The Mark of the Spider: A Black Orchid Chronicle

by David L. Haase

  “Okay. Can we walk? I’m feeling twitchy all of a sudden.”

  I rose unsteadily. Jimmy grabbed my arm.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  “Fine. Not sure what happened there,” I said. “So, you were going to explain…”

  Jimmy spoke, and I could envision him as a professor in a lecture hall.

  “You know about the hunt for resources all over Borneo. People have been hauling timber and minerals out of there for a couple decades. Johnnie was tasked with keeping an eye out. As the mining and such encroached on the wilderness, the Dyaks pushed back a bit, minor harassment really. Dart attacks, setting machinery on fire. That sort of thing.

  “This could be a major escalation. Taking heads—that sends a message. This is the first report—not instance, mind, just report—of headhunting since the Malaysian government announced back in the early 2000s that the practice had been eradicated.

  “I’m wondering if the Dyak didn’t peg Johnnie’s operation as the start of a further land grab.”

  “Unfortunately, thanks to me and the sheikh, it was,” I said.

  “Yes, and no. Once the sheikh found the village, he stopped, pulled everyone out and made it clear the whole area was now off limits to all but the aboriginals.”

  “So, Johnnie and the others were considered the bad guys, but I wasn’t? That’s your thought?”

  “As a first premise.”

  “Doesn’t make sense really. How was I different from the others? Got a second theory?”

  “Yes,” he said and stopped walking. Sweat glistened on our faces, but neither of us paid any attention.

  “I’m not sure how you’ll take this,” Jimmy said.

  “We won’t know until you tell me.”

  “No, we won’t.… So, let’s say the Dyaks’ attack wasn’t about protecting their home from mineral prospectors, or at least that’s not the whole story. That spider web marking is unusual. In fact, it’s unique.

  “It isn’t in any of the records of Dyak markings, and those poor people have had white men recording their markings back to the 1800s. But…”

  “But what?” I asked.

  “I said there aren’t any records of spider web tattoos, but there are stories. I know of two. That’s where I’ve been the last few days, confirming things. It’s not good,” Jimmy said.

  “Not good how? People die of infection from the process?” I said, gingerly running my fingers across my cheek. “I can imagine that.”

  “I’m sure that happens, but it’s not what I’m talking about. You weren’t inked with metal; it was done with bamboo, very fine slivers of bamboo. The doctors pulled a few out of your cheek. They think the splinters may have been a big part of your pain. I’m not so sure.”

  “You’re telling me everything except the bad stuff,” I said. “Why is that?”

  “Because we leave the realm of the knowable and enter the world of that which might, or might not, be.”

  I stared at him.

  “What? Some kind of voodoo?”

  “Don’t make light of spirits,” Jimmy said. “People in this part of the world believe in spirits and behave accordingly.”

  I sighed.

  “I can appreciate that, but that doesn’t mean I do. If I can see it, feel it, touch it, it’s real. Otherwise, it’s not. What’s this atrocity on my face got to do with your voodoo?”

  “I was skeptical once, too. But in the last twenty years of studying so-called primitive peoples, I’ve seen things I can explain only if there is another realm, a spiritual world, that is just as real as the physical world.”

  “Tell me your stories,” I said. “I don’t promise to believe them, but I’ll listen.”

  Jimmy cleared his throat as though he was having second thoughts.

  “The stories say the spider web tattoo—your tattoo—houses a powerful spider spirit that requires occasional sacrifices to keep it content. The spirit marks a person—not necessarily the headman—and that person becomes the tribal shaman,” he said. “And not just any old healer, but one who has the power of life and death.”

  I chuckled.

  “How is this different from modern medicine? Western doctors bury their mistakes all the time,” I said, frowning as I recalled Sarah’s slow, painful death.

  “It’s different because out here they mean to kill.”

  “Still doesn’t make sense. Why would a spirit powerful enough to kill people need a poor, frail human being to do it for him?”

  “These are spiritual things, Sebastian. Think of the ancient myths—the Egyptians, Greeks, Romans, Norse. The gods commune with humans. We don’t know why. Why should we know about this?” Jimmy said.

  “Now you’re saying this is a god, and I’ve got the mark of Cain upon me?”

  Jimmy just stared at me. I broke the silence.

  “Okay, so according to your stories, how does this marked person deliver death? Is it a ritual thing, like sticking pins in a doll, or what?”

  “The spirit inhabits the chosen person, and as a result the chosen one can bring death to anyone.”

  “That’s what you said. But how? Anyone with a gun can bring death. We call it shooting, and I came real close to using my Webley on that old witch,” I said.

  “No weapons. No ritual. Just death,” Jimmy said.

  “Well, that’s an interesting story. Do you really think I can cause a person to die, just like that?”

  “There’s more.”

  “Of course, there is,” I said, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my hand.

  “There are suggestions, and the stories are vague here, that the chosen person does not even have to be in the presence of the, ah, victim. Somehow the chosen one just picks a victim and that person dies. Period. The storytellers are very insistent on that. The person with the mark can kill.”

  “But who does he kill? And why?” I asked. “Is this personal vengeance, or is death dealt only to enemies of the spirit?”

  “I gather—and this is my interpretation, not something that was said explicitly—the power is used to protect the spirit, the spirit’s people, and the chosen one. The people who told me the stories thought it was a good thing, not something bad.”

  “Unless you’re on the receiving end.”

  I shook my head.

  “Seems pretty vague.”

  “I believe others have had this power, maybe even your machete man. Why not you?” he said.

  “We’ll leave him out of it. If he had that power, it doesn’t seem to have done him any good. I gave him a good shot on the neck with his own machete. Next thing I know he’s dead. Hardly invincible.”

  “Or maybe the power had already passed to you.”

  “Sure. Perfect timing,” I said. “But get real, Jimmy. Remote-control killing? Come on. I’ll bet your military would like that.”

  Jimmy’s eyes left mine and searched the ground for something that wasn’t there.

  “As a matter of fact, we do. We are very interested in that,” he said.

  “Really? What? You’re thinking I could be your remote-control killer?”

  I looked at him with my mouth wide.

  “You want me to sit here in my velvet prison thinking nasty thoughts about your enemies and you throw me a treat when one of them dies? Is that it?”

  Jimmy looked up.

  “Not me,” he said, “but I don’t call the shots.”

  Chapter 11

  Untimely Death

  Jimmy disappeared again.

  I couldn’t tell if he was angry with me or with his government. The following day, I was still replaying our last conversation when another visitor interrupted my thoughts.

  “Mr. Arnett?” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Arnett, I’m Lyle Floyd, a consul with the American State Department. I’ve been instructed to look in on you and see that everything is all right. Can I sit down?”

  “I met you in Kota Kinabalu,” I said, neither r
ising nor inviting him to join me. “You shared a lot of information about me with an agent of the Australian Intelligence Service.”

  “Correct. We did meet,” he said, ignoring my accusation.

  “Well, I’m fine, as you can see, so you can go back and report that all’s well.”

  “Johnnie Walker told me you were feeling a little touchy about our routine information sharing. That was before he got his head cut off, of course,” Floyd said.

  “Of course.” I mimicked. I was still sore over how much he had told Johnnie about the sheikh and me, and as far as I knew, the American government had done absolutely nothing to help locate and rescue me. They had certainly not been part of my recovery, and yet here was a consul—or whatever he was—acting as though we were long-lost buddies.

  “Mr. Arnett, I don’t think you appreciate your situation here.”

  “What situation would that be, Mr. Floyd?”

  “For starters, you are for all intents and purposes, a captive of the Australian military. Do you even know where you are?”

  I surveyed the scorched desert around me.

  “I’m leaving soon,” I said.

  “If they let you.”

  “And why would they not let me?”

  “You know as well as I do. You have something they want. Something that other governments might want. Your own government would certainly like to talk to you about it.”

  “Mr. Floyd, I don’t have a damned thing. My camera equipment is somewhere in Borneo and I don’t expect to see it again. I don’t have a passport or visa. I don’t even have clothes. This outfit comes from the Aussies. So I have nothing.”

  “Don’t be coy, Mr. Arnett.”

  Floyd had a short fuse, and I’d lit it. But my fuse wasn’t much longer, and it was burning, too.

  “The Australian Intelligence Service, with whom I have a very good relationship, has briefed me on Beam’s theory that you might have a very useful, new—uh, skill. It fits with research we’ve done in this part of the world over the last 70 years, going back to the cargo cults of World War II.

  “Our government knows that strange things happen in the wilderness; it acknowledges that just because they are strange to us doesn’t mean they don’t happen. I personally think it’s all a load of bull, but I’m here representing higher powers within our government, and quite frankly I could do without your attitude.”

  Floyd was leaning over me now, his face closer to mine than I liked.

  “That tattoo, for instance. I’m told you’re marked for life. It will never come off. Almost as if it were a warning sign, like rattles on a snake.”

  “Are you calling me a snake?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Are you a snake? Are you some kind of poisonous creature that normal people should steer clear of?”

  “What is it you want?”

  I spat the words into his too close face.

  “I want to have a civilized conversation with a fellow citizen about how he might be able to contribute something to his nation.”

  Floyd spat back.

  “I pay taxes, and I don’t have anything to say to you.”

  I was beginning to feel weird about this whole scene. Twitchy. Why was this bureaucrat setting me off?

  “You think we are the only government that’s going to come knocking at your door? I’m sure the Australians have suggested some sort of cooperation, and I’ll bet a lot of other, less tolerant groups will be seeking you out when word gets around.”

  “From what I can tell, you’re the only one likely to be spreading the news and invading my privacy.”

  “Stop acting like you’re someone special and get on board. You may have something your country could use. Why are you playing so hard to get? Are you on some private ego trip?”

  “Ego trip? You think what I’ve been through is an ego trip?”

  I started to push myself out of the chair, but Floyd leaned over and laid his hand on my shoulder. I turned my head slowly and looked at his hand.

  “Mr. Floyd,” I said, turning back to face him, “would you like to be the first human being to get a taste of the nastiness that the angry spirit inside me can serve up? Because you are seriously pissing me off.”

  The smug SOB challenged me with a condescending smile.

  I don’t know who was more shocked, him or me, when he keeled over.

  *

  The next evening—the last I planned to spend in Australia—Jimmy and I sat in the shade, icy drinks in hand, watching the sun go down.

  Two aboriginals stood, one-legged like cranes, about twenty feet away, just staring at me. A steady stream of them, one or two at a time, began wandering through the area after my encounter with Floyd. They stopped. They stood on one leg. They stared. They moved on.

  Jimmy insisted that I was calling them to this place. I thought he was talking nonsense, but he and I disagreed about a lot of things in the last twenty-four hours.

  “Jimmy, are you a shrink as well as a spy?” I asked.

  Orderlies had carried Floyd’s body away after the doctors who treated me had pronounced him dead. Jimmy appeared, as he always did, as if by magic. Here he was, pretending to chat me up while interrogating the hell out of me.

  “So, are you a shrink or spy?” I repeated.

  “Not a shrink. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, I think we all might be suffering from mass hysteria or something. The late, unlamented Mr. Floyd suffered the most.”

  Jimmy wore his worry like an Aloha shirt. “It’s not humorous, you know,” Jimmy said.

  “Maybe not, Jimmy,” I said, “but it has certainly become interesting, hasn’t it? To continue the conversation we were having when you went off in a huff a few days ago, just how do you and the rest of the Australian military plan to control this voodoo thing you think I have inside me? What’s your leverage over me?” I asked.

  “For instance, would you shoot me if I didn’t cooperate? I can’t imagine you would, not after spending so much time and effort to keep me alive. So, what do you do? Put me in a coma until I’m needed? How useful would that be?

  “I’m pretty familiar with the people at this facility. Suppose I just start imagining them dead? What then? Would you lock me up in a cell? If I have the power you think I have, that wouldn’t work, would it?”

  “Yank, you shouldn’t talk like that.”

  “Look, Jimmy, you have to admit the situation is a bit ludicrous. You—Australia—must have one of the top five or ten military operations in the world, and you’re talking about using me as some kind of voodoo weapon. That’s just plain crazy.

  “I mean, some jerk from the American embassy shows up and has a heart attack, and all of a sudden you’re convinced I’m responsible? Come on, Jimmy,” I said.

  He shrugged.

  “Nothing has happened to make me reconsider,” he said. “If anything, Floyd’s death just—complicates things.”

  “Only on your side, mate,” I said. “Fortunately for all of us, I leave tomorrow. And I want you to know that I do appreciate what you and your people did for me. I was in horrible shape. You didn’t have to bring me back here. You could have dropped me off at the Tenom clinic. I’d probably be long dead, if you had.

  “I wanted to get you something to remember me by, but this place doesn’t have a gift shop. I thought I’d print out one of the photos of the black orchid; I’ll send it to you.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “What? You’re afraid of a photo of a flower?”

  “Make it a picture of some other orchid. Something bright. Maybe red or bright orange. Colorful.”

  “Jimmy, are you superstitious?”

  “You know what I believe. You should think about this seriously. We’ll have the autopsy report on Floyd before you leave tomorrow. Maybe that will convince you.”

  “What do you expect, Jimmy? My fingerprints on his throat? He had a heart attack. He was an asshole who was wound up too tightly for hi
s own good. He liked to shove people around and didn’t like it when someone shoved back. End of story.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “What are you going to do? What if it’s true? What if…”

  I sipped my iced gin and stared into the distance.

  “I’m going to finish cataloging the photos I took for the sheikh. That’ll take several weeks, maybe a month. When that’s done, I’ll go home.

  “I’ve always dreamed of buying a small RV, driving across America shooting flowers as long as I’m able and interested. Sort of a Travels with Charlie experience. I might even get my own Charlie. Then I’ll settle down, grow old, and die.”

  I sloshed the ice in my glass and considered for a moment.

  “Yep. That’s the plan.”

  “What if the sheikh isn’t as reasonable as we are? What if he tries to keep you in his own velvet prison?”

  “If what you think is true, that won’t be possible, will it? If it’s not true, there’s no reason to keep me.”

  “But if it’s true, then what?”

  “You mean, what if the angry spider spirit has some sort of hold on me?”

  “You know that’s what I mean. What if it’s true?”

  I thought a moment and took another swig. After being dry for a few weeks, I was regaining the booze habit.

  “Well, let’s just hope Mr. Floyd satisfies the spider spirit forever, or at least for as long as it takes for me to die of old age.”

  “Yank,” Jimmy said, “you just keep hoping that.”

  Chapter 12

  Advisory

  Major Walker “Wall” Sturgeon knocked on the commander’s door and strode into the office without waiting for permission to enter.

  Having spent his entire military career in service to Lieutenant General Markus Brant, CO of the clandestine 348th General Services Office at Fort Meade, MD, he could do that.

  “Something you should be aware of, sir.”

  Brant said nothing. So far, nothing Wall said required words.

  “A CIA branch chief in Malaysia—no one we’ve used—died under mysterious circumstances at an Australian Intelligence Service detox center in the Northwestern outback. He was apparently checking in on an American the Aussies had rescued in Borneo. They say it was a heart attack, but there’s nothing in his record to suggest that.”