Owl Dance

by David Lee Summers

  They arrived in San Francisco in the middle of the day. The skies were cloudy. Wan light filtered to the ground. Stepping out of the train station, Ramon caught sight of a hotel. The two gathered their meager belongings and crossed the busy street, then entered the hotel lobby. Ramon rang the bell at the front desk.

  A clerk came out from a back room and eyed the couple warily. “May I help you?”

  “We’d like a room for the night,” said Ramon.

  “Sorry, we don’t have any rooms.”

  Ramon’s eyebrows came together. “The sign in the window said ‘vacancy.’”

  The clerk looked toward the window, then back at Ramon. “I’m sorry, I should clarify. We don’t have any rooms for Mexicans.”

  Ramon and Fatemeh looked at each other. “I’m not Mexican,” he said. “I’m an American citizen. My dad even fought for the Union Army.”

  “I’m not Mexican either,” declared Fatemeh. “I’m from Persia.”

  “I don’t care if you’re from Timbuktu.” The clerk sneered. “You both have brown skin. You’ll need to find another hotel.”

  “Begging your pardon,” said Fatemeh, “but your skin is somewhat brown, too. Ours is just a little darker than yours.”

  Ramon put his hand on Fatemeh’s forearm, indicating it was time to let him do the talking. “Is there any place in town we can stay?”

  “You might try the Mission District. Go out the front door, turn right, follow the tracks about ten blocks south and cross to the other side.” The clerk turned his back on the two and acted busy, examining the mail slots.

  Ramon gathered his satchel and threw it over his shoulder.

  “Are we just going to stand for that?” asked Fatemeh.

  Ramon sighed and did his best to adjust his glasses. “I don’t like it, corazón, but I’m too tired to cause trouble. Maybe this Mission District will be a bit friendlier.”

  The two stepped out of the hotel and followed the clerk’s instructions. Both of them looked in awe at the sheer number of mortar and brick buildings that surrounded them. The streets were lined with horses and carriages darting around one another. A carriage sped down the street and hit a puddle, sending horse manure and mud toward Fatemeh. Ramon pulled her away just in time.

  “Kind of makes you long for laws that keep horses out of the streets,” said Ramon.

  “That’s true. Still, it’s not quite as bad as New York City,” observed Fatemeh.

  They found a hotel on Valencia Street. This one, with its cracked white stucco exterior, seemed much more run down than the pristine red brick hotel across from the railroad tracks. However, the clerk was amenable to letting them rent rooms. When he quoted a price, though, Ramon’s breath caught. He took Fatemeh aside. “We only have enough money to stay here a week if we each have separate rooms…and I need to get new glasses.”

  A brief smile lit Fatemeh’s face. “The money would last longer if we only get one room.”

  Ramon’s mouth fell open. “Fatemeh!”

  “Just sign the register Mr. and Mrs. Morales.” Fatemeh’s tone was matter-of-fact. “Ask for a room with two beds, though.”

  Ramon opened his mouth to protest, but finally swallowed and turned back to the clerk. He paid for one room with two beds and then the two carried their belongings up to the room.

  << >>

  General Alexander Gorloff strode down a corridor at St. Petersburg University and knocked on a door.

  “Come in,” called a distracted voice on the other side.

  The general opened the door and was astonished to see a desk surrounded by books, some open, others closed—all in some kind of disarray. The desk itself was covered by papers. On the wall was a black chalkboard covered in incomprehensible scribbles that—as far as the general could tell—were some combination of hieroglyphs and a foreign language. None of this astonished the general as much as the man who sat behind the desk. His head was covered with a wild mop of gray-streaked, black hair. A bushy beard hid most of the man’s face.

  The general introduced himself. “You are Mendeleev?”

  “Yes, yes,” said the scientist, impatiently without rising from his chair. “What can I do for you, General?”

  The general turned and closed the door. “I wish to discuss a matter of some secrecy that is important to our Czar.”

  At this, Mendeleev turned his attention fully to Gorloff. “Go on.”

  “In my duties as military attaché to the United States of America, it has come to my attention that the young country poses a threat to the Russian Empire.”

  Mendeleev scowled. “This does not surprise me. It is a country of cowboys and loose cannons who have no respect for intellectual pursuits. The country has been around for a century and I cannot name one decent university or important literary work that has come from there.”

  “I have heard some critics speak highly of a novel called Moby-Dick,” ventured the general.

  The scientist waved his hand as though subjected to a bad smell. “A long-winded book about a madman hunting a whale? It has no value. Poe showed some promise, but he was obviously influenced by the French.”

  “Obviously,” muttered the general in agreement. He sat down and decided to steer the conversation back to the topic at hand. “While in America, I also learned there are vast reserves of gold and oil in Alaska,” continued Gorloff.

  Mendeleev’s disdainful frown turned into a smug grin—although the general had some difficulty telling that through the thick beard. “I knew it was a mistake for the Czar to sell Alaska.”

  “America poses a threat to Russia and the stability of the whole world,” declared the general. “I ask you, as a patriot, will you come to the aid of our country?”

  “I am loyal to the Czar, General Gorloff. He has a good heart. He showed that when he freed the serfs. Ask what you will.” Mendeleev folded his arms across his chest, his eyes intent.

  “We need a way to move quickly to the United States without being stopped by their navy,” explained the general. “We also need a way to deploy troops and heavy artillery across large sections of western North America.”

  Mendeleev nodded and thought for several minutes. His head fell forward and for a moment, the general thought the scientist had fallen asleep. Just as he was leaning forward to tap Mendeleev on the shoulder, the scientist leapt to his feet and erased a section of the chalkboard. He drew a large ovoid shape. Next, he added boxes with something like ship propellers attached. Underneath, he drew a bigger box. “Imagine if you will, a ship of the air,” said Mendeleev, pointing at his drawing. “We build a steel frame. Inside will be great bags that we fill with a gas that’s lighter than air—say hydrogen.” He pointed to the boxes and propellers. “Light as it will be, small steam engines can be deployed to move it through the air. Underneath, like a balloon’s gondola, is a pilothouse. Within the steel frame structure, we can place troops, artillery, whatever you like.”

  The general stared at the drawing wide-eyed. “Will such a thing really work?”

  “I have been working on the problem of such a craft for the past few years.” As Mendeleev spoke, he continued sketching on the board, showing the airship from underneath. “The only thing that has kept me from building it is funding. If the Czar is serious about having such a war machine, I believe I can design it and we can build a small fleet.”

  “This year?” Gorloff shook his head in wonder.

  “If enough resources are dedicated to the problem.” Mendeleev stepped aside. The silhouette of an owl adorned his new sketch.

  “Why do you adorn your airship with an owl?”

  “My ancestors are Kalmyk, General Gorloff. A story has been passed down through the generations that an owl saved Ghengis Khan’s life. To us, owls have long been talismans of great power. These ships will be like great owls, expanding the Russian empire. We will guide the Americans to a more civilized age.”

  Gorloff nodded satisfied. “Begin work designing these ships. Send wo
rd to the palace and let us know what materials and personnel you need. We will make sure they are sent.” The general reached out and shook Mendeleev’s hand. “It was a delight meeting you, Professor Mendeleev.”

  “The pleasure was mine.”

  Back out in the hall, the general heard Legion in the back of his mind. “What a fascinating individual.”

  “You did well.” Gorloff’s voice was barely above a whisper. He didn’t want to attract attention as he walked down the hall. “It seems Professor Mendeleev responded quite well to the visions you showed him.”

  “We showed Professor Mendeleev no visions.”

  “What?!” The general shouted, then looked around quickly to make sure that no one had heard him. “What do you mean you showed him no visions?”

  “We didn’t need to. Those were Mendeleev’s own ideas.”

  Gorloff felt his knees go weak. He trusted in Mendeleev’s plan because he felt that Legion had been guiding him. “Are such airships really possible?”

  “They are,” said Legion. “Do not fear, part of me will enter Professor Mendeleev’s dreams tonight and we will guide him to make sure his plans are sound.”

  Reassured, the general continued on his way.

  << >>

  Ramon returned to the room he shared with Fatemeh late on Christmas Eve. Fatemeh noticed he wore a new pair of glasses. Like his old pair, they were round and gave his face an owlish appearance. He held his hands behind his back. Fatemeh stood and wrapped her arms around Ramon, but was surprised when he didn’t return the embrace. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.” Ramon’s voice held a sly edge.

  “It looks like you were successful in finding new glasses.”

  Ramon smiled. “Yes, these are even better than the old ones.” He shrugged. “The optometrist thinks my eyes have been getting a little worse.”

  “That’s too bad.” Fatemeh returned to her chair.

  “However, I did have enough money left over to get you something.” He brought his arms out from behind his back. In his hand was a narrow box, about eight inches long. “Merry Christmas!” Just then he pulled the box back. “Do Bahá’ís celebrate Christmas?”

  “Not normally,” said Fatemeh, “but as I’ve said, we respect the teachings of Jesus. I’m happy to celebrate his birth with you, Ramon.” She held out her hand and Ramon handed her the box. She opened it and saw a necklace. Adorning it was a hand-carved wooden bead in the shape of an owl.

  “I bought the necklace. I carved the owl myself, though.”

  “It’s very sweet.” Fatemeh smiled and put the necklace on. She stood and kissed Ramon, but held his hands as they parted. “How is our money doing?”

  “I think I can find a job, but it’s not going to pay much,” admitted Ramon. “We could stay here about six more days and I could keep looking, or we could move on.”

  “I like the idea of moving on.” Fatemeh returned to her chair. “I really didn’t like the reception we had on our first day and it’s loud here, even late at night.” She looked out the window at a saloon across the street.

  “Where would you like to go?”

  She pulled out a map and set it on the small table between the room’s two chairs. “What do you know about Los Angeles?”

  “It’s a small town. There’s some farms and some industrial work.” Ramon shrugged.

  “What does Los Angeles mean?”

  “It means ‘belonging to the angels,’ The name’s short for something like town of the queen of angels.”

  “Sounds lovely. Can we leave tomorrow?”

  Ramon laughed. “Tomorrow’s Christmas. I doubt the trains are even running. What about the next day?”

  “That sounds perfect.” Fatemeh put her hand to the new necklace. “I’m afraid I didn’t get you a present. What else do people do on Christmas?”

  “We sing songs.” Ramon sat in the empty chair next to Fatemeh.

  “Teach me a Christmas song worthy of the angels, Ramon.”

  Chapter Eight

  The Pirates of Baja

  Ramon stepped up to the door of a shack near the waterfront in San Pedro, California. The sign over the door read “Southern Pacific Railroad.” The railroad had just finished its line into Los Angeles and was now pouring money into the port so it could compete with Central Pacific’s rail and shipping interests in Northern California. Ramon was tired after spending the day talking to numerous foremen and supervisors. Three of them said they might have work for him next week and that he should check back. All of them suggested he should talk to Bryan Burke at the railroad office. Ramon rapped on the shack’s door.

  “Come in,” came a voice from the other side.

  Ramon entered the shack and was greeted by a tall, lanky, balding man with a sly but affable smile. “Mr. Burke?” asked Ramon.

  “That’s me.” Burke indicated a seat in front of the desk. “What can I do for you?”

  Ramon introduced himself, then turned and closed the door. “I’m new in Los Angeles and I’m looking for a job.”

  Burke nodded and sat down behind the desk. He steepled his fingers under his nose. “What kind of experience do you have, Mr. Morales?”

  “Most recently I was a ranch hand in Mesilla, New Mexico.” He sat down opposite Mr. Burke. “I’ve done a lot of repair work on corrals and barns. I’m good with a hammer and a saw.”

  Burke frowned. “What other experience do you have?”

  Ramon chewed his lower lip, debating how much to tell the railroad man. He didn’t want to lose a potential job because someone asked for references and found out he was a wanted man. Finally, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I was a sheriff in New Mexico territory.” He settled on the truth without too many specifics.

  Burke’s eyes widened. “Really? Are you a fast draw?”

  Ramon pursed his lips and shrugged. “I’m pretty good.”

  “Can you show me?”

  Ramon chuckled. “I’m afraid I don’t have a gun. I didn’t think I’d need it for construction work.”

  “No worries, my boy.” Burke walked over to a cabinet in the corner of the room. He retrieved a gun belt and handed it to Ramon. “It’s a Navy Colt. Sometimes people try to steal supplies. It can come in handy around here.”

  Ramon took the belt and strapped it around his waist. He had to admit it felt good to have a gun on his hip again. “Are you looking for a security guard?”

  Burke’s brow furrowed. “Something like that.” He stepped back and held out his hand. “Let me see that draw.”

  “I’m a little out of practice. Give me a minute to get the feel of this rig.”

  “Take your time.”

  As Burke returned to the desk, Ramon drew the Colt and evaluated its weight. He slipped it into the holster and drew it a couple of times, getting the feel of the metal against leather. Finally he took a stance and pictured Randolph Dalton at the other end of the room. He narrowed his eyes, reached for the gun, and aimed it.

  “I’m impressed,” admitted Burke. “Are you as accurate as you are fast?”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty good.”

  “Let’s see.” Burke opened the shack’s rear door. They walked out onto the wooden pier. At the end of the pier, a target was set up.

  “Do you do a lot of target practice, Mr. Burke?”

  “Let’s just say I’m looking for some highly qualified men for a job I have in mind.” He indicated the target. “Let’s see how you do.” He retrieved three rounds of ammunition from his coat pocket and handed them to Ramon.

  Ramon placed the cartridges into the revolver and snapped it shut. Holstering the gun, he took a careful stance and evaluated the target. He drew quickly and fired all three rounds into the bull’s eye.

  Burke nodded. “I think you might do nicely, Mr. Morales. Come inside and let’s discuss this job I have in mind.”

  << >>

  “You’ve been hired to do what?” Fatemeh stood with her hands on her hips. />
  “Apparently a group of pirates have been harassing ships leaving the Port of Los Angeles. Southern Pacific Railroad wants it stopped.” Ramon shrugged. “They offered to pay me a year’s wages for a few weeks’ work.”

  “A lot of good that will do if you get killed.” Fatemeh shook her head. She walked over to the window of the hotel room they shared and looked out at the white-washed walls of the surrounding buildings.

  “These pirates haven’t killed anyone.” Ramon stepped up behind her. “Apparently they disable the ships, subdue the crew and steal most of the cargo, then leave.”

  Fatemeh turned around, her brow furrowed. “How do these pirates disable the ships? Do they fire cannons?”

  Ramon shook his head. “Mr. Burke was a little unclear about that. All he said was the pirates somehow break the rudder. Didn’t sound like cannon fire to me.”

  Fatemeh dropped into a chair with a deep frown. “I still don’t like it. It seems like there are a lot of ways you could get hurt.”

  Ramon moved to the chair next to hers. “There were a lot of ways I could get hurt when I was sheriff of Socorro.” He sat down and met her eyes. “This isn’t the job I was looking for, but I think it’s a lucky break. We’re out of money, but he’s already paid me enough to buy a new gun, rent the room for another month, and I should even have enough left over for you to stock up on some new supplies.”

  Fatemeh sighed. “You know how I feel about taking lives—any lives. Even if these people are pirates, I would not be happy if I found out you killed one of them.”

  Ramon looked down at his hands, then back up into Fatemeh’s eyes. “I know, corazón. But, if what Mr. Burke says is right, I don’t think I’ll have to fire a shot. These pirates aren’t used to encountering resistance. Our ship is the Stockton. It’s under the command of an experienced Navy captain named Mercer. Our goal is to round up these pirates and bring them to port for trial.” He held out his hands. “For me, that sounds like pretty easy work for a year’s wages.”