eternal ocean — the infinite horizon. It does not turn back on itself or have islands or reefs. Every point is exactly like any other. Everyone is lost, every direction is the same. Water. Water everywhere, nor any drop to drink. Everyone eventually disappears beneath the waves, some quietly, others reaching into the sky, gasping for air as their lungs inevitably fill with water, and they are overcome.”

  “They live for something, though. Since existence precedes choice, don't you think it a good choice at least find entertainment during that forced life?'

  “I do. I am.”

  “Ah. Now I understand what you meant.”

  “Or perhaps I should say I did. My issue is that all the dreams of the world are indistinguishable. We sail on ships of dreams, each one our own, but the wood and rigging are all the same. Cut from the same timber. Woven from the same strands.”

  “A great deal of poeticism for what, to me, sounds like a man taken by sorrow.”

  “Oh, no. No. Sorrow is far too strong a word. Perhaps despair is more appropriate, but even that implies a sensation far from what I feel. I feel almost nothing. My desire, my despair, is to feel... something. I desire to feel what others feel, what I myself once felt, to want as they want, in the face of the suffocating futility to which they are blinded by fear.”

  “Fear? So you claim that what appears to be a drive, a force in the soul of people is nothing more than a fearful inability to recognize reality?”

  Mr. Caesar thought for a moment. “Not necessarily. Charging ever onward into the horizon must be attempted for some time before its cruel nature sets in. For those people, there is no fear because they have yet to even realize that beneath it all is an option, much less an inevitable one. It is the older ones, the ones who have sailed for years, who have an inkling... a notion... a thought as they look down, as they feel the water around their ankles. They cannot accept that their lifetime above the waves has been for naught. But it is beneath the water where more than a new horizon may lie, but a new form of life... a new dream. To die. To sleep. 'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. To die. To sleep. Perchance to dream. For in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil.” Mr. Caesar snorted out a quiet laugh. “They are so afraid of it. So afraid of the only thing that is different in our great, blue expanse — so afraid of that which lies beneath. Why be afraid? Why be afraid of a phantom of a dream of a world,” Mr. Caesar swigged another shot, “covered in water?”

  “We are such stuff as dreams are made on,” said the well-dressed man.

  “And our little life is rounded with a sleep,” replied Mr. Caesar.

  The two men said nothing for a moment. “I have transport waiting just outside of town,” said the well-dressed man, breaking the silence.

  Mr. Caesar nodded. “I am ready,” he said, rising from the chair. As he got up, the drunkard from the bar walked over.

  “I think you owe me a drink for being disrespectful!”

  The well-dressed man simply stared at him, then turned back to Mr. Caesar.

  “Going to be like this shit, then?!” the drunkard slurred. “Been here for hours. Haven't said a single word to any of us boys!”

  “Davy,” the bartender interrupted. He gave Davy a look of concern that bordered on fear, shaking his head side-to-side.

  “What?!” Davy yelled, turning back to the duo. Mr. Caesar picked up his drink from the table and was ready to swig it back before Davy reached over and put his hands on the glass. Mr. Caesar calmly watched as Davy took the drink, staring at Mr. Caesar, drank it, and then slammed it on the table. The bartender's eyes widened to saucers as he gripped a shotgun behind the bar. Mr. Caesar looked at it, then reached into his coat pocket. The bartender held his breath. Mr. Caesar then produced a dollar bill and gave it to the drunkard, tucking it into his shirt pocket.

  “There's your drink,” said Mr. Caesar, before walking cal
mly out the door. The bartender exhaled in immense relaxation. The well-dressed man stared at the drunkard for a moment before turning and walking out.

  'That's right! Get out, you fucking dandy!” the drunkard yelled.

  The well-dressed man stood just outside the door, underneath the oil lamp, facing to the side and watching Mr. Caesar walk off into the darkness. He put his top hat on, covering his face in a stark shadow, and adjusted his top coat. He stood there for a moment, as the drunkard continued to holler at him, then turned his head, revealing two, bright, red, glowing dots in his eyes. He stared into the saloon which fell deathly silent. The patrons looked on in a mix of surprise, awe, and now that they understood the bartender's warnings, fear. The well-dressed man twirled his cane in one hand like a rapier before gripping it by the shaft and walking off.

  Act II

  1

  Cassidy sat in a chair in her opulent car. Rich leathers, fine woods, furniture, electric fans, decorations, and delicate lighting provided the occupants a warm, luxurious embrace. She was in front of her elegant mirror, elegantly making absurd faces while picking at her teeth. Gideon was sitting in a chair near her, staring at her, looking both disgusted and entranced. Jebediah sat on the couch lost in thought.

  “Do you need help?” asked Gideon.

  “No,” Cassidy said, her finger plunged deep into her molars. “I've got a seed or... something... stuck in my gums and for the life of me... I can't get it out.” She stopped, frustrated, and opened a drawer under a table that was next to her chair. She pulled out a large Bowie knife and, returning to the mirror, started to put it near her mouth.

  “No!” said Gideon, getting up and grabbing the knife from her. “For the love of God, I'll go find you a toothpick.” Gideon got up and walked out the car.

  Cassidy sat down, visibly moving her tongue around her mouth. She glanced over at Jebediah, sitting on the couch, his legs crossed, his hands interlocked and resting on his stomach. “You've been rather quiet,” she said to him.

  Jebediah inhaled deeply as he was roused from his thoughts. “Yes. I've been thinking about something that Roger said to me. There are things you aren't even aware you aren't aware of.”

  “Well, that's a pleasantly bizarre sentence. Why didn't he just go for broke and throw in a triple-negative?” said Cassidy.

  Jebediah smirked. “I'm trying to figure out what he means by that. He said it as a taunt. He knew it would frustrate me. Because whatever he is talking about, it allowed him to inform his compatriots of our location while never leaving my side.”

  “For all you know, he could have just had a partner who followed you where ever you went. He could have sent hand signals when you were turned, or even just left notes behind in predetermined locations.”

  Jebediah nodded. “I had thought of that. And I was never fully open with him. I kept some things close to my vest, as they say. I find it highly doubtful that he could have reliably and safely pulled something like that off.

  “I feel that he would have simply taunted me by saying that I would never know how he did it, or, good luck in figuring it out. Instead, though, he chose those words. He chose words that specifically implied something. And if I hadn't seen what I have seen, if I hadn't been looking up at a giant, flying, locomotive, I would have taken it to just be him being cruel and cryptic for the sake of his own entertainment. But I think he meant it. He meant that he used something secret to communicate with his associates.”

  “Do you have even any long-shot ideas?”

  “None. I genuinely have no idea how he communicated with them.” Jebediah pounded his fist into the armrest of the couch. “He's had top-level access for over a decade. How long has he been feeding these people this information? Five years? Ten? God damned, traitorous, son of a bitch...” Jebediah exhaled and glanced at Cassidy. “I apologize.”

  “Apologize? For what?” asked Cassidy.

  “My language. There is... well, you may not see yourself as, or much act like, a lady, it doesn't change the fact that you are.”

  Cassidy just stared at him for a moment. “Alright. If that makes you feel better,” she said.

  “I put in a cable to Washington. I'm going to have the librarians there do what they can with the information. Lord knows what good it will do, but, well... We will see,” Jebediah said, rubbing his eyes.

  They sat there, looking off, thinking. “It's in this exact situation that I would turn to George and Anna for help. They had no education, but god damn did they know everything. Probably why they were targets, I suppose.”

  Jebediah nodded. “Seems likely.” A small bell ringing signaled the arrival of train service.

  “Come in!” yelled Cassidy. A young man dressed in a red & black uniform walked in and bowed.

  “Good evening. Will you be taking your dinner here or in the dining car?”

  “Oh, um.” Cassidy looked to Jebediah, who shrugged. “In the dining car, I suppose. I rather fancy a walk, I think,” she said.

  The young man looked to Jebediah who nodded. “Excellent. You can come whenever you please.” With that, he bowed and walked out.

  Cassidy rose and stretched her arms out in front of her with a yawn. “May as well just go. We'll meet Gideon along the way. There's a bar along the way if you want to get drunk.”

  “My day is complete,” he replied.

  “That's the spirit,” Cassidy said, giving Jebediah a hearty slap on the shoulder. He shook slightly, uncomfortable with the physical contact. “Ladies first,” Cassidy said, bowing in front of Jebediah with her right arm held out. Jebediah stood there, looking at her with his right brow raised. After a moment of waiting, Cassidy stood up. “Oh fine,” she said. “Prude.” She then marched out of the car.

  ---

  Gideon was in the saloon car. Not as opulent as Cassidy's car, but fitted with polished brass decorations and fine woods, it was a nonetheless attractive area in which to sit. Along one side was a series of small tables with chairs on either side, and along the other side was a bar with a gigantic, vacant-looking neanderthal as bartender. Gideon walked up.

  “Hi, do you have toothpicks?”

  The bartender grunted inquisitively.

  “Toothpicks. You know, wood for picking teeth?”

  The bartender just stared at Gideon blankly.

  “T... you know...” he pantomimed using a toothpick. “picks, toothpicks. You can't be serious.”

  “Grunt?”

  “Oh never mind!” Gideon said, turning away from the bartender, who continued to stand there like a statue. Gideon looked about, trying to figure out how to otherwise get a toothpick. As he stood there, Cassidy and Jebediah walked up behind him. She walked up to the bartender.

  “Hey. Can I have a cocktail stick?” she asked.

  The bartender grunted, bent over, and from behind the counter, produced a toothpick.

  “What?!” yelled Gideon.

  “What what?” asked Cassidy as she started to pick at her teeth. “Let's go eat,” she said as she walked past Gideon. Jebediah followed right behind. Gideon sighed and then followed as well.

  ---

  Sitting at the table, Cassidy and Gideon were looking at their menus while Jebediah looked at the drink menu. The train's gas lamps were especially bright in the car and most of the tables were filled with well-dressed elites. Jebediah made notice of the odd looks that Cassidy was getting.

  “It appears that we are generating no small degree of interest among the other diners,” he said, not looking up from his menu.

  “I'm accustomed to it,” said Cassidy. “Being a woman who persists in dressing like a man is prone to attract stares.”

  “Why don't you dress in more traditional clothing,” he asked back.

  “Because I don't pay them any mind. If they want to stare, they can stare. And besides, have you ever worn a dress? They are intolerable. They weigh a thousand tons, you can barely move in them, and I half expect a strong wind to blow me off to Wonderland at s
ome point.”

  “Wonderland?” Asked Gideon.

  “It's a literary reference,” said Jebediah.

  “Oh. Yes. I'll just read my menu,” replied Gideon, sheepish.

  “Besides, you should see what happens when I start cussing. I once had someone call the police because I said god dammit,” Cassidy added. With that, the waiter stepped up. He was another very young man, no more than twenty-five, slight and small.

  “Good evening. Will any of you be having drinks tonight?” he asked, looking to Cassidy first.

  Cassidy breathed in and out, thinking for a moment. “No. I think... actually, no, on second thought, do you have beer?”

  “Yes ma'am.”

  “Is it cold?”

  “Not terribly.”

  “Ah well. Can't have everything we want. I'll have one of those. Very small. More a digestif than anything else.” The waiter nodded and turned to Gideon.

  “Oh, nothing for me. I'm a teetotaler.” he said. The waiter then turned to Jebediah.

  “Do you have any good whiskeys?” asked Jebediah.

  “Yessir. Many types.”

  “Maybe a single malt Scottish, if you have it.”

  “I'm sure we do.”

  “Ok. Yes. One of those.”

  “Straight away.” With that, the waiter left.

  Cassidy gave Jebediah a look and affirming nod. “Scotch whiskey. My my. There are hidden layers to you.”

  “I spent a great deal of time over in Britain during my early diplomatic days. The country is practically swimming in the stuff. It's hard not to develop a taste for it.”

  “I've never been able to much stomach liquor. I prefer beer. A good rum, now and then is about it.” Cassidy swigged her water. “I'm sorry to bring it up again, but I really want to keep talking about Roger's cryptic statement. For one thing, it makes me feel like we are doing something. For another thing, we may actually bumble into a good idea.”