An Evening at the Carnival with Mister Christian

A Somewhat Less Than Divine Comedy

Driftwood: A Prelude to the Evening

'Let me to take you down -- 'Cause I'm going to strawberry fields' Lennon/McCartney

Rogues Bay, Tortola, BVI

Today

There were a few low clouds scudding over the far horizon, yet all-in-all the day's weather was looking good -- better than good, really, especially for the time of year. The air was cool enough to feel -- vaguely -- like Christmas, at least to folks her in the eastern Caribbean, yet the air was warm enough for shorts -- and clinging sand between toes. The late-morning trades had yet to fill-in, so motion inside the narrow, finger shaped bay was still calm, and a single, blue-hulled ketch rode gently at anchor a hundred meters off the small, kidney shaped beach. For a Christmas morning in the British Virgins, the bay and the boat presented a serene, if marginally holiday-like picture, to the man and the Springer emerging from a shrubby, overgrown trail at the south end of the bay.

The dog, an ancient Spaniel named Charley, walked dutifully by the man's side. Hers was a possessive, indeed, a protective soul, and she had been with this human all her life, almost from the moment of her birth. Though they hadn't always been so close, for the past several months the two had become all but inseparable: she slept on his bed -- usually nestled under his chin -- and rode with him in all his various contraptions -- with her ears flapping in the airstream...and a deep grin peeking out from fluttering jowls. She, generally speaking, went everywhere he went, and tended to look after him as best she could, and it was a rare day when they were apart for more than a few hours. And she hated those small snippets of time most of all, so she lived, on the other hand, for the long walks they took, especially walks on long sandy beaches or up in the high mountains, near timberline, where she could fly from rock to rock in pursuit of small, fury tundra dwellers. Still, more than anything else in her world, she loved it when he rubbed her ears. That feeling, she'd heard him say more than once, was the unshelled nuts...the very best thing there was. She stared into his eyes when he did that, and she wanted her soul to join with his.

So, she loved him in her way, cared for him at least much as he cared for her, and she slowed her step to keep pace with his as he trudged through the sand, and she looked up at him from time to time, checked the way he breathed, because something in the air was troubling her.

There was, she noted, something on his face, a cloud in his eyes, perhaps, that concerned her, and he was breathing a little too hard as they walked. She slowed her pace a bit more and pretended to take more than a passing interest in the few clumps of grass they passed, and she looked up at him as he stopped, as he took a few deep breaths through his mouth, then her eyes followed his as he looked down the beach.

"Charley? I think there's a good piece down there," he said as he pointed down the beach. She looked where he was pointing, and yes, there it was -- she could see it now too. A huge piece of ragged, gray wood. Driftwood, he called it. She took off at an ambling, curious pace, but then heard something that stopped her where she stood.

She turned, looked at the boat in the bay -- then cocked her head to one side.

"Get out of here, you goddamned, fucked-up bitch!"

She recognized the tone, and even a few of the words. Angry words. Mean, hurtful words. An angry human's words. The hair on Charley's neck stood on-end as she looked at the boat, then she heard contact -- rough, physical contact, a wounded scream, pots falling on hard surfaces, more shocked cries of anguish -- and retribution.

She stared at the boat, her concern now evident to the man walking well behind her on the beach. She looked back at him and barked once, a low, guttural sound full of suppressed anger, then she turned her attention back to the boat. She knew his attention would be focused there too; she knew because she felt that certain connection had settled between them -- again.

A woman, half naked and screaming, ran up onto deck and dove overboard; more angry words followed in her wake as another person, one who almost appeared to be a man, came on deck just after the woman hit the water. This man yelled and threw a bag overboard; it almost hit the woman in the water, then floated a moment before it began to sink out of view.

Instinct set in and without thinking Charley sprinted down the beach and leapt into the water, she swam past the startled woman and dove under a small wave just as the bag disappeared from view. The water stung her eyes but she saw it and swam for it, took the bag's strap in her mouth then clawed her way back to the surface. Unaccustomed to such an awkward, heavy load, she struggled to make her way back to the beach, only now, to make matters worse, the grainy water stung her eyes. Soon she felt the first screams of panic welling up, and suddenly wondered why she was out in such deep water, yet even so as her head popped out from under a wave she knew her anxiety was misplaced.

There he was, just a few strokes away now, coming for her. She climbed into his outstretched arms and put her hands around his neck, licked his chin. He took the strap from her mouth and lifted her well clear of the water, then she licked his scruffy beard more than a few times, enjoying, as she always did, the way his fur felt on her tongue.

He carried her along until the water was shallow enough, then he set her down and they trudged out of the water, turned and waited for the woman, who was not yet out of the water. The man picked up his backpack on the way to her and slung it back over his shoulder, and Charley ran up to the woman and sniffed her ankles, circling round and round while he walked. The woman sat down on the white sand and looked at the pup once; the woman's eyes were full of tears and she was breathing in deep, ragged gulps, and Charley could see the woman had a kind, if troubled soul. She came to the woman, sat and leaned into her body -- as if to help hold her grief in check.

The woman leaned into Charley too, and put an arm around her, then began crying deeply, indeed, almost uncontrollably. Charley understood, but looked at her own human as he walked up to them. His skin was very pale now, and clearly concerned, she focused on his eyes once again.

Something still wasn't right; she could see his distress within the shimmering air all around his body, feel it in the way the colors around him changed.

When the man got to them, he sat down heavily on the sand.

"Are you alright?" she heard him ask the woman.

Startled, the woman shook her head, then looked up and let go of Charley.

Charley slipped free of the woman and went to his side; she leaned into him as if re-establishing a physical connection and concentrated on his beating heart while she listened to him breathe. She looked up at him and licked his neck while she sniffed his breath, trying to make sense of all she was taking in.

"It's okay, girl," Charley heard him say, but she wasn't sure yet so she leaned in closer still, pressing into him, in effect propping up his body while she continued to listen to him. Then all of a sudden he was rubbing her ears and she slipped into bliss, so down she flopped -- down on her back -- in tail-wagging ecstasy. "Yes, it's okay now, good girl...just take it easy..."

"Did your dog go for my bag, or did you tell her to?" Charley heard the woman ask.

"That was all her. She's kind of acts like a retriever, when she wants to, anyway. I guess she saw your bag being thrown and instinct kicked in."

The woman laughed through her tears. "What's her name?"

"Charley."

"Charley?"

"Yup. She's a Steinbeck fan, I guess you'd have to say."

"Who?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Do you live here?"

"Nope. Boston, but, well -- it's a long story. So, are you alright? That sounded like like some kind of fight out there."

Charley watched closely as the woman spoke now, clearly interested in what was going on, but the woman looked away and she couldn't see her eyes any longer.

"Just one more -- the latest in a long series..."

"Well, it's none of my business, but I've got a jeep up on the road if you need a lift into town."

"Is there an airport here?"

"Yup, if you're headed to the States there's a puddle jumper to San Juan, connections to Miami or DFW, I think."

"New York City. Think I'll head back to my sister's place."

"You sure don't have a New York accent," and he looked at her closely for the first time. She wasn't unattractive, yet there was something off-putting about her...even dangerous, perhaps.

"I was born in Stockholm. My sister and I went to college -- in New York -- and we decided to stay."

"I see. Well, anyway, the airport's a long walk from here. Charley and I are going to putter around for a while, but like I said, we'd be happy to drop you off."

When he stood Charley rolled upright and shook the salt and sand off, all while she looked at the woman; when she was sure they were both alright she took off down the beach toward the driftwood they'd spotted -- before the ruckus on the boat broke out.

"We'll be back in a little bit," the man said as he followed Charley. "Just yell if you need anything."

The woman was rummaging around in her drenched bag as he spoke, then she looked up: "Do you have a phone I could use for a moment?" She was holding a dripping cell phone up, and they could both tell the phone would now make, perhaps, a useful paperweight.

He smiled, dug his Iridium sat-phone from his knapsack, unlocked it and handed it to her. "Decent signal out here, so you can call direct to the States; just enter the area code first, then the number, then send." He turned and walked off after Charley.

"Thanks."

"You bet," he said quietly. He almost smiled, trying not to remember how tough life was at that age, and how quiet his life had always been -- compared to what he'd just witnessed, anyway.

The trades were picking up now; he guessed the winds were up to about fifteen knots or so, and as expected, right out of the east, and he did the math while he walked. The boat was fueled and ready to go, and he only needed to pick up a few things at the farmer's market before returning the rental car, but that was it. He looked at Charley as he walked along, deep in thought about the girl back there talking on his phone. "What a mess," he said to her, shaking his head.

She was blond-haired and blue-eyed -- of course, and decent enough looking in a wide-eyed, bohemian sort of way, but there was something about her that screamed 'rode hard and put away wet' -- again, something dangerous. Probably in her mid-twenties, he guessed; thirty, tops -- she was cute but wore trouble in her eyes. Clearly, she'd had a bad morning and wasn't at her best, but she struck him as someone who made trouble everywhere she went.

His instinct was to get away from here as fast as he could...away from her.

Charley was maybe thirty yards ahead when she heard trouble -- again. The man on the boat was yelling at the woman, then the woman was firing a barrage of evil sounding words back at the man. After this exchange, and without any more fanfare, the man on the boat weighed anchor, raised the main and Charley watched as the boat began sailing out the little bay, and into the Caribbean beyond.

The woman sat down on the beach again, head down and shoulders slumped.

Charley saw the air around the woman was black with evil, and could tell the woman was crying again, but the gray driftwood was close now, it's siren's song now unmistakeable and as suddenly irresistible. She nosed closer to the drying wood, sniffed tentatively as she walked around it, measuring the wood and the air around it for anything out of the ordinary.

The man walked up to the wood and looked down at it. "Pretty big piece," he said. "Weird shape though, hey girl?"

And it was. The wood, half buried in sand and sparkling with dried salt particles, at first glance looked anything but unusual, but it was the shape of the piece that seemed somehow "off" to them both. Maybe four feet long, the wood was radically curved, unnaturally so.

He bent over, began to lift it up when Charley barked.

"What is it, girl?" the man said as he dropped the wood and stepped back.

Charley circled the wood, sniffed and barked again, then looked up him, her eyes full of concern. She saw the woman from the boat walking their way now, and her anxiety only grew more acute.

'Something's not right,' Charley thought. 'What is it? Why does this feel like...?'

"What is it, Charley?"

"What's wrong with your dog?" the woman said as she walked up to them.

"I don't know. This isn't like her."

Her arms and paws were outstretched and flat on the sand; her hip was arched up, her stubby tail pointing straight up to the sky -- and now very still.

"Is there something under it?" the woman asked, as she too circled the wood.

"I don't know." The man bent down to the wood again and ran his hand over it, feeling it, gauging his own galvanic reactions through his skin.

"Familiar," he whispered in the shimmering air. "What...is that?"

He grabbed the wood and pulled at it sharply. And then again.

With a wet, sucking sound the wood broke free of the wet sand and the man slipped and tumbled backwards; Charley howled and jumped away as the wood rolled over.

"Oh my goodness!" the woman exclaimed. "It's -- magnificent!"

The man stood, brushed sand off his shorts -- then he hovered over the wood...

The underside of the piece revealed a carved dolphin, but the carving looked as if it had been sanded, no, polished to a high sheen, because at first glance it seemed as if the body of the animal had been varnished. The man lifted the wood and carried it down to the water, and there he washed away the sand. He looked at the dolphin closely, then dropped the carving on the beach and stumbled away.

"Oh, no! It can't be..." he whispered as he looked at the two scars carved into the dolphin's face, just under the eyes. "No, God no, this can't be happening."

Charley felt it first. The pulse seemed to come from deep within the wood, but then she looked toward the water and the hair on the back of her neck stood up. There was something out there...she could feel it clearly now. Whatever it was, there was energy joining this piece of wood to something very powerful, out there, in the water.

And whatever IT was, it was getting closer.

"What is it? Is there something wrong?" the woman asked as she watched the man stagger back from the water.

He stopped, turned and looked at the woman, then at Charley.

He followed her eyes out to sea and squinted, tried to see what she felt, then it all came back in a rush. Jennifer. The day his world started to come undone.

"We've got to get out of here," he said as he looked at the woman. "Now."

"What? Why?"

"No time to explain. Charley! Come!" He grabbed the woman's hand and pulled her along, walked rapidly to the trail the led to the jeep. He turned once and saw Charley still focused on something, something apparently still far out to sea, so he whistled once again; Charley turned, saw him calling her. As if breaking free of a trance, she shook herself and ran after the man and the woman, looking back once over her shoulder as she did.

She saw the dolphin's head break free of the water not far from the beach, and she stopped dead in her tracks. She was confused, and while she didn't understand the feelings washing through her now, she knew she'd seen those eyes before.

She heard the man calling her name again as she turned and walked back to the water's edge. Feelings unknown and powerful washed over as she looked into the dolphin's eyes, feelings of sadness and despair, and hope. Instinct in total command now, she walked into the water -- trying to find her way home.

+++++

Salzburg, Austria

Tomorrow

The man regarded his lunch quietly, as others might a fine painting; he smiled, felt an uneasy truce settle over the room, drifted on currents of time to other days -- far away and long ago. To the life that had been his -- once upon a time, to the life that had so recently slipped from his grasp. He felt adrift now, cut off from the past, yet the future seemed a land out of time -- like there was a wall ahead, the way forward blocked. He felt trapped, boxed-in, that there was nowhere left to go -- with all this talk about Hyperion.

The plate, pristine white with green trim, was a masterpiece -- to his somewhat practiced eye, anyway -- but of more importance than the other "things" calling out to him, the plate held memories of that other life -- because the food on his plate connected him to memories of her in ways little else could. Jägerschnitzel, spätzel, red cabbage, and of course a Stiegl bier, their famous dunkelmalz, so hard to come by anywhere but Salzburg. This was the formula that opened the chalice of memory, yet of singular importance this day -- of all days -- this lunch could only come to life inside the walls of the old ground floor dining room, in the Hotel Goldener Hirsch.

The storied old hotel on the Getreidegasse -- just doors from where Mozart came to into this life -- was for him a world unto itself, a world of full of memories both good and bad -- his father's world, the life he shared with his wife. Whitewashed stone walls, heavy timbered ceilings, and an Old World ambience that only hinted at the building's medieval origins, he and his wife had stumbled across the hotel when they'd taken their first real vacation together, not long after they married -- not long before his father's murder. Almost without knowing it, they had been following paths well worn by their parents and grandparents, the standard, almost preordained American tourist's rote pilgrimage to the Old World.

His parents had made this trip many times over the years, before his mother died -- in the White House. But by then, they had little time for him, for time together, and then his father -- murdered. The first presidential assassination of the 21^st century. Such a distinction. But when he thought of his old man there wasn't a lot to be proud of, not really. He'd stoked fires of hate and resentment until the walls came tumbling down, and only Smithfield had been able to pick up the pieces. Then all this fusion reactor bullshit hit the fan, and now even that world looked ready to fall.

He remembered his wife, their trip, anything to drift away from that other world. Paris, Brugge and even Lübeck filled the first few weeks of their first trip abroad together, but then the Alps beckoned, and they'd turned south, following instinct's call to memories yet to be. From Geneva they headed east, caught the narrow-gauge railway at Visp and wound their way up to Zermatt, to the narrow-walled valley brooded over by a mist enshrouded Matterhorn. There was still snow in the shadow of that mountain -- in winter, anyway -- as there were still snowy remnants in a few other very high regions of the Swiss and French Alps. The man and his wife played among the few traces that remained of the ancient glaciers that had once dominated the Gornergrat massif, but skiing was no longer a commonplace activity here -- or anywhere else, for that matter. The weather was now too warm -- everywhere -- yet they wondered what it must have been like to ski on endless plains of white. The world was so different now, so much had changed so quickly, yet traces remained of those other times, especially here, high in the Alps.

After a week in Zermatt, they left that enchanted valley and wandered north and east through the Bernese Oberland and the Engadin, and finally they went further east, on to Innsbruck and Zell am See, before finding themselves, quite by accident, in Salzburg.