Sanibel Flats

by Randy Wayne White

  When a mortar round cut the top off a tree about fifty yards away, Ford pressed his face against the ground as leaves and chunks of limb smacked the mud around them. Zacul raised his head and began to scream "I order you to stop! I order you to stop this minute!" getting crazier as he got sicker. What was keeping the man going?

  The boat dock was down a steep hill and extended about forty yards into the lake. The dock was very wide, commercial grade, and built of huge timbers high off the water. Two flat-bottomed barges were tied to it and one small skiff. There was a high outcrop of rock and mud where a bulldozer had cut the road to the lake, and Ford told Zacul and Tomlinson to stay under the ledge while he got the boat ready.

  The shooting was getting closer now. Looking up the hill, he could see soldiers silhouetted by the flaming buildings. These soldiers weren't running, they were stalking, taking their time. Using grenades, too, judging by the sound. And shooting at anything that moved, which was the way of jungle fighters.

  Ford sprinted down the dock and dropped to his belly, inspecting the boats. He considered taking one of the barges. A barge would offer more protection against the incoming rounds, but it would be like steering a semi and slow, too. It was about four miles across the lake to Tambor, and he didn't want to spend an hour getting there. At the end of the dock was a skiff, and Ford crawled out to have a look. It was a wooden boat with a high sharp bow, about eighteen feet long with a forty-horsepower Johnson on the transom. It wouldn't be fast but at least they could get it up on plane. He slid off the dock and climbed down a wooden ladder into the skiff. There were two plastic six-gallon fuel tanks in the stern. One was nearly full, the other empty. He threw the empty tank into the water before checking the rubber fuel line, making sure the bulb was primed. Then he pulled the starter rope and the boat lunged, almost throwing him into the water. Someone had left the damn thing in gear. He punched the shifting lever into neutral, then tried again. It took him three more pulls before the engine caught, throwing blue smoke in the moonlight while the whole boat trembled.

  Ford climbed back onto the dock and began to run toward the rock outcrop. Halfway to shore, something detonated the water beside him and the wash almost swept him away. He fell and skidded along the planking. He lay there for a few moments, then got shakily to his feet. His ears were ringing and his hands tingled. He was wet, but it seemed to be water, not blood. Tomlinson was coming toward him, herding Zacul and the boy to the boat.

  Another mortar round hit and the wedge of rock under which they had been hiding disintegrated into a great plume of debris that came raining down into the water, clattering onto the dock. Ford covered his head, yelling "They see us! Get into the boat!" But he didn't say anything more, just crouched there looking—stunned by what he saw.

  The dock was aglitter with pale-green light, a light that refracted abrupt facets like the shimmer of broken glass or shattered ice. The source of the light was scattered across the dock like gravel and some of the bright orbs drifted down through the clear water, tumbling with the brief incandescence of meteors.

  Emeralds.

  Tomlinson went running past him, kicking more of the stones into the water. Ford made no effort to grab the stones but just watched, transfixed. Then he heard a grunting noise, like gagging, and Zacul was standing in front of him. Zacul wasn't looking at the dock, he was staring at something else, and Ford followed his gaze upward. There, in the smoking hillside, were more emeralds. They were embedded in a great jagged wheel of stone that protruded from the earth. Even though one large chunk of the stone had been sheared away, it was still huge, maybe twelve feet in diameter, bigger than seemed possible. Emeralds sparkled on its surface like sequins, making odd designs that Ford knew were constellations.

  "The calendar," Zacul whispered. "After all this, I've finally found it." He turned, letting his pistol drop to his side, and Ford immediately yanked the boy away from him, yelling hoarsely: "Run! Get in the boat!" expecting Zacul to whirl around with the pistol. -He didn't. He stood looking at the great calendar, bent slightly at the waist with pain, but oblivious to everything else.

  Suddenly he turned to Ford, his eyes wild. "You will help me. Some of the stones are falling into the water. Help me pick them up!"

  From down the quay, Tomlinson yelled, "Come on, Doc! We're waiting!"

  Ford said, "You're on your own, Zacul. We're leaving."

  Zacul pointed the gun at him, "Not now! Not yet!" his face so crazy with pain and greed that Ford knew he was about to shoot.

  Ford bent, picked up several emeralds in each hand, and pushed the stones into his pockets obediently, then lunged suddenly, hitting Zacul with his shoulder. Zacul backpedaled, tripped, and landed back first on the planking. He lay on the dock fighting to breathe, but he still had the pistol and Ford kicked him hard in the ribs as he lifted it to fire. The explosion and the sudden vacuum Ford felt near his ear were simultaneous, like an electrical shock. His legs collapsed and he dropped down onto the general. Zacul clubbed him behind the ear with the butt of the pistol and managed to roll away, using his free hand to scratch at Ford's eyes. Ford locked his hand around Zacul's right wrist and used his open hand to punch the man's elbow inward. Zacul screamed with pain, as if he'd touched something hot, and the gun flew out of his hand, skittering across the dock. Ford crawled after it, picked it up, and, crouching low, swung it toward Zacul's face. "Rafe Hollins would want me to shoot you, Zacul."

  The guerrilla leader was up on his knees, palms pressed outward. "Don't kill me, you can't kill me. Don't you see? We'll have money now, lots of money! You can't kill me."

  Ford said, "I already have," just before Zacul made a desperate lunge at the pistol. Ford could have pulled the trigger; he didn't. Instead, he batted the weak body away, and Zacul's momentum carried him off the dock and into the black, black waters of the lake.

  The sharks should have gotten him. Maybe they did. Ford didn't wait around to watch.

  He could hear Zacul yelling as he ran for the boat, then an abrupt scream like death itself, but Ford didn't hear anything more because another mortar round hit the dock behind him and suddenly he was flying . . . tumbling through space and into a void which was as black as the eye of God itself.

  TWENTY-ONE

  If it was a dream, it was like no dream he'd ever had.

  Before him was an oblong space swollen with pearly light. The light came through in rays as well defined as laser beams, touching his face and his body with mild warmth. The area of incandescence dominated his view and filled the room—for he seemed to be in some kind of room, though he didn't turn his head to be sure. He could look only at the light, drawn to the refulgence like the jungle moths he sometimes thought about, the creatures that gathered one night of the year to fly toward the full moon.

  Maybe I'm dead. . . .

  He didn't like that. He didn't like that at all—not that he feared nonexistence, but more because of the implications of being bathed in celestial light. His pragmatic side rebelled at that, like the victim of a cosmic joke.

  Something moved beside him, and he still did not turn his head. A shape came into view, gliding toward the source of the light. The shape sprouted arms, reached up, and the light was suddenly dimmed, as if curtains had been drawn. Then the thing with arms turned toward him and he could see that the shape was that of a woman; a woman dressed in white but with long black hair, though he couldn't see her clearly for his eyes refused to open completely. His eyelashes were a veil and he watched her glide toward him in soft focus. She reached out and he felt her fingers touch his face.

  "Ford? Won't you please wake up? Ford, you dear ugly man."

  Ford felt he should struggle to answer, for now he recognized the voice and the voice fit the face. But he didn't struggle. He tried to speak but, when no words came, he simply lay there feeling oddly complacent and very tired, an observer, not a participant. He was having a dream and this woman was part of the dream, Pilar Balserio.

  Now both of Pilar'
s hands were on his face and she was leaning over him. She kissed his lips softly. "Do you know what the doctor says? The doctor says that sometimes people in a coma can hear everything. He says they have to be reminded that to get better all they have to do is open their eyes. So now I'm telling you: Wake up, Ford. Please. Come back to me now because there are things you should know and I must leave in just a few hours. Ford?" She waited as if expecting a response, then said, "I may never have the chance to speak with you again."

  A reply formed in Ford's mind, though his lips still refused to transmit words. But he felt that that was all right; that she would understand. Couldn't she see that he was smiling?

  There was a rustling noise, a sudden feeling of warmth, and Ford realized Pilar was lying beside him, her arm over his chest, holding him tight, her mouth against his ear. She was trembling; trembling and whispering into his ear so that it was as if her mind was speaking directly to his mind.

  "I'm frightened, Ford. I've done so many bad things, but it hurts me most to know that I've hurt you. I want to tell you about those things—not because I want to share the guilt but because you are a rational man. You have a right to know. I won't add confusion to the pain I have already caused you. The night before you left, the night we made love . . . I'm the one who arranged for the guards to knock on my door at that hour. That's why you had to run. I knew that once I had loved you, really loved you in the way I wanted, I wouldn't have the strength to make you leave me once more. But it was necessary. It was necessary for my work. For my country. For my people. So I arranged for the guards in advance, not trusting myself. Does that make you hate me, you ugly man?"

  Ford wanted to stir, to hold her, but he just lay there feeling the words. How could he hate her now for what he had already guessed?

  "There is more you should know. I should tell you about the book. You brought it to me once, and I feel that someday you will return it to my people again. You understand my meaning; I'm sure that you understand. The book was stolen not long after I had finished translating it. It was taken by a man who cared only for the power it would give him. He wanted it as an artifact, a thing to show the people and help unite them in his drive for power. My people revere such artifacts and would attach great importance to the person who possessed it. But this man was a devil and I'm glad that you had a hand in killing him." Avoiding the general's name, but speaking of him with disgust while, in Ford's mind, the image of Zacul's face, those insane eyes, flashed for a moment, then faded as Pilar continued to talk.

  "The book was a disappointment to me, Ford. It held no answers, it told very few secrets. But in ways—strange ways, ways that you would laugh at—it predicted the future of my people. It is because of the book that I knew so clearly what I must do. Other things became necessary. Some good things, some terrible. I arranged for my own husband's death. I murdered him. I am a murderess. I confess to you what I can confess to no priest because you, as no one I have ever met, are like me. You are a rational person and you know all the pain that that implies; all the loneliness. I killed him for the greater good, but I still feel the guilt, Ford. I wish you could talk to me and make me feel better. I wish we could talk as we did those nights on the beach. Did you know that the first time we sat talking was the first time since childhood that the loneliness in me disappeared? It was as if I had been waiting for you—you, a great ugly gringo older than me. Who knows why such things happen? But I could feel your words in my soul."

  Then she lay silent for a long time, holding him. Ford could feel her soft breast on his arm; the thudding of her heart moved through him. His mind began to drift as he tried to focus on the expanse of light again, and he would have thought she had disappeared were it not for her steady heartbeat. Then she said, "There is something else I would like to tell you, Ford. But I can't because my life isn't my own. Do you know what makes me angry? My life has never been my own." She stood and leaned over him and Ford felt her lips on his. "I love you, Ford. I will always love you. ..."

  Then the dream was gone.

  So why were there angels singing?

  Dis manibus sacrum, ad astra per aspera ...

  Singing in Latin, their voices blended and wind-soft.

  Cras cimet qui nunquam amavit quique amavit eras amet . . .

  Ford could feel the resonance of the chant seeping up through the floor, through the walls, surrounding him like a veil or the spirit of life itself.

  Then he was sitting up, blinking his eyes. Before him was the oblong form which had once burned with light. It was a window, gray with the dusk beyond. The crown of a palm tree drifted into view, then drifted away again, rocking in the wind. Thus he knew that he was on the second floor. He knew that he was alive. But he could still hear the haunting cadence of the Latin chant.

  Adeste, fideles, laeti triumpliantes . . .

  He was in a small room of wood and stone. The walls were whitewashed but not decorated. There was a dresser with a ceramic water basin and a silver crucifix. He lay in a simple bed with wooden footposts and beside the bed was a door. The door was open and the sound of women's voices came floating through.

  Ford's brain scanned for an explanation, trying to figure out where he was, why he was here. Then he remembered Zacul and the explosion, and he decided that he must have been injured. In a slight panic, he took inventory of his limbs. His arms, his legs were in place, but his head hurt. He touched his head and found that it was wrapped with gauze. But there was only one small tender spot, toward the back, where the bandage was heaviest, and that was a relief. He tried to swing his legs off the bed but felt a sudden thrust of pain in his groin. Momentarily frightened, he threw back the sheet and looked beneath the long white nightshirt he wore. A catheter tube had been inserted into him. It was an unattractive thing to see, his member shriveled as if trying to hide while ingesting this sterile plastic tube, but there was no apparent injury. There were scissors on the table beside the bed, and Ford snipped the Y-prong. While water drained from it, he took a deep breath and pulled the tube out.

  "Ye-ouch." Swearing softly and already feeling better for the sound of his own voice.

  Ford got to his feet slightly dizzy but strong enough. He followed the walls down the hall, the stone floor cold on his feet. When the singing grew louder, he knelt and looked through the stone portals that promoted air circulation, common in the old buildings of Central America. In the room below was a domed circular chamber designed in the old days for acoustical effect. There were nuns in the room, their heads bowed, hands folded. They wore white habits and veils, walking slowly and in step around the perimeter of the room as they chanted.

  He was in a convent. But it wasn't cloister La Conceptión, the convent outside the Presidential Palace in Masagua City. He had never been here before; he recognized nothing outside the window. He padded quietly back to the room trying to figure out what he should do. Where was Tomlinson? Where was little Jake? There was no closet in his room and he got down on his knees hoping his clothes might be under the bed. They weren't. As he got to his feet he bumped into the nightstand. Something tumbled off and crashed on the floor: a ceramic water pitcher. Ford stayed there for a moment, his buns hanging out in the coolness, then got quickly into bed.

  A door opened somewhere and he could hear footsteps: leather shoes and heavy feet. Ford waited. What could he do—throw his catheter bag at the guy? A circle of light preceded the footsteps and then a man came into the room carrying an oil lamp. Ford pretended to be asleep, watching through cracked eyes. The man came closer, peering at him, and then Ford sat up abruptly. "Rivera!"

  General Juan Rivera took two quick steps backward, touching his hand to his heart. "You would scare the life out of me, you crazy person!" But then he was smiling, the sudden anger gone. "Marion, you bad man, you are awake!"

  "Sure I'm awake. I don't have any clothes. Get me my clothes, Juan."

  Rivera put the lamp on the table, stepped over the broken pitcher, and took Ford by the shoulders. "Yo
u have been asleep for so long that I began to worry you would never awaken. It presented certain difficulties. How can one properly bury a man who is still breathing? How could I get the Dodgers of Los Angeles to take notice of the greatest pitcher in Central America?" The big man was shaking Ford gently, laughing.

  "Where are we?"

  "In a convent above thirty kilometers from Tambor."

  "How long, Juan? How long have I been out?"

  "Um, three days . . . no, this is the fourth. Your friend the great DiMaggio pulled you out of the water. You were unconscious and had a small cut on the head—such a small cut to knock out a man of your size! My men captured you and wanted to kill you. Who can blame them? A gringo that looks like you. But then one of them recognized you as the great Johnny Bench. I give them strict orders not to shoot players of quality." He shrugged his shoulders humorously. "You were lucky that it was my best team I sent on the assault. They are all students of the game and so remembered you."

  "Your men? But you said you wouldn't help."

  Rivera said softly, "Do I need a gringo to tell me how to run my army? I had been planning the attack on Zacul long before you came to my camp."

  "You didn't tell me that."

  "Should I share such a secret with a capitalist dog like yourself? I did not become a general by doing stupid things."

  Ford sat back in the bed, touching his hand to his head. Rivera said, "You are still weak. You will need sleep. And food. I will bring you something, but I warn you that these nuns eat the food of birds."