HAREM SLAVE: ONE THOUSAND NINE HUNDRED AND FOUR DAYS OF HELL ON THE PERSIAN GULF

By Nancy Hartwell Enonchong

PART ONE

KIDNAPPED

July-August 2005

(Jumada Al-Thany - Rajab 1425)

[Story so far: Tammy Simmons, a recent honor high school graduate from Maryland, is visiting friends outside Marseilles, and decides to try on a dress in the Arab Quarter. In the dressing room she is overpowered and drugged, then dumped onto a boat with a dozen other young women who are all being transported to harems and brothels on the Persian Gulf. She there becomes friends with Marisa, a stunning Swede who had answered an ad for a swimsuit model, and who is weeping uncontrollably after a brutal rape. Marisa is silenced with insulating foam, but she suffocates, and her body is thrown overboard. Tammy herself is brutally beaten and sodomized by Fuad, who informs her that she is destined for a brothel. The captives are crated up and drugged for the trip through the Suez Canal.]

Oh no, Tammy thought, as she recognized that she was coming to, I don’t want to wake up. If I’m awake they’ll kill me. She could sense someone lurking nearby. Fuad! The brothel! She had to get away.

“Ya Allah! God! Don’t struggle so, my golden treasure, your IV will – oh, too late,” said a soothing baritone. “Now, tell me please, where will I ever, ever find another vein?”

She blinked. Stared. Sheets, clean and white. Soft pillows. A man in white with a thousand-watt smile. Thick dark hair. Thick dark moustache. A stethoscope. A hospital! She wasn’t in a brothel, she was in a hospital! She was going to be all right. Tears that she’d bottled up for days soaked the pillow.

“I’m Dr. Hassan,” said the man beside her, a dizzying cross between Omar Sharif and Clark Gable. “Alas, that is my fate, to be considered frightening by beautiful women. You were brutally raped, you are dehydrated and weak, your rectal walls are ruptured, and your back is nothing but bruises, but you’ll soon be as good as new.”

“I’m sorry,” she said sheepishly between sobs, “I thought you were…someone else. I’m Tam, Tamara Simmons.”

“Taamm? It means complete, or perfect. Which you soon will be again.”

A dozen tissues later, Dr. Hassan was still there, still smiling, still reassuring. He gave her his card, Arabic on one side and English on the other. The Emirate of Amalia Jirahiya? She’d never heard of it. His devilish wink set her heart racing. “If God wills it, my golden one, in a couple of weeks you’ll be able to travel.”

“Weeks! But I need to get back to France. My family and friends must be worried out of their minds. I need to let them know I’m all right.”

“Tomorrow I need to operate and you’re not going anywhere until you’ve sufficiently recovered. Meanwhile, give me your family’s and friends’ emails and I will send them messages. Now, I’ll give you a shot so you can get some rest.”

Over the next few days, pleasantly drugged, she drifted in and out of a misty netherworld. Once, after a vivid nightmare, she woke up screaming. A smiling male nurse in a white uniform held her hand and gave her pain-killing shots. She was grateful, because both arms were sore from the IVs, her back knotted with pain when she breathed too hard, her rear was still on fire, and her legs felt like she’d done a thousand knee-bends.

She thought her heart would explode with gratitude the day Dr. Hassan arrived with two suitcases crammed with designer clothes and a ticket to Marseilles. “Your embassy people certainly are complicated,” he said, shaking his head, “Phone calls, verifications, more phone calls, oh my.” He triumphantly held up a replacement passport. “You’ll be leaving on the twenty-ninth of Jumada Al-Akhir, if God wills it.” He waved off her protests that he was doing too much, too much by far. “You are our guest,” he explained, “and we are honored to assist you.”

“I’m so lucky to be alive,” Tammy told Dr. Hassan again and again, letting the story of Marisa tumble onto sympathetic ears.

“May Allah be praised. Once a year, during the month of Shaban, the Tree of Life drops the leaves of those who will die in the coming year. I rejoice that the Tree of Life still holds fast to your leaf and that Almighty God has seen fit to spare you.”

She was cheered when huge arrangements of flowers from the Couillacs and her parents soon turned the bare hospital room into a fragrant, colorful bower.

“Nothing from my boyfriend?” she asked Dr. Hassan. “Just wait ’til I get back to Washington. Will Marc ever hear about this!”

The following day two dozen roses arrived with a card that said, “Dearest Tam, all my love, Marc.”

“That’s odd,” she told Nurse Nessim, “maybe I’m getting all worked up over nothing, but Marc hates the nickname Tam.” Why hadn’t he sent the roses to Tamara Lynne, she wondered. Was he pulling back?

“Perhaps he’s just trying to please you,” Nurse Nessim suggested.

Maybe. But it raised a lot of doubts.

“Can we please try to call my parents again?” she asked Dr. Hassan. “I hate to keep asking, but it’s been more than a week.”

“Why certainly, my golden treasure.”

“I don’t understand,” he said, putting the receiver to her ear, “no answer again, perhaps they are on an excursion. Beautiful flowers they sent you, though; I’m glad our email reached them safely.”

“Flowers are nice, Dr. Hassan, but I want to talk to them.”

“What’s important right now is your health, Taamm. Now you go back to sleep.”

When the bruises on her back had faded to bluish yellow and the thick hard knots were starting to shrink, she could raise herself on her elbows and write more emails for the nurse to send.

“What’s the day today?” she inquired.

“The 24th of July.”

“Look, while you’re here, can we please try to call Bethesda again?”

“Of course.” Nessim brought the phone in and plugged it into the wall jack. He’d barely picked up the receiver when he was summoned urgently away. “I’ll be right back,” he assured her. “It’s real complicated, so I’ll make the call for you.”

Tammy waited for a moment, then sprang to life. Complicated? What did he take her for, a total ninny? She’d watched, so she knew the access code for international calls, and although the so-called “Arabic numerals” bore only occasional resemblances to what she was used to, she closed her eyes and dialed from finger-memory. The phone rang.

“Hello, Wellie?”

“Who’s this?” he said absently. “Really awesome. Turn it up, Zyko, this song really rocks.”

“Wellie, I can hardly hear you. This is Tam. Let me speak to Mom or Dad. I’m calling from overseas on somebody else’s phone, so make it snappy.”

“Not home. No, it’s not Pelican, it’s only my sister.”

“Where are they?”

“Pelican and Julep? That’s just it, they were supposed to be here hours ago. Oh, awesome, play it again, really awesome.”

“Wellie, listen! I was kidnapped. I’m okay, but I’m in a hospital in an emirate on the Persian Gulf. I’ll give you the number. Ask Mom and Dad to call me, okay?”

“Sure. Dad’s over there looking for you. Hey, Zyko, get me a pencil. Hold on, Tam.”

“Listen, potato-brain, hurry up!”

“Don’t short your circuits, mudface. All right, go ahead.”

She read it off to him and made him repeat it. She hung up less than ten seconds before Nessim opened the door.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Taamm. Don’t worry, this time we’ll get through.” He put the receiver to her ear. The phone rang and rang. There was no answer.

“But–” Something told her not to elaborate.

How odd, she thought, how very odd.

Again and again, Tammy started letters to Marc and tore them up. This was just not what you could talk about in an email. Sometimes she made light of things; other times, she sensed she’d said too much. She could never seem to find the right balance of respect for his feelings and her own. How could she explain to him how filthy she felt, as if she could take twenty thousand showers and still not feel clean? It hadn’t been her fault, but that didn’t keep her from feeling guilty, and if she had such mixed emotions, how could she expect him to do otherwise?

She thought it would help to file a report with the police. Dr. Hassan hardly shared her enthusiasm, saying that under Islamic law rape was extremely difficult to prove, and that she would probably be disappointed. Nevertheless, since she insisted, he arranged for a police sergeant to interview her. She was annoyed at having to be veiled for the visit. Maybe it was one of the reasons the session went straight downhill.

The sergeant was a world-class nincompoop. Not only was he not the least bit scandalized about her abduction, he kept implying that it was her fault. He kept harping on how she’d entered the country illegally, wanted to know how long she’d been a prostitute, preached that in this part of the world where morality still had some value, prostitution was a serious crime, on and on. There she was, lying face down in a hospital room with rope burns on her wrists, her back a mass of bruises, and thirteen stitches up her rear, and Sgt. Nabil kept referring to her “alleged” abduction. She had to hold onto the bed linens with both hands to keep from jumping up and smacking him. He didn’t bat an eye when she told him about Marisa; he said any slut willing to parade around in skimpy swimsuits in public had no business coming to a proper Muslim country in the first place.

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Hassan said after the idiot left, “but unfortunately that’s about what I expected.”

“What year did you say this was?” she asked, ripping off the veil.

“Fourteen twenty-five.”

“Sounds just about right,” she fumed.

“Do you know how beautiful your eyes are when you get angry?” he asked with a slanting smile. “They’re ten times bluer than usual.”

She groaned. “Sometimes I think you’re as much of a Neanderthal as that lame excuse for a sergeant. I’m trying to talk about something serious and you want to talk about my eyes.” The stricken look on his face filled her with remorse. “I’m sorry, Doctor, I really am. You’ve been just wonderful and I shouldn’t lump you in the same category with that jerk.”

“Thank you,” he said mildly. “Now let me check your stitches.”

As her health improved it got harder and harder for her to stay cooped up in the hospital room, but she wasn’t allowed to venture into the hallway where – horrors! – a man might see her, so Dr. Hassan arranged for a hairdresser to give her a glorious cut and styling, followed by other specialists who manicured, creamed, massaged, and lulled her into forgetting that she still hadn’t been able to reach anyone by phone. She held on for dear life to what Wellie had said: Dad’s over there looking for you.

The stitches came out. Within a few more days she walked. She sat – something she doubted she’d ever do again. She fidgeted. She wrote more emails. She practiced putting on the Yves Saint Laurent veil Mrs. Hassan brought her, logo discreetly embroidered in one corner of the double thickness of georgette, and startled herself with her black-veiled image in the mirror.

“Dear Clo,” she wrote for them to email, “Please bring the biggest, fattest pain au chocolat you can find and a whole carafe of Burgundy when you come meet me at the airport. I’ll hold my mouth open and you just keep pouring.”

She was really frustrated that phone calls never got through, and for days, they hadn’t been able to reach anybody by email. She had an especially bad case of cabin fever one afternoon when a grinning Dr. Hassan showed up with a stack of newspapers. “I’m sorry to say, the Internet is still down all over this area. Thought you might like something to read, though,” he said. “I’m sorry they’re so old, but they’re the best I can do.”

Who cared? She shrieked when she saw an article on page four of the International Herald Tribune.

Paris, July 17. (AP) –

Sources at the American Embassy in Paris confirmed today that 18-year-old Tamara Lynne Simmons of Bethesda, Maryland, has been declared a missing person since disappearing Tuesday morning in the Arab Quarter of Marseilles. Spokesmen say that concerted efforts by French authorities to locate the 5-foot-8-inch blue-eyed blonde have not yet been successful. She is described as tanned and fit, weighing approximately 125 pounds; when last seen she was wearing a long ponytail, jeans, and a Washington Redskins tee shirt.

John Willem Simmons, her father, 51, a former U.S. diplomat and presently owner of an international trading company, and her mother, Catherine Caldwell Simmons, 43, a well-known interior designer, say they have not given up hope. “She’s smart and resourceful,” he said at a press conference in their colonial home. “We’re confident that she’ll turn up soon.”

Tamara, a recent graduate of Walt Whitman High School, is expected to enter the freshman class of Georgetown University’s School of Foreign Service in September.

“Oh look! I made the paper!”

Dr. Hassan rapidly read the article. “Your father used to be a diplomat?”

“Yes, Doctor. Specialized in North African affairs.” Was it just her imagination, or did a faint wave of trouble just wash over him?

“Only three days left before your flight. Are you sure you don’t want to stay here with me?”

“Thanks,” she replied, “I’ll never forget you, but just between you and me, I’ll be glad to get back to civilization.”

Even though her bruises were fading and turning into hard lumps, she often felt depressed. On those days, the slightest thing would set her off, which startled and embarrassed her, because she couldn’t stand weepy women.

“It’s normal,” Dr. Hassan reassured her. “My golden treasure, you’re strong, but you can’t expect to get over such traumatic events in a mere three weeks. You might consider getting counseling when you get home.”

The twenty-ninth of Jumada Al-Akhir finally arrived. Home! Tammy could almost smell it. She rose at dawn, flitted merrily around the room, and got everything ready with hours to spare. Time to write a few more emails, including a long one to Elaine. “I’m sorry Marisa wasn’t alive when we were rescued, but otherwise, she was lucky. Can you imagine how horrible it must be, closed up in a spooky harem, and you try to run away and they beat you, and this old geezer slobbers all over you and gets you pregnant, and you know you’re stuck there for the rest of your life? I mean, just think how horrible it would be if you were forced to live with somebody as creepy as Martin Higgenbotham, or a brute like Fuad!”

The Internet was still down, but she knew she could impose on Dr. Hassan one last time and get him to send the messages for her as soon as it was back up. She left them on the rolling table along with thank-you notes to him and Nurse Nessim.

Just as she was prepared to leave, the nurse appeared. “I need to give you one last shot,” he said. “This will help prevent jet lag.”

“Thank you so much for everything,” she said, overcoming the urge to hug him. “Shukran shukran shukran shukran,” she said, hoping that by sheer volume she could make up for her almost-non-existent Arabic vocabulary.

“Allah maa kum,” may God be with you.

Suddenly overcome by gratitude for those who had offered a hand of kindness to a suffering person, she went quickly outside.

She inspected the contents of her beige snakeskin handbag. Ticket? Check. New passport? Check. The €100 Dr. Hassan had insisted on giving her? Check. His card, so she could write and let him know how she was doing? Yes. Everything was just perfect, except for the fact that she had to cover up her beige pleated Gucci with the stupid black cloak.

Enveloped as she was in the ankle-length black abaaya and a long black veil, just in the fifty feet or so between the air-conditioned clinic and the white stretch limo, she thought she’d positively suffocate. She felt bizarre, too, as if she was just an oversize Idaho potato wrapped up in a black bag.

She’d resisted the veil. “If Arab women let men oppress them, it’s their business,” she said, “but I’m not covering up my face.”

He gasped. “It’s not oppression at all,” he explained, “just a different sense of decency. No self-respecting Arab woman would expose her face to strange men any more than you’d walk topless down the Champs Elysées. My wife, for instance, who studied in Paris, wouldn’t have things any other way.”

Her dad had always insisted that they respect other cultures, so she finally broke down and let him put the darn thing on her. What a pain! Even her own mother wouldn’t have known her. Brother, she thought, am I glad I don’t have to fool with this stuff all the time.

The two suitcases went into the trunk. Dr. Hassan had said that it would be preferable, since she didn’t speak the language, to let the driver handle the airport formalities. It annoyed her – didn’t these men think women were capable of anything? – but she capitulated and let the driver take the ticket and passport. She eased into the white leather seat. She sighed contentedly, and to her amusement, the veil puffed out. She experimented blowing it out and sucking it in. Fascinating.

She groaned when she noticed that the limo windows were heavily curtained, reminding her of a hearse. Dr. Hassan had told her that the Arabic word for “chaste” also meant “well guarded,” but they took things to ridiculous lengths. Oh well, just this once was no big deal. Besides, she was feeling downright woozy. “Yes, Jensen, another glass of champagne, thank you dahling. Oh, dear me, an emergency! I’ve nicked a nail! Fifi, quick, a manicure, dahling.” The veil obligingly went puff-puff-puff. How could Arab women talk to each other and manage to keep a straight face?

The driver cast questioning looks at her as she chattered away to herself. Okay, so she was feeling silly, but didn’t she deserve a little fun? What really mattered was that she was on her way home.

She felt like she’d had about three “ti many martoonis” by the time they arrived at a huge gated compound where Dr. Hassan had mentioned that they would drop something off. She hadn’t expected to get out of the car, but after the driver spoke briefly with one of the sentinels, he drove through the gate and grandly opened the door.

“Oum Mohammed, Sheikh Khalid’s wife, invites you to have a glass of lemonade with her.”

“But we need to get to the airport.”

“We have time. It would be extremely rude to refuse, and ten or fifteen minutes won’t really matter. Don’t spend all afternoon, though, or you’ll miss your plane.”

“Fat chance of that!” Maybe some lemonade would perk her up a little. She finally located the assorted parts of the black lump and managed to get them all out into the staggering heat.

Ferocious-looking guards draped with bandoliers of ammunition relaxed on a wide arched portico, behind them to the left a beautiful white marble building, to the right a vine-covered wrought iron gate. One of them nodded politely and unlocked it, and Tammy was admitted into a small courtyard where she was immediately greeted by two smiling women wearing long dresses but – much to her indignation – no cloaks or veils. Then she remembered. Behind a locked gate. Behind a high wall. What Dr. Hassan would call “protected.”

“Ahlan wa-sahlan,” Welcome welcome, the taller and very pregnant one said, a large-boned woman of maybe 35 with a plain face and pretty eyes. “Ismii Zeynab. Zeynab,” she repeated with a smile. My name is Zeynab.

They seemed to be expecting her.

“Ismii Haifa,” My name is Haifa, the other one said. She was much younger, quite pretty, Asian, and only half as pregnant. “Alham-dulilah alla salama.” She knew Alhamdulillah meant thank God, because Dr. Hassan made sure she said it after every meal.

“Ismii Tam,” she replied, recklessly using up a huge percentage of the Arabic that Nessim had taught her. She said it a little more breathily than she had to, to make the veil puff out. It did. She giggled. Haifa and Zeynab seemed puzzled. Then she giggled again because they hadn’t. They exchanged nervous glances, like, are Americans always this harebrained?

“Taamm.” They pronounced her name like Dr. Hassan, stretching it out like salt-water taffy. He said it meant “complete,” but for all she knew it meant “complete idiot.” The trouble was, she was never sure she could believe him, because he was always skating on the border between chivalry and mischief and wasn’t above saying something flattering even if it weren’t entirely true.

The courtyard was set with potted geraniums and lemon trees. A grape arbor provided a little thin shade, cutting the 120-degree heat to a mere 115 or so. Off to the back was an odd wooden building with a pair of doors that looked like they belonged on a medieval castle. Zeynab let them through with a six-inch key. She and Haifa helped Tammy out of the cloak and veil and exclaimed admiringly over her wilted Gucci. Her wrappings took their place on hooks by the door. They were as alike as quarters. How would she know the right one to take when she left? She giggled. What difference could it possibly make?

It was only marginally cooler inside the house. That lemonade, perchance? Dr. Hassan had said that Sheikh Khalid was a fabulously wealthy commodities trader. Maybe so, but his house was in shambles. From the entryway of chipped patterned tiles, they climbed a rickety stairway that led to a shabby living room with lattice-covered windows and built-in couches. Two middle-aged women were doing needlework and a curly-haired girl was teaching a teddy bear how to read. Oh good, Tammy thought, now for that lemonade. She stopped, too dizzy to continue, and steadied herself. She made circles in the air with her finger, and they seemed to understand. They continued around a couple of odd corners, up two or three more small flights of swayback wooden stairs, flattening themselves against a wall while squealing twin boys raced by. I’ll be darned, she thought, if this is where the women and children live, it must be the harem. I’m actually visiting a sheikh’s harem. Wait until I tell Elaine!

It wasn’t at all like Hollywood had led her to expect. A touching crayon drawing of a purple horse? What, no belly dancers, no bejeweled women in harem pants lounging seductively on fringed sofas? Where were the naked-chested eunuchs in draped pants and gold earrings? Even an ironing board? Her father would be pleased with all the stereotypes this short visit had exploded.

Next stop on the tour was a small dim room furnished only with a window-seat. Tammy looked politely out the window, trying to see what the world looked like through a carved lattice screen. She turned around just in time to see the door close. That’s odd, she thought, where’d everybody go?

A heavy bolt slid solidly into place.

Title: Harem Slave: One Thousand Nine Hundred and Four Days of Hell on the Persian Gulf

Genre: Drama

Age Range: Older teens and adults

Word Count: 117,000 (this excerpt: 3.973)

Author Name: Nancy Hartwell Enonchong

Why this book is a good fit: After collecting dozens of rejection letters, I finally self-published this book on Amazon, and within five weeks it had reached number one in its category. I am an internationally recognized authority on human trafficking and drive sales through radio interviews. After one particularly juicy interview on the popular Real Talk with Lee in New York, I had 720 downloads in a single day, lifting Harem Slave to number seven in All Fiction on Amazon (three million titles)! It has been translated into French, German, and Spanish and has sold more than 25,000 copies. The sequel, Prince Ibrahim’s Favorite, and a companion volume, Voices from the Harem, are also strong sellers. Both Harem Slave and Prince Ibrahim’s Favorite were voted the monthly favorite by members of the e-book club, Noveltunity.

The hook: This could happen to anyone

Synopsis: Tammy Simmons, every parent’s dream daughter, is kidnapped and, to her utter disbelief, sold into the harem of an 81-year-old sheikh. She struggles to deal with the chilling detour her life has taken and to hang onto some semblance of sanity. In the five-plus years she spends in slavery before her near-miraculous rescue, she also belongs to a brooding and unpredictable petroleum geologist, a weirdo who dyes her green, and a prince with a weakness for fresh blonde corpses. She gets into trouble when she gleefully wreaks revenge on a surgeon who has taken great delight in tormenting her; indeed, she’s sentenced to be tortured to death at a “snuff club” that has been held as a threat since day one. Her extraordinary courage, willingness to love those who deserve it the least, and ability to see her masters as other humans grappling with their own demons. finally constitute the keys to her salvation.

Target audience: general public, parents of teenage daughters, activists, women

My bio: I grew up in Tampa, earned a degree in international relations from American U., and married a distinguished attorney from Cameroon, where I lived and worked for 15 years. Back in the U.S. I wrote for The Washington Post on Capitol Hill, became lead proposal writer for an international consulting company, and with brilliant timing opened a catering company just in time for the recession. I have traveled to 44 countries (even Mozambique, Haiti, Guyana, Bangladesh) and speak more than a dozen languages. I became fascinated – and horrified – by the modern-day slave trade when a friend of mine vanished and it was later rumored that she had been sold to a sultan in Libya. This prompted me to start collecting stories, which eventually resulted in the three books in my Human Trafficking Series.

Platform: I am in hot demand as an expert on the 21st Century slave trade; to date I have done more than 500 radio interviews around the world. I also do presentations at local civic and religious groups (e.g., Rotary). In addition. I have an active website focused on human trafficking and a monthly newsletter.

Education: B.A., international relations, American University, 1967. Certified French/English translator, September 1968.

Experience: Been There, done That! And while I was There doing That, I got into trouble. By the grace of God I climbed back out and then immediately got into trouble again. I have lived an incredibly rich life, and many people have told me I’m the happiest person they know. I was in the first interracial couple to marry in Maryland. In the 1970s I supervised 44 people (41 men) in Cameroon when women were expected to be secretaries. I investigated stolen cargo in the port. I spoke eight Cameroonian languages, but nobody believed it, so crooks would make plans right in front of me, and I’d arrange for cops. They never figured it out! When close friends were murdered, a Gendarme officer and I spent 18 months dismantling a cover-up and cracking the case, but we destroyed the corrupt President, who was exiled in disgrace. I was calligrapher for Bob Dole’s Presidential campaign. I raised eight kids, only one of whom is “officially” my own. I offer my home to people who need it, currently a father and daughter from Pakistan here for specialized surgery; others have been from a dozen countries. I have edited 35 or 40 books and translated half a dozen. I don’t care what color you are or what you call God. I have collected hundreds of stories about victims of human trafficking. The crime positively infuriates me and makes me sick to my stomach, and I hope that my efforts can help prevent at least two or three people from becoming trapped in this horrific vortex.

Personality/writing style: Harem Slave went through 107 drafts. I do my best to be accessible, compelling, provide carefully researched, authentic detail about time and place, and let the characters drive the story. At times, the characters became so real to me that they would wake me up screaming, “You idiot, that’s not what I said!” Critics complain that content is occasionally too graphic , and I often struggle trying to strike a balance, but in the end I follow the maxim Show, don’t Tell. I want readers to experience the horror right along with the victim and not just blandly read, “The torment lasted for an hour and a half.”

Likes/hobbies: I am an accomplished baker and made a wedding cake for 5,000 for the daughter of the President of Cameroon. I wrote a cookbook: Heavenly Brownies. Therapy! I love reading, writing, words, languages, philology, chocolate, wildlife, traveling, and young people. My brother teased, “Nancy loves wildlife – especially elephants, giraffes, and teenagers.”

Hometown: Tampa. Love this beautiful, reasonably priced, friendly, and resolutely easy-living city!

Age: 70. I do not take a single prescription drug and don’t even wear eyeglasses. I passed the Florida State driver’s vision test on my 69th birthday without glasses!

The shrieking roc dives from the endless sky

Banshee's shrill scream urges me through thick sand

The breath of its colossal wings pass by

King of eagles blasts into the scorched land.

Black embers score my skin as the roc strains

In ebon sand that throbs with the sun's rays

I drink in the sand's power--fire floods my veins;

Set alight, I harness the charred sands' blaze.

A charcoal swell surges at my command--

Then twists away of its own strange accord

Given life by some invisible hand

The sand's black coils claim the sky's fallen lord.

I will never forget this novel feat

Of the sand that lives in the searing heat.

Lonely in a zoo

there lived a sad GIRAFFE

always feeling blue

he knew not how to laugh

Life inside a zoo

trapped behind a wall

left him feeling blue

and so ABOMINABLE

He yearned for open land

his siblings and his mum

a life so very grand

forever FROLICSOME

Next door a HIPPOPOTAMUS

was feeling much the same

he always made a lot of fuss

and hated being tame

Giraffe, he said, come end it quick

our lives made void and null

this life of ours is old and sick

come eat the dark CAPSULE

Swallowed down, their souls both flew

A celebration and confetti

the giraffe began a life anew

reincarnated as a YETI

(for better or worse, I got all the words in. Ha, was fun!!!)

George shot through the open doorway, fell to his knees, and slid across the slimy wooden deck of the ship.

He lifted his head to catch his bearings and was greeted with the sight of about a dozen, open mouthed, pirates who were stood completely still having immediately stopped whatever task they were in the middle of performing. It was as if he had gate crashed a game of musical statues.

‘Er…hello,’ he said, red faced.

Suddenly the pirates came to their senses and released one conjoined roar into the breezy sea air. They all jumped, to a man, on top of George forming an untidy pile of arms and legs in the middle of the deck.

George managed to find a gap to squirm his way through and crawl from beneath the teeming mass of smelly armpits and greasy limbs. His freedom was short lived though as another pirate, coming to see what all the commotion was about, grabbed him as he took to his feet. The pirate twisted George’s arm around his back and put a cutlass blade to his throat.

‘Going somewhere are we?’ he said, menacingly.

‘Get up you scurvy bag of scum,’ the pirate shouted at the others on the floor. ‘Go and get the Captain.’

One of them, a tall thin man with thick spectacles, peeled himself off the top of the pile and headed up some steps to the side, onto the upper deck, tripping on every third stair.

After several seconds of loud bumps and sounds of ‘Ouch’, ‘Gerrof’ and ‘Who put that there’, the man came back accompanied by the un-mistakable figure of Captain John Ladybird.

‘What have we here then, a stowaway?’ said the Captain.

‘We found him on deck sir, trying to steal our booty he was,’ said the pirate holding George.

His breath stank as he spoke and George tried to pull his face away. He tried to say something but the sharpness of the blade persuaded him otherwise. Luckily the Captain saw through the pirate’s false claims.

‘I hardly think that to be the case,’ he said, calmly, ‘considering we don’t actually have any booty, as you call it, do we?’

All the pirates looked down at the floor together and, in unison, shrugged and grunted.

‘Well I’m sure if we did, he would’ve tried to steal it, sir…..can’t we just get the cat ‘o nine tails out anyway, just to be sure…..please,’ he pleaded.

All of them nodded their heads and a mirage of toothless grins graced the Captain’s eye line.

‘No,’ he shouted with authority. ‘We shall let the boy speak first and see what he has to offer in way of an explanation.’

Captain John looked directly at George. ‘Well, boy. What do you have to say for yourself?’

George desperately wanted to show the gold coin to the Captain.

‘I have something in my pocket that will explain everything, I think,’ he gargled.

George moved his free hand towards his inside pocket but stopped sharply when his other arm was pulled tighter up his back.

‘Aaaaargh,’ he wailed.

The Captain, luckily, sensed he wasn’t a threat and put his hand out to stop any more of the torture.

‘Colin,’ he ordered, ‘see what it is he wants to show us, if you please.’

A gormless looking, short, scruffy haired pirate walked over and reached into the inside of George’s coat. He pulled something out and hoisted it into the air.

‘Look sir, a gold coin,’ exclaimed Colin.

He examined it more closely, fiddling with it between his fingers.

‘Hang on. This isn’t real,’ he said.

He peeled away at the gold with his dirty fingernail to reveal a chocolate coin. George looked up to the sky, exasperated. He couldn’t believe this was happening. That novelty coin had been there since Christmas.

‘The other pocket,’ he shouted desperately. ‘Look in the other pocket.’

‘Oh, right,’ said Colin, taking a bite of the chocolate.

He again slid his hand into the inside of George’s jacket, this time pulling out the Leprechaun gold.

‘Hang on, is this some kind of joke,’ Colin said, trying to scrape the gold away from the coin.

Captain John suddenly grabbed the rail and hurdled over onto the steps and bounded down to the deck below, snatching the coin from Colin’s grasp.

‘Let me see that,’ he said.

He held it up to the light and inspected it more closely. He turned to the pirate holding George.

‘Let him go, immediately,’ he barked.

George twisted and stretched his sore limb, which had now been released.

‘You, come with me,’ he said, pointing at George, before marching into the inner part of the ship.

George picked up the book from the sodden wooden planks and discreetly removed the bookmark, before following the Captain into what was now just a normal doorway.

*

George stood inside the Captain’s quarters, now minus the reading glasses which had been safely put away. In the middle of the room was an old desk set at a strange angle to the walls with various nautical measuring instruments and charts adorning the top of it, and an equally old chair resting to the side. There was also an old pewter tankard, with goodness knows what murkily residing within it, sliding gently back and forth to the rhythm of the swaying ship. In the corner was a bunk, only a foot or so off the ground, with a stained woollen blanket dumped roughly at its base.

Captain John took a swig from the grubby tankard and immediately pulled a face then shook his cheeks from side to side.

‘So, the stories were true then, what my Mother told me when I was young,’ he said, almost to himself, staring blankly out of one of the portholes.

He turned his head towards George. ‘So, what do they call you then….they do still use names in the future, don’t they?’

‘Yes sir, my name is George, sir.’

The captain nodded.

‘Right then, George. I assume you’re here because you need my help in some way,’ he said, coldly. ‘So, while you’re here you can be of help to me too. I need another able seaman to assist with some of the duties on board. One of them went and died on me recently, most rude it was.’

His expression remained serious. It was clear he wasn’t having a joke with George.

‘Yes sir,’ said George, solemnly.

’Right well, go and see the crew and get yourself better attired for the job. Then, when I think you’re on your way to actually being of use to us, I’ll ask you what it is you need my help for, understood.

He looked back out towards the sea.

‘Yes, but I….,’ said George, desperately.

‘Is that understood,’ interrupted the Captain, sternly, without turning back to face him.

‘Yes,’ George agreed meekly. He realised there was no point arguing with the Captain at this stage. He would just have to play ball for the moment and hope that his mood changed for the better, and that he would soon come to terms with the situation unfolding on his ship.

‘Oh,’ said Captain John, with a sly smile creasing up at the corner of his mouth, ‘do leave your bag here for the time being, I will need to do an inventory of its contents, standard ship procedure, I assure you.’

George hesitated for a brief moment. He was obviously very nervous about letting the contents of the satchel from out of his sight, but again the pointlessness of resisting the Captain’s wishes persuaded him it was a risk he would have to take. He pulled it over his head and laid it down onto the table, before excusing himself from the room and going back above decks to go and introduce himself, properly this time, to the crew.

*

The next few days went agonisingly slowly. Every time he was in Captain John’s presence he acted indifferently to George. Most nights he had laid awake on his bunk, staring at the ceiling above, wondering if he should steal his book back and leave the ship, but to his credit he stuck with it.

The crew, on the other hand, had turned out to be fantastic with him and had become very friendly. They taught him all about life on board and the tasks and duties that went with keeping everything ‘ship shape’.

George was now confident when it came to climbing up the rigging to untie ropes and unfurl sails. He had even taken a couple turns up in the crows nest, although after a while this got a bit boring when George sat there for hours with nothing to look at except miles upon miles of rolling ocean.

In return George taught them about the importance of things like hygiene and washing their hands, especially after trips to the toilet and before preparing food. He explained how important it was to keep the drinking water separate and safe from contamination. At first the crew had scoffed at his suggestions, but when he pointed out that these simple steps would prevent them from getting diseases like dysentery, or as they called it ‘the bloody flux’, they were only too eager to adapt his principles.

There were three pirates that George worked with in close proximity on a daily basis, and had become his closest allies on the ship. There was ‘short sighted’ Sid, the scrawny, thick spectacled one who had fetched the Captain when George first appeared on the ship, ‘Clueless’ Colin, the short, scruffy, pirate who had looked for the gold coin in George’s coat and ‘no nickname’ Pete.

Pete was a podgy, but tall, man who owned a pet parrot that often sat on his shoulder while he polished and cleaned his pistols during his free time. Occasionally Pete would offer to do the cooking for the crew, but they often denied him because the last time he did it he accidentally poisoned them all. Pete also had a tendency, when in the face of serious danger, to panic uncontrollably. Despite all of these characteristics, Pete still didn’t have a nickname because the others ‘couldn’t quite think of anything that had a ring to it yet.’

It didn’t come as a shock to George when he found out that the crew had been through a spell of bad luck recently and hadn’t plundered any treasure in over a year. George took it upon himself to work with them, for only about an hour every day, to develop their close combat fighting skills, boarding tactics and pistol shooting.

Despite the massively positive effect he was having with the men, the Captain still continued to look on and say nothing. George decided it was time he had to do something about the situation with the Captain. They had to talk, but not in front of the crew. He would wait until everyone was asleep in their bunks that night and sneak into the Captain’s room to confront him. After all, it should have been his duty to have helped George in the first place, for the sake of the family.

*

Every footstep George gingerly placed in front of the other on the rough wooden timbers appeared to creak even louder than the preceding one. Despite the friendship he’d forged with the crew he knew they still remained steadfastly loyal to the captain, although puzzling to him as it was, and if he was caught sneaking into the Captain’s quarters in the middle of the night they may develop the wrong impression about his intentions.

George was beginning to wonder if this had been such a good idea, but he was nearly at the Captain’s door. It was now easier to go on than risk turning back and getting caught as he tried to get back into his bunk. As he approached, he noticed the door was slightly ajar and a flicker of candlelight was emanating through the gap. He cautiously peeped into the room, holding his breath, and saw Captain John sat in his chair, facing away from the entrance, staring down at the floor.

‘Come in George, I knew you would come, eventually’ he said.

This startled George but nevertheless he pushed aside the door and slowly crept into the room.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ he said ‘but I really need to talk with you.’

‘Yes, it’s alright George, I know you do,’ Captain John said, resignedly. ‘I’ve been watching you for several days. The effect you’ve had on the crew is quite exceptional lad, and as for how far you’ve come yourself, well, you would make a very valuable addition to this ship. I suppose I’ve been afraid to talk to you myself because of what it may mean.’

‘Oh…..,’ George mumbled. He was surprised by this. He had thought the Captain was ignoring him because he simply didn’t care about helping him and was only using him for his own ends. He now realised that the Captain actually appreciated what he was doing on board the ship.

George took another step towards the desk, noticing the biography lying in the middle of it.

‘So you’ve looked through the book then I see?’ George hissed. ‘I’m not sure that was the wisest thing to have done, looking into your own future, sir.’

Captain John quickly spun round in the chair, but George could see he wasn’t angry with his comments. On the contrary, he had a sad look in his eyes.

‘I know, you’re right George,’ he said. ‘I realise that now, but looking at the book has helped me to understand some of the many mistakes I’ve made in my life.’

He picked up the book and offered it to George who politely took it from his grasp.

‘Look inside the book George,’ he said, ‘look at the pages from the middle onwards…they’re all blank.’

George flicked through the pages and indeed there was not even the tiniest spot of ink upon them.

‘Of course,’ he proclaimed. ‘From where we are now and onwards none of it has happened yet. The book can’t tell us about events that haven’t occurred because some things may yet change by me being here.’

‘That’s right George. So you see, the book offers me no clues anyway, except to show me how wrong I’ve been in my past.’

They looked straight at each other and for the first time George noticed the anguish and pain etched within the creases of Captain John’s face. He could see the longing for home. The Captain hadn’t chosen to be a pirate; it had been forced upon him, many years previously.

‘Go now, go back to your bed George and get a good nights rest,’ the Captain ordered. ‘In the morning you can tell me all about how we can help you, then we shall hit port and re-supply for the adventure ahead.’

Title: George and the Magic Library – The search for the Phoenix Quill

Genre: Fantasy, Historical Adventure.

Age Range: 11+

Word Count: Excerpt – 2,500, Main Book - 60,000+

Author Name: S J Andrews

Why this is a good fit: Although the book is an adventure story, the research has been meticulous, meaning there will be factual elements, but only on a subtle level so that it does not get in the way of the story. I believe the story will appeal to boys and girls alike as, though the central character is a boy, there are several strong female characters within the story. The story has many twists and turns, with cliff-hangers dotted within the story to keep young readers engaged and wanting to see what happens next. There is also a twist at the end which leads to the possibility and promise of more adventures to come.

The Hook: Characters can magically travel into books and have adventures within them.

Synopsis: George’s parents have been missing for several weeks and now his Grandma has died in mysterious circumstances. Sent to live with his uncle in the country George discovers a family secret at his new home – a magic library which allows the readers to enter into the stories within the books. He must use this magic to put together a series of clues and try to find an ancient artefact known as the Phoenix Quill, which ultimately has the power save his parents.

Target Audience: Boys and Girls between the ages of 11 and 16, particularly fans of fantasy, history and other similar genres, such as Narnia and Harry Potter.

Bio: I am 41 years old and live in Lancaster, England. I am educated to a good standard and run my own digital content and marketing business. I lead a wide ranging and healthy social life and am always attempting to gain new life experiences. I enjoy history and have a keen interest in myths and legends, especially the psychology of how many of the tales come about – I like to then take these two elements and combine them into my storytelling, which is written in a way that children can identify with and understand (I have 4 Children of various ages), but without appearing condescending or insulting to their growing intelligence. I am a firm believer that reading is an important aspect of a child’s education, so the stories they are presented with must be kept exciting and engaging as well as giving them access to new words and information.

I wanted coffee.

So I decided to make a cup of coffee.

I use the pour over kind, don't ask me why,

      and not the machine, but it was dirty at the bottom of a full sink.

And the dishwasher was full of clean dishes that needed emptied

     before the dirty ones could go in.

So that I could put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher,

     and reach the pour over coffee maker,

          down at the bottom of a dirty sink,

              so I could make a cup of coffee.

I took the clean dishes out of the dishwasher one by one, and started to put them away.

     but then I heard my Facebook messaging notification ding.

         Oh I wonder what that could say?

It was a family who was coming today to get my son's old bassinet

      He had never even slept in it, but I was still sad,

           but they were giving me twenty dollars, so I was glad.

Back to the kitchen sink.

Emptying the clean dishes one by one.

Soon I would surely be done.

"Mom! The baby needs a diaper change!" my middle son shouts.

I continue emptying the dishes, hoping he would leave me be.

"Mom! He stinks! He's right next to me!"

Sigh. I'll just change him real quick, and it'll be done in no time.

Maybe instead of coffee, I should just skip to the glass of wine.

Back to the kitchen sink.

Emptying the clean dishes one by one.

Soon I would surely be done.

Oh, no. What if the family who is coming to get the bassinet can't find us? I thought, worriedly. I better send them more info in a hurry!

Back to the computer, where I also noticed I had an email.

Oh my goodness, I began to wail.

It was an important email from my sons' teacher who was assessing their homeschool portfolios and needed photos of them doing science projects, on field trips, and more.

Oh, my brain began to roar.

I spent the next fifteen minutes gathering up photos to send.

Oh, this was never going to end.

Back to the kitchen sink.

Emptying the clean dishes one by one.

Soon I would surely be done.

The clean dishes were put away

So I filled the dishwasher with the dirty ones

Soon I would surely be done.

At last, the dishes were nice and clean

And the pour over coffee maker no longer at the bottom of the sink.

The water was heating up in the tea kettle.

And my nerves began to settle.

Finally, coffee aroma filled the room

    and flowers all around me started to bloom

A symphony began to sing

    and no more facebook notifications pinged and dinged

I held the hot mug in my hands

    and did a little inner dance

I gobbled down the liquid fast.

    Coffee at last.

My body was screaming.      

      What had I done?

Then I felt

warm

     numb

          sleepy.

The pain was gone.

I was gone.

In complete and total darkness.

I had known darkness, but this, this was real darkness, swallowing my entire being.

There I was for what felt like ages, in the dark womb. It smelled of dirt. Blood.

A light flickered somewhere off into the distant unknown. It was out as suddenly as it appeared. Then back again, becoming brighter and brighter, until it consumed me whole.

But what was me ?

The light filled me with warmth

        and so much love. Like my mother's kiss. My father's hug.

I suddenly remembered. I am not my body.

I am the soul that dwells within.

The ‘f’ in my own ‘family’ stood for flogging. We were bred with it. It was a dietary requirement. And no, don’t be fooled by the title, there was nothing sugary about the experience. Not to us. It was only sweet for our parents, especially Mama. Mama could be too tired to cook, but let her find out that we left a chore undone, or an errand unattended. Her muscles would spring to life. Yes, for beating. She was always, it seemed, gunning for some sort of cane prize.

It wasn’t as though my younger brother, Akin, and I liked to be mischievous, sometimes we were simply unlucky—like the day I was bringing my parents’ meal from the kitchen and was about to set it down when Mama asked me to bring her an extra plate. Then some accursed, godforsaken witch of a housefly found no better moment to perch on my earlobe. Both hands occupied so I couldn’t swat it, I raised my shoulder to attend the itch—a motion, most sadly, Mama would misinterpret.

“Eh-ehn, am I the one you’re shrugging your shoulder at because I asked you to bring me a plate? Go and bring me that cane.” That was the format for guaranteed punishment: a rhetorical question, masquerading as an investigative inquiry, followed by an imperative statement. To attempt either answering the question or appealing the order only fetched a bonus pre-punishment slap, so what was the point? Discipline received (with swollen arms and a bruised knee as testament), and dinner forfeited (my favorite àmàlà and ewédú), I made sure I killed off all the insects I could find in the house that night. And the next day.

Mama’s motive for beating us, as she put it, was that the world was just too rotten and she couldn’t, wouldn’t, allow her two boys be corrupted by indiscipline. Her mantras included the Proverbial “…a child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame,” and “Train up a child in the way he should go…” The day she would upgrade our caning ration, she invited us both to sit down and lamented how we—I, actually—had not been taking my studies seriously considering I had the Common Entrance exam in a few months. Then she tasted her tallest finger and leafed through her unclothed Bible before proclaiming, “Withhold not correction from the child: for if thou beatest him with the rod…” Akin and I went flat on the floor at ‘rod’. As I begged her to be lenient, and Akin pretended to pass out, she continued reading, “…if thou beatest him with the rod he shall not die.” There was no going back.

While it was the most popular, flogging was not the only method of instilling discipline. Mama could also ask us to ‘kneel down, raise up your hands and close your eyes’ as our school teachers did, with Mama’s version including, ‘and face the wall.’ I never quite understood the eye-closing and wall-facing part, but I understood that an unexpected lash would attend the buttocks if our raised hands showed any sign of drooping. Alternatively, it would be the dreaded ‘Lọ f’ìka ẹ d’ólè s’íbèyẹn!’ meaning “Go and plant your finger on that spot,’—a punishment that was akin to the posture in hopscotch when you are about to pick up the stone, but in this case, you would be forced to freeze. The actual torment was the clear instruction to never change legs or switch fingers. It wouldn’t take more than 15 minutes for a union of sweat and tears to begin the solemn procession of tumbling off the tip of our noses.

Did I mention that Mama had uncanny prediction accuracy? If she told us ‘Spoil that mousetrap and see what I’ll do to you,’ we could as well begin to weep in advance, because by either extreme caution, or a complete absence of the same, we would engineer the fulfillment of her prophecy. Was it when, while pouring her some drinking water, gravely mindful of her strict, not-too-low-but-not-to-the-brim policy, Akin’s trembling hands overfilled the china cup, wetting her wrapper? Or how, despite warnings against handling hot things without a cloth, I would attempt removing a clay pot of fresh gbègìrì soup from the fire with bare hands, ending up with a shapeless, canary-yellow sea dotted with black shards staring back at me from the sandy kitchen floor? After earning a fat knock on the head that he would nurse all week, and after I acquired her fingerprints across my cheek, Akin and I needed no telling: Mama never threatens. She assures.

Still, all too often, my brother and I seemed to discard prior warnings and revisit our old ways. One Saturday afternoon after chores, Akin and I left the house without permission. Not that we could have sought it, because neither parent was home. The whole thing was my idea; Akin hardly had the courage to break rules anymore. I, on the other hand, was bored out of my wits and needed some rowdy company. We just had to make sure we were home on time.

We visited our neighbour’s farm first and climbed and plucked and consumed all the cashews we could stomach, throwing up when we could go no further. We had spent over three hours there when Akin suggested we head home. I was about to succumb when I realized how bad an idea it was: our shirts were littered with cashew juice, one of the most stubborn stains I have encountered in this life. If Mama spotted or sniffed it, our alibi was blown. So I suggested we go play soccer with our friends. The dust would mask the cashew stains as long as we ensured that we slid and rolled abundantly on the pitch. It seemed like a brilliant plan but when we got to the pitch, and our team kept winning, it was almost impossible to leave. Akin pressured, but I kept reassuring him we would go home after the next win. It wasn’t until a teammate kicked the ball far into a thick bush, and no one volunteered to retrieve it, that everyone dispersed. Our curfew was “6pm sharp” so when my teammate glanced at his watch and casually declared that it was “past 7”, I took some relief in knowing I wouldn’t face our parents’ wrath alone. Chastisement is worse without a partner in crime. At least in this case Mama had no basis for her “Can’t you see your brother? Is this how he behaves?” statements. When I searched, sang and screamed to no end however, I realized how undone I was: Akin had gone home without me.

Stopping two doors away from home, panting like my heart would find its way out any moment, I bent down and locked two straws of spear grass together, then plucked a lash from my left eye and buried it in the hair atop my head—two of the sure-fire charms my school friends told me guaranteed their parents forgot to punish their wrongdoings. Remembering how little of an amnesiac my own mother was, doubled my pace. And my blood pressure.

I approached our front entrance, hesitant. The door was ajar. I peeped in between the door and its frame through the gap occasioned by the hinge. I squinted, widened, cupped the edges of my vision, but the lantern’s flickering light was inadequate to make out anything. Two taps on my back and I instinctively went flat on the ground, confessing, “Mama, the hosts of heaven are my witness, I went in search of Akin not knowing he came home by another route. He went out, plucking cashew all afternoon. In fact, his friends also told me that while they were playing ball…” I paused. Something was not right. Mama would have cut me off mid-sentence, even for the most valid of excuses. As I contemplated looking up at her face, and considered whether I could afford the extra penalty that would attract, I heard a sound. A cackle. Then sniggering.

It was Akin.

I sprang up, bent on vengeance—both for his ditching me and now for disrespecting me. Pleading filled the air, as we swapped positions. He gobbled my forgiveness before I was done cooking it up. Then he gave updates: As expected, our parents had been asking of me, but he covered for me, telling them I left my shoes back where we went to play ball. I thanked him, although I wondered how such explanation could fly. How would I trek over four kilometers and not realize I was barefoot? He said Mama was busy in their room and I only needed to make it to our own room unnoticed and start snoring. Tomorrow morning, we would outwit her in the time-of-arrival debate since she was not there when I came in; he was. My tense shoulders caved in as I smothered Akin in an embrace reserved for brothers.

So, tip I toed, hoping to make it safely to our room. In the low light of the lantern dimmed by its smoky shade, I saw two long, thick sticks—bigger than I’d ever witnessed—behind the kitchen door. To think, retribution had been chilling by the corner all this time, awaiting my arrival.

I was almost out of the passage when: “Olúwamúmiboríogun.”

Now, that was disturbing on two levels: One, my full name was only mentioned when I had committed a serious offence. Two, that was Papa’s voice. While Mama beat us as frequently and as soundly as she could, Papa hardly did. But whenever he had to, it was a guaranteed grand style thrashing. And knowing Papa, this was about more than flouting curfew.

“Y-ye-yes Papa.”

“Welcome,” he greeted, punctuated by the sound of the main door latching behind me. In slow motion. Paka…paka…paka. Triple-bolted. Fate sealed. No neighbours could intervene. “Come,” he said, grinning. He was just a couple feet away but reaching him seemed like a holy pilgrimage on foot.

“Father, I’m not worthy to be called thy son,” quoting the prodigal son from our Sunday School memory verse, as I prostrated right where I was. If disownment was the alternative to death via thrashing, my choice was clear.

“What nonsense! You’re indeed my son. And will always be.” Disinheritance bid unsuccessful. Then he motioned at something. Now, unlike Mama, Papa always went to the imperative statement; he had no time for rhetorical questions. He would only summarize the purpose of the thrashing after it was over, like, “Next time you won’t go and break somebody’s louvre blades with a ball.” So, I stood in front of him and awaited the imperative statement.

“Go and bring those canes.” He added for effect, and apparently to heighten my torment, “They are ALL yours.”

My eyes followed his outstretched hand from origin, across my head and to, my goodness, the back of the kitchen door. Yes, where stood the two skyscraper sticks that would draw the curtain on my sojourn in this world of sin and flagellation and death. This was the end; it couldn’t be any clearer. From far off in the galaxies, I could hear Papa’s favorite song from his phonograph playing in my head, my thumping heart replacing the bass drum as Jim Reeves sang, Take my hand…precious Lord, lead me home.

But Papa would interrupt the flow and abort my levitation, bringing me back to the parlour where I was now inching my way towards the kitchen, bum and boxers united by sweat. He smiled.

“Your headmaster said you passed your Common Entrance exam so I stopped to buy you some sugar cane. You like them, don’t you?”

Vera clutched the letter in one sweaty palm as she pushed her way through a curtain of vines. She hated that scrap of paper, the one delivered by frightened messenger to her in the dead of night three days past. It was the reason she was here now, tromping through overgrown foliage in search of a tiny crystal vial.

Once a quarry, this sunken cenote was rimmed with dripping limestone. Opportunistic plants crowded the bowl from rim to rim. Vera slid down a boulder, bare dryad feet nimbly dancing down the rock, and hissed as a random branch caught her and scratched her arm. She crouched and touched the red welt gingerly, sighing. It stung but barely bled. She shrugged it off and glanced up. She stood on an overgrown stone pathway that wound around an algae-choked pond. Long ago, someone had cemented bits of rock together to form a walkway and bridge across the pond. Vera picked her way down the path.

She paused beside a blushing hibiscus. So gentle and beautiful. Dela loved flowers. How could they have taken such a sweet young woman? And how on earth had the kidnappers known about the vial? Vera shook her head of brown wavy hair in frustration. It didn't matter now. The only way to get Dela back was to retrieve that vial. Vera couldn't even remember what was in it. But that was the point, wasn't it?

A twig snapped nearby and Vera froze. Her breathing stopped and her pupils dilated as she scanned the area. Birds continued to flash through the trees. Insects still creaked. A turtle ambled out of the underbrush and blinked lazily at Vera. She relaxed and breathed. Vera hurried across to where a thin stream trickled over the lip of the bowl, making a weak waterfall that fed the pond.

Her mind kept wandering back to Dela. The sisters had grown apart after their father’s murder. The murderer had never been caught. Worse, Dela had thought that Vera had something to do with it. That rankled Vera, and they hadn't spoken in months. But now her sister had been kidnapped, and no misunderstanding would stop Vera from doing whatever it took to get Dela back.

Even if that meant finding out what terrible memory that vial must hold.

Vera reached the waterfall. This was the place. Vera could remember drawing the memory out of her mind and pouring it into the vial and hiding it here, deep in the jungle. What memory could have been so important and dangerous? She plunged her hand through the water to a small alcove behind it. Her hand flopped around for a moment, meeting only slick stone. Vera's blood went cold. It wasn't here.

She pulled her arm out, looking about, panic pressing on her chest. She knelt down and swept her fingers across the slick rocks. Had it fallen somehow? Her fingers met only rock. Desperation started gnawing at her. She glanced upwards at the sun, approaching its zenith. Out of the corner of her eyes, she noticed a rocky ledge high above. A small monkey was peering down at her from a nest of sticks. In its hand, it held a small vial that shone softly, pale silvery white like the sky on an overcast day. The monkey's lips were probing the stopper absently as it watched her.

Great, Vera thought. All I need for this day to get better is for that monkey to pitch that vial onto the rocks. Then Dela will be dead, and probably me too.

Vera gritted her teeth. This was no time to be worrying about what a monkey might do. Perhaps she could reach the little primate before it broke the vial.

Vera cast about. Her eyes fell upon a clump of vines that had collapsed on itself and formed a pile at the base of the rock wall. It would do.

Vera closed her eyes and faced the sun above her. She let its warmth flow into her, energize her. The pale green of her veins in her arms and throat deepened to a rich pine green, and when she opened her eyes, they shone like emeralds cast into a fire. Wisps of golden smoke knit together the scratch on her arm.

She stretched out a hand and willed the energy coursing through her veins out, away and into the vines. They stiffened and then began to grow upwards, propelled by Vera's command. They twisted up the rock face.

A shadow lurched at the edge of her vision, shattering Vera's concentration. She spun, eyes wide—but there was nothing there but a tree. She edged around the tree slowly...and reached the other side. Nothing.

Vera shivered. Could someone have followed her? No, it must have been a bird, she reassured herself. No one could follow a dryad in the jungle beside another dryad, and most of them had been exterminated for their magic. Only Vera and Dela had survived.

Vera returned to the heap of vines. She glanced up to make sure the monkey was still there with the vial. It bared its fangs at her but otherwise didn't move. She sighed, but began again, letting herself savor the delicious sunlight for a moment. Then she sent the vines upward again, snapping them towards the monkey. This time, she gave the monkey a good prod with a woody stem, and it dropped the vial and fled screeching across the rocks.

Vera smiled as she commanded the vines to retrieve and deliver the vial to her. Her hand closed around it, and the vines sagged, Vera's energy withdrawn.

The dryad paused for a moment to watch the swirling, pearlescent liquid memory slosh thickly against the exquisite crystal walls of the vial. It glowed faintly and moved of its own accord, almost like a living thing. Vera tucked the memory away in a pocket. She only had three days to get home with the vial as per the ransom letter's instructions.

But before she'd taken five steps, several shadows disentangled themselves from the greenery around her. Vera screamed and stumbled backward, tripping over a rock. The shadows morphed into towering men, arms thick and rippling muscles laced with blue veins. Humans. One approached, looming over the small dryad. He held out a giant hand.

"Give me the vial."

Vera realized she was shaking. She took a few deep breaths to steady herself and shoved her fears to the back of her mind.

"I want to see my sister first," Vera said firmly. "Where is Dela?"

The human hesitated, then backed away. Behind him, a small figure strode forward.

"Dela!" Vera started to rush forward, but the man stopped her with a pan-sized hand.

Dela, small even for a dryad, stepped forward and stopped before her sister, green eyes calm and unwavering. She held out a hand. "The vial, Vera. Give it to me."

Vera hesitated. Were these the kidnappers? The humans weren't treating Dela as a prisoner.

Dela saw the reluctance in her sister's eyes. "It's alright. I'll explain everything. Give me the vial, Vera."

Vera frowned but obeyed. "I don't understand. Did you escape? Who are these men? Are you alright?"

Dela didn't answer. Her whole attention was fixed on the vial. A smile blossomed on Dela's face as her fingers curled around the vial. Her fingertips went white as she pressed hard on the delicate crystal. Then it burst into a thousand clear shards, many digging into her skin. Silvery memories mingled with Dela's blood. Vera could hear them whisper of death and murder. Dela sighed.

"Thank you, sister. I wish it hadn't taken all this--" Dela gestured to the humans around her, "--but I needed you to recover that memory. Do you remember what it was? Oh no, of course not."

Vera gaped at her sister. "You faked your own kidnapping just to destroy that vial?"

Dela shrugged. "It worked. You would never have given it to me otherwise." She paused, reaching a hand behind her back. "You should have been the one to destroy that memory. Then perhaps none of this would need to happen."

"But why? What was that memory?"

Dela moved in close to Vera until they were less than a hands' breadth apart.

"You saw the night I murdered our father," Dela whispered.

Vera gasped as a thin knife plunged between her ribs. Dela twisted the knife. "Farewell, sister."

Vera fell to the ground, gasping. Her body shook in pain. She couldn't understand the words spoken somewhere above her. Through the haze, she saw her sister's slippered feet walk away. Thick boots thumped after them. Then all was silent and still.

Vera felt her heart flutter weakly. Confusion and anger and pain writhed in her dying mind. Dela...My sister...how could my own sister...Dela...

Heat and light beat down on the side of her face. The sun...The faintest bit of determination found purchase in her mind. If I am going to die, I'm going to die facing the sun...

Vera rolled onto her back, gasping at the pain. The crumpled letter she'd been clutching fell forgotten from her bloodied fingers. The paper flitted away on a gust of wind.

Vera soaked up what sunlight she could, her veins darkening. Her wound began to knit together, but slowly, too slowly...

“If I placed the target in a faraway galaxy, do you think you could hit it?”



“That’s impossible mommy, I couldn’t hit that. I would have to practice a million years.”

“Well this project I’m working on, it’s a bit similar to that. We’re trying to aim very precisely, and the math for that is very complicated. Our spaceship has to be aimed perfectly, the man I’m working with, Dr. Keno, well, he thinks we can do it with the help of many teeny tiny robots with little boosters, so tiny you can’t even see them. They could push the ship using micro movements until they have the aim just right.”

“That’s crazy.”

She always remembered her little Sofi’s awestruck gaze suddenly turn into a face of worry and sadness.


“Mommy, you’re not leaving on that spaceship are you?”



“Of course not baby, you know I would never ever leave you. And anyways, even if we did build that ship, it would take many years to do it. But we would send someone else to explore, of course.”

“Good.” 

Sofi beamed as she grabbed the target and skipped out to the yard with her bow and suction cup arrows in hand.

—————————————————————————————————

It had been weeks since she had received the transmissions from Dr. Keno. Several hundred messages had been picked up by the QED (quantum entangled driven) radio all at once only a few minutes after the ship had departed:

-"Dr. Helsley, do you copy?”


-"Dr. Helsley, come in, are you receiving transmission?”

-"We hope you are alive and well Dr. Helsley, we assume you cannot send transmissions, but hope you are still able to receive ours.”


-"We will continue to update you and hope you are out there.  Oh and happy birthday.”

-"World war has been declared; they’re taking most of our group for weapons research. I will try to transmit as often as I can.”

-"It’s been so long, but in my mind you are still out there, exploring the unknown.”

-"They are evacuating Earth. They are taking our team with them on board one of their lifeboat ships, we are fortunate to be scientists. But I’m not sure where we’ll all go. I won’t be able to transmit anymore. I have to go. My thoughts will be with you.  If you're still out there, I hope you're in a better place.  May you be well Marie, Godspeed.”

She soon realized that decades had passed on Earth in those first few minutes she had been on the spaceship, and all of those messages had been sent many years apart. Now, after weeks of being on the ship, she could only imagine how much time had dilated. She felt truly alone.

Shortly after departing, in the span of a few minutes, she had watched Earth shrink down to a tiny speck right in front of her. Then the same had happened to the entire solar system, then the Milky Way. But she was not farther away exactly, she was more like “bigger away”, if that could even be said, and her known universe was now like a particle to her, tiny and unseen, somewhere within her or around her.

Through her research at LIGO, Dr. Helsely had first detected the abnormal gravitational wave patterns about ten of her years ago. Her research had led to more collaborative research with Dr. Keno, a man known as the greatest mind of the generation, whose greatness had been compared to the likes of Einstein himself, and an expert in a handful of fields including artificial intelligence, femto-technology, quantum mechanics, and M-theory, and together they eventually came to discover the source of the strange patterns: a previously undetected dimension.

Most physicists at the time who followed M-theory had believed that all of the other theorized dimensions were folded up at the string scale within a Calibi-Yau manifold, in other words, too small for humans to interact with.  Dr. Helsley and Dr. Keno’s research showed that their newly discovered dimension, though folded in an unknown way, coexisted with the other four known dimensions. Theoretically, they should be able to travel through this other spatial dimension. The reason why no one ever interacted with it (as far as anyone knew) was that in order to be properly oriented towards the “direction” of this special dimension, one would require angles of azimuth and elevation so precise that any deviation even ten hundred billion times smaller than the size of an atom would be enough to prevent any interaction with the dimension. Essentially, it would be easier to hit a target in another galaxy with a bow and arrow.

It was after this discovery that Dr. Keno had begun building his ship.

———————————————————————————————————

Dr. Helsley had been asleep.  She didn't remember opening the door or stepping out, but somehow she was outside of the ship, the ship stationary behind her.  Total darkness was around her.  And right in front of her was a little girl.

“Sofi? Who-

how can it-

are you real?”

The little girl gazed at Dr. Helsley, her smile was calm yet it seemed to project a sense of knowing much greater than any little girl could have.

“Yes, and no. I am everything, so I am also Sofi, and I am also you. I am also nothing. You are interpreting me and, therefore you, as Sofi, because in your life and your experiences, Sofi was the purest interpretation of the universe, of you.”

“I-how-I went away, as far as I could possibly manage, out here God knows where, running away from my grief, from losing you, only to find myself looking at your face again. I’m not sure I understand. I’m not sure what is real, what isn’t anymore.”

Sofi giggled and it seemed to echo from everywhere at once.

“Well, funny you say this, for the answer is both. You traveled far and eventually reached this point, where everything is and isn’t real at the same time. The singularity. Where all that was, is, and all that will be, always was. Both the largest and smallest point, where size, time, information, and everything else folds over and converges. You already know this, for there is no here or now, here, and yet it is peculiar that in your material form still, in order to process things, your mind creates the illusion of chronology in the form of asking me questions and me giving you answers, when you are in reality having this conversation with yourself.”

Dr. Helsley was too numb to be confused about what she was hearing or to ask Sofi why and how she was speaking the way she was. She was numb from the many other unbelievable things she had seen. The blue-green creatures about her own size that somehow fluctuated in and out of existence the way only quantum particles should be able to. The “school” of planets, dozens of gargantuan, Saturn-sized orbs wandering together and changing direction in unison the way she’d seen fish do. The room of the purest white she had ever seen containing only a chair and a desk that was covered by hundreds of what looked liked leather-bound journals.

But mostly, she was numb from seeing her little girl’s face again.

And yet, somehow, she felt like she was suddenly beginning to understand everything that Sofi was saying.

“You’re saying I am at the singularity of the universe? Of everything? Can I stay here? What about- what if I keep going the way I’ve been going?”

Too many thoughts and questions were racing through her mind.

Sofi answered, but this time, the words seemed to emanate from within Dr. Helsley’s own mind.


“Past this point is where the dimension you have been traveling along folds back on itself. Size, time, entropy, and information will loop. You will emerge at the other end, as a tiny elementary particle, with no control of your course. After an eternity you will form into an atom that becomes part of a molecule that will, after many more eternities, become a cell that will eventually form into the egg inside of a womb, the womb which will be your mother’s. You will be born and be unaware of where you’ve been and where you come from. You will live your life the way you have lived it before. You will then, yourself, give birth and watch your own baby grow, and again you will watch her die. From that point onward, due to the chaotic nature of the quantum effects of strong emotion, your path is more uncertain. You may make the same choices or you may make different ones. You may end up here again. But, alternatively, you can prevent all of this by choosing not to go further, by choosing to stay and know everything, be everything, be nothing.  Either way, whatever you choose will happen and has already happened.”


—————————————————————————————-

At some point in, at the beginning of existence, the universe had been faced with the same decision and had also chosen to forget everything, only to re-explore and gradually rediscover itself. That was what consciousness was.  That was what a human was.

And this is what Dr. Helsley would do. She would rather rediscover herself and relive her pure love for Sofi, even if it meant seeing her die again. If given the choice each time, she would choose to do it more times than Sisyphus ever pushed a boulder.

“Sofi-or... universe, this leather-bound book is my journal. I've kept it since the day Sofi-you, passed. I leave it here- or not here- with you, maybe you can keep it someplace safe for me, in case I return.”


It was a silly thing to do, Dr. Helsley realized afterward, right before she crossed the threshold. After all, if she did return, she would know everything once more.

"I love you, baby, I'll see you again soon."