Chapter 11, "The One Who Was Chosen By The Gods"

Again, this is a first draft and I haven't fully gone over it after writing. Let me know what confuses you, what isn't clear, what takes you out of the story. 

Also please tell me the good things I did, too! Thanks!

Chapter 11. The One Who Was Chosen By The Gods

I smelled incense.
            Then I saw the old man who was leaning over me and everything made sense.
            But no, this was wrong. Things weren’t supposed to make sense. Nothing else did, so why should...?
            The old man left my blurry vision, though the incense did not leave my quite stimulated nose. Then, as a matter of course, a bald eagle on roller skates with miniature headphones on its head skated into the tent I was lying in. It rolled around me once then promptly exited the tent, sounding out a loud SCRAWK.
            I breathed in the incense again.

Hallucinations are wonderful things, aren’t they?

I heard someone call to someone else outside the tent. My vision started focusing, and I blinked at my surroundings. The tent was in the shape of a teepee. The smell came from some stone-carved bowls on the dirt floor next to me where incense and other spices were burning. A lantern hung above me; I was unable to tell if it was fire or electric. I tried sitting up from the mat I was lying on and succeeded, but then I remembered my head and touched the back of it gingerly. (Ginger may have been one of those other spices in the air, come to think of it.)

It hurt. So I lay back down.

Did everything still make sense, then? Now that I was conscious, aware, rational?

The old man ducked back into the tent, and stared into my glistening, awakening eyes as I turned my head to him.

“It’s you!” he said with a heavy accent, so heavy that it was very heavy. “It’s you! You have come for us! You have come at last!”

From the accent and the man’s brown skin tone I knew immediately who I was to him. It hadn’t actually happened to me in any of my adventures, at least not yet, so it was long overdue. I closed my eyes, frustrated that I had been so correct before. Correct in my prediction for a possible subplot of this story. Correct about the slavish workers of Golbez Industries. Correct about what that meant for me and my time on this island.

I frowned and I sighed, and then I let out a groan as I lowered myself down again.

But then another man came bustling into the tent, this one much younger and with lighter skin. He pushed the old man roughly out of the way, replacing him at my side and getting way too close to my face. The old man cried out weakly as he fell over.

“Monsieur! Monsieur!” said the new man, with no trace of an accent, sounding quite American even though he spoke French words. Though he wore only leather rags for clothes, he was decked in shiny jewelry, necklaces, bracelets and rings. He obnoxiously took my hand and pressed his lips against it. “Monsieur, you have come! You have come to save us, have you not? To liberate my people? My oppressed people? Oh, forgive me, High Monsieur. But we need you! Our poor, suffering people need you!”

I still hadn’t said a word. I considered not saying anything, pretending I was deaf or that I spoke another language, or maybe fake another fit of lost consciousness. I really didn’t want to be involved in this. It just felt so...obvious.

Even seeing the pleading in his eyes, the sadness etched into the contours of his face, and the poor old man still struggling to right himself...

I sighed again, and gave the younger man a look that said I was not amused.

“I am not amused,” I said, keeping parallel with my expression. One had to do this to achieve honesty and harmony within oneself. “And I am not...oh well, damb it all, I just gave myself away. Who are you, what do you need, all that stuff. Give it to me fast. Then I’ll consider taking the case. You’d better be damb convincing.”

“I am Djetta, spokesperson for my tribe, the Cardaccians,” he said, voice still clear of any accent at all. “We have been oppressed for many years. My people work for Golbez Industries. We have no chance of freedom. They are brutal, BRUTAL to my people. They are forced to work for very little pay.”

”Yes, I heard you had some strict labor laws here,” I said dryly. “Now tell me, Djetta, why aren’t you working with them at the facility right now?”

“I...” said Djetta, drawing back with gold chains dangling loosely around his neck. “I...I am their leader. Not their mayor, that’s Golbez himself, but...”

“My son speaks for all of us,” said the old man, now kneeling at my other side. His accent was such that every consonant was given the same speed as a vowel. He rolled through words quickly. Also, he had on the same kind of rags Djetta had on, but these were wool and he had no jewelry whatsoever. “And so his family stays here at our village while the rest go out to work.”

“Uh huh...” I said, still quite skeptical of it all.

“We work 27 hours a day, five days a week!” the younger said, raising his gold-banded arms up.

“Wow, that’s a lot,” I said. “Only 33 hours of sleep a week, huh?”

“If only that were the case, my friend. In fact, we even get less than that. But you are here to free us, no? You, the destined hero!”

“It seems like you’re pretty free already.”

“Not me!” said Djetta. “My people!”

“And just how did you people get to be enslaved?” I asked. “Seeing as how they have such capable and compassionate leadership?”

“Oh, it was such a violent and turbulent time!” he said, shuddering. “Who would want to remember something like that?”

“I would,” I said simply. “I’m curious as to who let your people be so subjugated. Laws come from somewhere. Who agreed to them? Who signed their name on the dotted line, hm?”

“Uh...eh...Monsieur, Highest of All, you should meet my family! Then you will understand. Then you will see.”

Couldn’t hurt. Not more than my head, anyway. Man, I’ve gotta start getting hit there less.

I was able to raise myself to my feet successfully, but then I had to duck all the way down again to get out of the tent. These people were much shorter than I was. I followed Djetta into their village proper, which was nothing but a huge gathering of tents all pitched on rough, rocky terrain and various open kitchen areas, a white sandy path weaving in and out of tents and leading to the kitchens. Jack could see that the nearest of these kitchens was complete with hand-drawn well, faucet, sink, mini-fridges, ovens both clay and modern, and one large bonfire in the middle. Empty tents, empty village, but not empty kitchens. Women populated the kitchens, all working together apparently to make the food for the menfolk when they came back from slave labor. Only one woman worked in the nearest kitchen, standing at an electric stove stirring a big teflon pot full of soup or stew of some kind.

“Madje, Madje! My sweet, darling wife,” Djetta said, approaching her with open arms.

She just snorted a “Hmph!” at him and went back to her work. From the brief glimpse I got of her face, her eyes stood out the most. I mean that literally. They were halfway out of her head, not monstrously but intimidating all the same. One would not want to be faced with a wide-eyed Mama Madje.

Djetta turned around a little sheepishly and said, “Well, you can see how lovely she is. Look at her, working so hard!”

“Yes, she is,” I said. “The only one doing so.”

She was of a healthful size and could probably beat up Djetta, should she ever need to. Not to say that she was muscular, but it really seemed that her very presence, her very shadow, could body slam her husband into submission.

Then again, the little weasel probably was used to submitting to boss figures. I again eyed his jewelry. My eyes noticeably traveled over the gold necklace, the jade bracelets, the not one, not two, not even three, but four ruby rings on his fingers, and then back up to his eyes.

“You said your people were paid very little. What are they paid?”

“They are paid in food,” he said, looking away from me anxiously. “They bring it back with them at the end of the day.”

“And do they get those shiny things too?” I asked, pointing with my head.

Djetta burst into very dry tears. “We all need it!” he cried. “We all need the shiny. The treasures of our people that rightfully belong to us. And it is so rare that we are given it! And now you’ve come, to alleviate the suffering and depravity of my people! You, the Splotched One!”

Hold on, what---

“Huh?” I stared at him, nonplussed.

“Or the Painted One, depending on translation,” he said, drying his non-existent tears. “It is you, is it not? The One Who Was Chosen By The Gods! Come to free us from the tyrannical Labor Laws!”

Um. Hm. The One Who Was Chosen By The Gods, so important that even articles were capitalized in the title. It sounded ridiculous. But also, in a way...true.

“What is that, some kind of made-up prophecy?” I said, feeling very unsettled.

“The prophecy of the Hero! The One Who Was Chosen By The Gods!”

“We don’t need a hero,” said Madje from the stove. “We just need my husband to be a real man.”

“Hush, sweet darling, my poor, suffering wife.”

“Oh, isn’t he a slimeball of a human being, my husband?” Madje said with eyes so disgusted don’t no one want to cross.

But again, it was kind of...true. I was indeed chosen by the gods

            “What did you mean, the splotched one?”
            “That was part of the prophecy! And look at your shirt!”
            I looked down and remembered the sting of the red paintball as it hit my chest. Splotched, painted, I suppose so. Odd kind of prophecy. And yet...Vanasmas had called it being “marked.” And had done it for his own purposes. Totally separate from these people, the Cardaccians.
            “Is there a prophecy?” I asked Madje. Djetta wasn’t exactly a reliable source.
            She paused in her cooking, raising her head to look into the distance.
            “Yeah, there is,” she finally conceded. “If that’s what you wanna call it. But there are a lot of other ‘prophecies’ that are just hashinstash, barboyle, all made up, none of those damn things ever came true. This was a lucky one.”
            Still, it fit. It was something the gods would do, wasn’t it? Use this stupid little cog, this mechanic, to goad me into doing whatever they wanted. So...whatever religion it was that they cared to practice here was...true. In a way.

And I was The One Who Was Chosen By The Gods.

“Where’s my gun?” I said, suddenly missing it and feeling for it along my belt.

The old man, presumably Djetta’s father, went back into the tent and came back out, presenting it to me.

“I hope the water didn’t destroy it permanently,” he said.

I took it in hand and examined it for any damage. “Oh, Wrench is waterproof, by default,” I said.

Then I remembered.

“Annie!” I exclaimed, slapping my forehead. “When you picked me up---I assume that’s what you did, right? You found me by the river, saw the red splotch, took me here? Okay yes, you’re nodding, good. When you picked me up, did you see anyone else around? A woman, close to my age, brown hair...”

“Nobody like that, man,” said Djetta. “I did see a figure on the other side with long dark hair, though. But she didn’t need our help. When she saw us she yelped and ran into the trees. But we will help you in whatever you need! And we hope you will help us in the same way.”

He left off with an expectant, hopeful smile, clearly trying to gain my good favor. He didn’t know it was an impossible task. If I did it at all, it would be for someone else besides Djetta. Madje, maybe.

Then again, they did take care of me after that...slip? Fall? I didn’t remember it very well. Whatever it was that incapacitated me after the waterfall. And the whole liberation thing wasn’t exactly a negative cause...

But then Djetta overdid it, apparently not confident at seeing my “I am thinking about it” expression and confusing it for my “I am not amused” look.

“Please, Monsieur Hero,” he said, hands wringing. “Please save us from those horrible Labor Laws.”

That did it. He reminded me of the cause of the cause he was trying to cause me to work for. I stepped in close, and my eyes got mean.

“Listen, guy,” I said in a low hiss, standing over him with my finger pointed at his chest. “You sold out your people for...what? Gold? Rubies? Sapphires?”

            “No, no sapphires,” he said, shrinking beneath my gaze.
            “Rubies then. And gold.”
            “And gold, yes.” His voice was no more than a whimper.
            “So it’s your job to free them. Not mine. I’ll throw some red paint on you, if that’s what will get you to do your duty. The plight of your people is your burden. Not mine.”

I heard a quiet “Amen” from the stove. (At last I got one of those.)

“Now,” I said, stepping back. “I, as the prophesied Splotched One, request your assistance in finding my friend.”

“Of course, Monsieur Hero,” said Djetta. “Of course.” Then he turned to the closest tents and clapped twice. “Spyder! Come here! Come here, boy!”

The eagle from what I thought had been a hallucination appeared again, skating down the pathway from the tents, pushing to and fro on his skates, listening to some interesting beats on the headphones.

“So wait,” I said, looking from person to person. “This thing’s real?”

“Spyder is our animal companion! Our anipanion, I like to say!” said Djetta, delighted at his little word. “We don’t know where he came from, though we suspect something from Dr. Aperture’s lab. But either way he likes being with us!”

“Where did he learn to skate?”

“From my sons. They’re off somewhere, playing in the jungle, probably wrestling with panther cubs or chasing rattlesnakes or something.”

“And the headphones?”

“He came with them.We think he understands English because of them.”

“He can speak English?”

“No, but he can understand. And he knows his name! What a good Spyder he is. But you have to spell it right. None of this ‘spider’ business.”

“Why stay here? Why doesn’t he fly away?”

“We’ve never seen him fly before. Sometimes he spreads out his wings when he’s going really fast, to brake, you see. But he might not know how. Or else he just doesn’t want to.”

“He doesn’t exactly have a bright and shining role model around.”

“If he doesn’t need to fly, he shouldn’t be pressured into it! He’s happy just skating around, doing tricks once in a while, and listening to whatever music is somehow pumped into those headphones.”

Spyder rolled down an incline and jumped over a rock, opening his wings slightly and spinning completely around before landing. Then he spread his wings wide to slow down and skidded to a stop before Djetta’s feet.

“Spyder, you need to help our hero here rescue a girl,” Djetta said, bending over to talk to the eagle face to beak. “Can you do that for us?”

“Scraw!” said Spyder, and he skated over to my feet.

I scratched my head. “Well, huh!” I said. “Let’s go then, Spyder.”

---

We found Annie pretty easily. It took an hour, but not much effort. Just patience.
            You might say I’m not much of a man of patience, and you’d be right. In fact, for the last couple of days you could say my patience has been wearing thin, or that it’s been burning like a match soaked in alcohol, or exploding while I walk away from it in slow motion. And you’d probably be right. But at this point, I’ve gotten pretty damb numb to it all.
            Spyder was an amiable companion. Didn’t know how to fly, probably just based on the example of Djetta, but he had eagle eyes and could understand me. At first I marveled at this ability, then I marveled at his skating ability. He really was quite talented. He could even roll across rocky ground. When traveling over the wet rocks around the waterfall and river, he tricked the kind of stunts I used to do as a stuntman. As a bird he was a superb jumper, and he was able to leap from rock to rock until he reached a high, curved, concave boulder, then drew in his wings as he glided down and then at the crest of the curve he launched and, wings open, did a 720-degree spin before landing on a long sharp rock that he grinded on for several feet before springing off, spreading its glorious wings, and gliding across the river.
            We went searching through the trees on other side of the river, where Djetta had claimed to see the figure with darker hair who had “yelped.” Half of this rang true to me; the latter half specifically. If anyone on this island could yelp, it would be Annie.
            The second half didn’t worry me so much. Annie’s hair, while not black like Paula’s was still dark. Dark enough, anyway. And in that jungle, so thick, dark, and foreboding, not to mention dark? Easy enough to mistake something you see.
            Of course, I also thought of Paula. But only subconsciously.
            Spyder, meanwhile, was a fine fellow, an amiable companion as I said. I don’t know if we’ll be friends for very long, considering he’s a bird and can’t speak English. Also, if one were to edit out the skates and speed up his movement in some computer program, it would look like he was waddling, exactly like a duck, and I am philosophically opposed to ducks in general (though in real life they’re quite cute). Anyway, in our search I often praised him for his excellent skating abilities, but he ignored me, probably preferring that I would not speak so condescendingly to him. I can appreciate that.

Once, I called him “Spider” and he skidded to a stop in his skates, turned his white-feathered head to an angle, and looked at me a long time. Those eagle eyes penetrated me, pierced me, and almost made me afraid (except I’m not afraid of anything). He didn’t look away, and so I couldn’t either, until I apologized and pronounced his name correctly. After hearing it in his little headphones, he immediately pushed off, accelerated, and hopped over a log. He disappeared from my sight, and about thirty seconds later I heard a very confused, feminine rendition of “What the---?”

And that, obviously, is when we found her. Nothing had happened to her except that she was scared out of her mind about being alone in the jungle, surrounded by vicious beasts and disgusting insects and no warm place to take a bath that wouldn’t also get you a billion mosquito bites or perhaps give you some kind of sickness (or, if you’re lucky, give you the cure to some sickness that could make you rich and famous). But you know, the thing about fear is who even cares about it? I don’t, and I don’t think anyone else should, either. Hence one of the reasons I don’t really understand other people, and especially people like Annie. And especially when she saw me, ran to me, and jumped into my arms. (It was either accept that or let myself be tackled. Of course I let her down as soon as I could, grumbling something or other and probably scowling, and then telling her gruffly that it was time to go back to the Cardaccians.

            “Cardaccians? That sounds Latin,” she said.
            “Whatever it is, it’s completely lost its nobility.”
            And so I told her about them and all that, and then she got very angry.
            “We were told they have labor laws here!” she said indignantly. Then, “...Oh.”
            “Yep,” I said.
            And we got back to the river, crossed it on some protruding stones, didn’t slip or fall, failed to be injured in any way, and got back to the Cardaccians camp, now three instead of two. Then we became two again as Spyder left the party to go listen to some more beats as he flipped and tricked around and through the tents.
            When we re-entered the presence of Djetta and Madje and Djetta’s wise old father whose name we never learned, Annie had instant compassion on them, due to Djetta’s second performance that day. He was about to take her by the hand and lead her around but I stopped them and informed them that I, as The One Who Was Chosen By The Gods, would be making policy now.
            “And now I want to hear your whole story, Djetta. The story of the Cardaccians.”
            “The One Who Was Chosen By The Gods?” mumbled a puzzled Annie.
            “The whole story, High Monsieur?”
            “Yeah. Sell it to me.”
            “It was a dark and stormy night. My people, my ancient people, were called the Indies. I do not know why. Now to be called an Indie is a great honor, for it means you belong to that people who sailed here very long ago, possessing an ancient treasure, the ancient Shiny. This is our great secret, O Splotched One. Our ancient Shiny secret!”
            “An ancient Shiny secret, huh?” I said, rubbing my stubbly chin. (Not ever having to shave is one of the best parts of being a Hero.)
            “Yes, monsieur. It is what we lack, it is what has enslaved us to this day. My people need the Shiny, and it has been lost to them since that horrible, horrible shipwreck. And that terrible, terrible tidal wave. It spilled us here, by the shore, but it took our Shiny elsewhere! We think perhaps to the bottom of the sea. It was a dreadful tragedy that some of us never fully recovered from.”
            “You weren’t even alive when that happened, my dear husband!” Madje barked from the kitchen area where she was kneading some bread.
            “And that just shows how deeply it has affected my people! The loss of our Shiny was like a poison in my ancestors’ loins. And now I am infected, and my poor wife and sons, too. And all my people! That is what we truly work for. I was fated to be the wearer of the Shiny that we do get as payment. And it is how we know the treasure was not lost entirely. Someone in Golbez Industries knows where it is, and is using it for their own gains! To enslave us!”
            “Wait a second there, champ,” I said. “I’m lost.”
            “So are we. So is our dear, precious, ancient Shiny.”
            “What’s Shiny?” Annie asked.
            Djetta and I both paused to look at her. After a moment’s silence we turned back to each other.
            “So...” I said. “In some freak natural disaster or whatever, the ship your people are on crashes on this island and washes the treasure inside it to some secret, impossible hidden spot on this island, though you thought, before Golbez Industries hired you, or enslaved you, or whatever the hell your story is, the treasure had been lost in the ocean somewhere. Yes?”
            “More or less,” Djetta said. “But there is more. That moment was a great tragedy for our people, not just because of the lost Shiny, but because our people were ripped apart. Ripped into two! A number of our people seceded from us, and left to go find their own spot of land on the island. They lived nearby but apart from us in peace for a time. And then, in the height of one of our many famines, they did something terrible, unforgivable. Something impossible to get over.”
            “What did they do?” Annie said.
            Again both Djetta and I stopped and looked at her.
            “What?” she said. “Why is it so wrong if I speak?”
            “I will tell you what they did, Painted One: they stole a cantaloupe.”
            Another moment of silence punctuated his revelation.
            “A cantaloupe,” I said. “A cantaloupe.”
            “It was our only one! And they have been our rivals, our enemies, ever since, weaving a long history of thievery and dastardly cunning. We have not seen each other for several months, but the tension is still running high among our people. To this day we do not speak their name, so hated and feared it is. If you so desire, Painted One, I will say it. But just one time.”
            I nodded once. “I’d like to hear it.”
            “The name is...Johnson.”
            “Johnson? Is that what you said?”
            He just stared back.

And a memory clicked in my brain.

            Johnson.
            “They live on the other side of the island. They send out hunting parties that roam the island. They live independent of Golbez Industries.”

“Sounds like they know how to take care of themselves,” I said. Nobody noticed the irony in my voice.

“And they have recently threatened us, monsieur! Threatened to destroy me---I mean, my people. They demand tribute, and we have nothing to offer them. Which---say, there is something you can do for us, O Painted One. Instead of working to free us from Golbez’s Shiny fist, could you be our envoy to them? Take a message of peace and brotherhood? Then maybe our peoples can unite again, and revenge our fallen and fatigued against Golbez and his corruption!”

I rubbed my chin again, contemplating. It was very much in my interest to investigate the name of Johnson. And it might lead to freeing the Cardaccians, too, and in a bit of an unconventional way. It sounded good to me. I had just one request.

“Djetta, do you know the train schedule here?”

“It just came through recently, monsieur. The next one won’t come through the jungle for three more days. But what does that have to do with---”

            “I will be your envoy. But you need to tell me how I can get on that train when it comes back. You need to help me get off this island. I think that train is my only hope. Help me.”
            “I do not know exactly how, but I can have some of my people who work with the trains at the facility help you when the time comes. Will that be satisfactory, my lord?”
            I set my jaw and stared confidently into the jungle depths. “Yeah. It should be.”

            “I do feel the need to tell you, monsieur, one more thing. About the treasure. Legend says it can only be found with a sacred, geographical positioning device: a map, or something just as extraordinary. We have searched, monsieur, and the enemy tribe has too. But no one has ever been successful. Even you, as The One Chosen By The Gods, might not be able to find it.”
            It was right then that three things in my mind fell into alignment like a spine in a chiropractor’s hands.
            One: Golbez told me not to tell Vanasmas about the gold, because he might “get jealous.”
            Two: Golbez had mentioned coming to this island with a map and little else, besides his wife, colleagues, and millions of dollars. But it seemed the map was the most important, because it led to a treasure, a treasure he did not want anyone else to know about and was worried that someone would find it because the map had been stolen.
            Three: Vanasmas wanted a map. Therefore, he obviously already knew about the treasure, and wanted it for himself. So it was easy to see that Vanasmas, who had undoubtedly poisoned my father with the bourbon, was essentially scamming him.
            Just for treasure? What a boring motivation. I hoped there was something more to it.
            Although with that name “Johnson” it seemed he was secretly or not-so-secretly allied with the Cardaccians’ rival tribe. Perhaps he was an agent of theirs, and was working to get back the treasure for them. But...
            But he needed a map first. A map that was formerly in the possession of Eli Noyce. Vanasmas, somehow knowing what had happened on that seaplane, had concluded that I had it, that I knew where it was.
            And suddenly, he was right. I knew exactly where that map was.
            It would have been a great moment for an act break, but I remembered a question that had not been answered in Djetta’s story.

“So why do you speak some French?”

            Djetta shrugged. “Only the gods may know, monsieur.”
            I’d have to ask them about that at some point. And now I think it’s their turn. Adieu.

No Romance Chapter 10

This is very much a first draft, and the writing is definitely rough. It's kind of meant to be at this point. But the rougher parts will be cleaned up in future drafts.

Beginning of Act II, “Embrace”

Chapter 10. Mathemagics, a trapmaster gets lost in his own museum, and our hero gets swept away.

Marek Tishtar had just been promoted. To a boss’s assistant, no less! He got to be Under Secretary to Norrigan North himself! And as a lover of fine guns and an appreciator of high marksmanship, he was excited to see this man, his personal hero, in action. And especially so as North actually seemed to want him along with him on action sequences. Marek deduced this by the effort North put in to enunciate words properly in his presence.

            “Come along, yunggun!” North said to Marek, coming out of his bedroom at the crack of dawn. Marek had been sitting at his desk just outside the room. He was ready for this because North woke up at the exact instant the sun rose, and fell asleep, no matter where he was, the instant the sun fell out of sight. North’s room had windows on both the east and west side so he could be situated when the respective moment came.
            “Right away, Mr. East!” Marek said, completely dressed and draped in two ammunition belts to boot. “Where are we going, sir?”
            “Fugitive escapin,” North said through his mustache. “I kin feel it inm’toes.”
            North’s mumble healed slightly overnight, and progressively worsened as the day passed.

And just as they started bounding down the stairs, Marek in awe of North’s surprising nimbleness, the alarm suddenly went off. (North’s limp may have been psychosomatic.)

“See ah toldyou!” North said, his eyebrows quite high with pleasure, revealing almost all of his eyes.

“Yes sir, Mr. North!” Marek said.

North’s bizarre enthusiasm was contagious. The two exited the villa and approached North’s personal jeep in Golbez’s parking garage. It was blue with white stripes.
            “It’s yer job to drive, yung Malik,” said North as he got into the passenger seat. “Take us out of this blasted place!”

“Where to, sir?”

“The damned jungle,” said North, spinning and cocking his revolver.

Marek maneuvered through the traffic of the base. The whole troop of guards were being mobilized.

“Gettoo the Lone Pine Tree down there,” said North. “Then left, into the trees.”

“Sir? There isn’t a road there---”

“Into the trees, I said!” North did indeed say. “Drivin’s easy enuff. I’n’it?”

“Yes sir!” said Marek, gulping but turning as he was told.

            “I kin feel it. Headin fer the river. Goin through the swamps. Ol’ Swampyland. We’ll cut im off there.”
            They drove around trees and through ferns, under vine-wrapped branches and across streams, up ravines and, on North’s order, delicately around a bush covered in beautiful blue, star-shaped flowers. Then down a steep slope that almost up-ended them, but got them to the edge of a giant swamp, full of gray, slimy water and lots of floating logs that weren’t actually logs.
            “We’re safe in here, right, Mr. North?”
            “‘s’the jungle, lad. Never safe. But they arnt safe either. We’ve got guns. ‘S’the ferst lesson I’m teachin you. Now let me show you some magical things. Drive around the perimeter of this swamp, Malachi. Slowly.”
            Marek did so, being very careful to ensure the ground ahead of him was solid before driving on it.
            “It’s all about the math, lad, the mathematics! Angles and velocities and frictions. Let me show you sumthin mathemagical. Stop the car. Here.”
            North stood up in the car as it came to a halt. A kind of fog had come in, depriving the surrounding environment of details. It had turned into one soupy gray blur with darker blurs here and there. Bird cries resounded but nothing seemed to move.
            Then North did. Like lightning. Two hands on his revolver, leaning out over the windshield, a shot and a controlled kickback. The discharge echoed around the area, silencing the bird calls, but felling nothing.
            “This here is the fastest thing a human does,” North said with surprising clarity. His mumble seemed to be psychosomatic, too. “And that’s me. Watch now. Got yer sights on em running through those trees, over there? Almost at the swamp? I’m gonna take em down, both, with a single shot. Observe, yunggun. Observe Trustwerthy.”
            Marek watched Trustwerthy, North’s gun, prepared to be in awe of North’s platinum psychedelic mathemagical jive.
            BLAM! (It didn’t really sound like that, but that’s how Marek heard it in his head.) The bullet sliced through a branch above the running figures and caused it to clatter down upon their heads.
            “What timing!” breathed Marek. “What precision! Where did you learn such things?”
            “Taught math and physics, didn’t I, eh?” scowled North. “Don’t teach kids nothing useful these days, do they? What’d you do in school, yunggun Mackenzie?”
            “I did---I didn’t---”
            “Hold off!”
            Another BLAM! and North’s revolver kicked back. He kept his hands steady and his eyebrowed aim straight.
            “Didn’t get em, damned fugitives, refugees, whatever the hell they’re called these days. Damn em. Now watch this, boy. See how they hid behind that tree?”
            Marek could barely make out the tree.
            “Then the boulder just past it.”
            A faint outline in the fog.
            “We ain’t gonna let em git into the swamp. If we do, they get away. So watch this. Keep in mind those angles and velocities I told you about!”
            North fired again: BLAM! A storm of sparks blew up around the boulder and a short, shrill scream sounded. A branch of the tree the figures had kept behind fell to the ground, just like the one before. And the figures resumed their dash through the fog and trees.

“I wonder who it is we’re shooting at,” North mumbled. “Probably some real bad guys,” he reasoned. “Let’s see if I can get another ricochet on em.”

“Do you want to use another weapon?” Marek offered hopefully. “See, earlier I threw a machine gun in the back and I have these ammo belts---”

“What in the hell are you playing at, lad?” North said. “Shut the hell up.”

Marek shut up.

“That’s better.” And North turned back to his hunt.

BLAM! BLAM! Two shots in succession, bouncing off boulders just as they were supposed to, but hitting nothing afterward. Norrigan North narrowed those bushy white eyebrows and snorted.

Then he promptly holstered his weapon. “Seems there’s only one way to deal with this: a quickdraw.”

And before the last syllable had even entered Marek’s ears, the gun had been drawn, fired twice (two times) and holstered again. The first shot went off, but the second one merely clicked: empty.

That first bullet happened to hit a rock that even North, with the power of his eyebrows, couldn’t see, and ricocheted off and onto another rock. This second rock formed a sixty-one-degree angle where the first had been a perfect sixty.

            As that last syllable of North’s words entered Marek’s ears, the bullet entered the windshield. It shattered, but North didn’t much care. He was more than enough surprised by his gun. Trustwerthy had always been trustworthy.
            “Huh,” said Norrigan North, scowling again. “It usually doesn’t run out on me like that. Before it’s always been unlimited...unlimited power....”
            Then his eyes caught sight of young Marek or Mackenzie or MacAvoy or whoever it was who was driving, slumped over on the wheel, and he sighed.
            “Now who in tarnation is goin ta give me a ride back home?”

---

Trapmaster Clement Jorgensen smiled as he listened to the orders and commands and reports of the chase over his radio. Smiled and laughed sinisterly. The “hero” wouldn’t last much longer, thanks to him.

At the first signs that another chase sequence had begun, Trapmaster Clement Jorgensen knew exactly where he needed to go and he got there: a place they called “Hell’s Drawbridge,” a narrow, linear clearing where most possible routes leading south from the villa converged, hedged in by thick growths of trees and boulders. When Trapmaster Clement Jorgensen heard that the Hero---very much a Villain in his eyes---was trying to head for the river, he knew the Hero would end up coming through here. He laughed at his good fortune, that he would happen to be out close to their already patrolling the Outer Perimeter, that he would happen to have all his trap-making equipment with him at that moment.

“He’s been heading south for twenty minutes! And he has someone with him! A woman! I think,” came a voice on the radio. “They’re about to hit Swampyland!”

That was exactly what Trapmaster Clement Jorgensen wanted to hear, and he put his trap together with glee and the occasional evil smile. As from time to time the radio crackled, Trapmaster Clement Jorgensen giggled and cackled.

“Passing through the trees, now. We’re driving him to you, Clemmy! Only one spot of land that’s reachable at this point, and from there it’s right on up the canyon!”

Trapmaster Clement Jorgensen worked faster with the trip-wire, the spikes, the spring.

“He just swung on a vine over an open-mouthed group of alligators! Holding the woman, too! “

Trapmaster Clement Jorgensen rolled his eyes. He had yet to see any real, actual person have the strength and grip enough to truly swing on a rope or vine or cable or anything while holding someone else. It was impossible. But not for those damn heroes.

Then something startling came over the radio.

“AAAAIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!”

Then the report.

“No! Terabonis fell into the open mouths of the alligators! NOOOOOOOO!!!”

He could hear the bloodcurdling screams. Horror marred his face. He vowed to destroy this man, this monster, this hero. He’d do it for Terabonis. And the other guys that died, but Trapmaster Clement Jorgensen couldn’t remember their names. Or what they looked like.

Strange, he thought.

But he forgot his sorrows as he set the wire. The trap was almost ready.

“He’s made it to the other side...and we had to turn back. Trapmaster, it’s all on you. The Chief is leading a group of Toon B guys around the swamps to meet you down near the river after it’s happened. They’re going to reinforce you and stop that bastard once and for all. Trapmaster---good luck.”

            Trapmaster Clement Jorgensen breathed in deeply. So. It was to be a one-man war. Without even the one man present.
            He made the finishing touches on his beautiful spike trap. This work was pretty much all he knew how to do. He had joined Golbez Industries in hopes of developing his craft more, but so far he had had few opportunities to actually spring one on anyone. Until now. Now he had one more than few.
            He heard someone crashing through the bushes behind him. With a final glance at his camouflaged handiwork, he jumped behind a tree. The tree barred his view of the scene of the trap, so he would just have to listen. Listen for that trip, that swing, that impalement. Oh what joy!
            The rustling in the brush stopped. That should be them, emerging onto the bare patch of earth that was right before the wire. Trapmaster Clement Jorgensen chortled evilly and quietly. How sweet the sound...

But he heard nothing after that. Not even a whisper. Just ten seconds or so of nothing. Did they see the wire? Impossible. There were three wires that could have triggered the trap, and they had all three been disguised as cleverly as could be! So even if they had tried to step over the wire, they would...

Trapmaster Clement Jorgensen squirmed behind the tree, impatient and nervous. What could they have possibly done to get around? He wanted to check, but not to play his hand. He would have to wait.

Then he heard more rustling of the bushes, as if they were going back the way they came.

“No, get back here!” Trapmaster Clement Jorgensen wanted to cry at them (but didn’t). They couldn’t do that! It was unfair! And life was meant to be fair. Life was meant to be about justice, social justice. And it would be just to impale the hero.

Enraged, he pulled out his knife and rounded the tree. He found nothing, nobody, trap still entirely in place. But then he heard more rustling.

From above.

He looked into the trees and gaped. There they were, the hero and his anonymous girl, jumping from the branches of one tree into another! Crossing right over his beloved, beautiful trap!

No, he thought. This was supposed to be the culmination of my life! The fulfillment of all my potential! Right here, this moment!

His gaping expression turned devilish as he watched the hero and the girl drop down from the tree on the other side of the trap. They both looked at him and waved casually before he took her hand and started running again.

He could not let this happen. He could not let them get away.

Filled with the fury of hell, he charged after them.

And tripped his own trap. The swinging spikes impaled him casually; their graceful arc truly expressed the genius and artistry of the design. By golly, it was a well-made trap after all.

Justice. Ironic justice, sure. But justice. He who springed the trap, sprung it.

---

            “The river is just ahead!” Jack said to Annie as they raced down the length of the little canyon.
            “Why do we have to go into the water?” she said loudly, in between breaths. “We already lost the dogs in that Swampyland.”
            “Don’t ask questions! Don’t think about it too deeply! It won’t make sense if you do. Then where will we be? If everything doesn’t make sense? Think about that!””
            And all of a sudden they were confronted by a humongous tiger. The glorious beast stood at the canyon’s exit, prowling back and forth as if guarding some treasure. A red collar hung around its neck.
            “Oh, come on!” said Jack in frustration as he threw his hands in the air. “So it got out here after all.”
            He didn’t have to see or hear Annie to know her thoughts and feelings. Fear, distress, all the usual stuff. He was about to groan about that, too, when the huge tiger, whose size made him big enough to ride on should that possibility ever come up, began moving towards them, one casual step at a time. As it stepped Jack noticed that its giant, fuzzy paws were quite cute. But clearly it still had designs to destroy them, so its cuteness would have be admired later, if at all.
            Jack sighed as he brought out Wrench and aimed it at the tiger. He didn’t want to do this, but pulled the trigger anyway.
            It clicked.
            “What the...?” Jack said, staring down at his apparently empty gun. He’d have to check it after this whole chase sequence ended.
            “Jack, what do we do? What are you going to do?”
            “Why is this on me all the time?” Jack said irately. “Why don’t you try something? Go up to it, see if it will roll over on its tummy?”
            “Me? Me? You’re the one---Jack! Jack, it’s getting ready to pounce, Jack! Jack!”
            Jack groaned. He tried the gun again, but didn’t fire, as he noticed something happening to the tiger. As it was in its pouncing position---front paws and head down low to the ground, its bottom wiggling back and forth high in the air---it was scrunching up its nose.
            Now, no ordinary cat had the ability to do this. Cats’ noses are just built into the facial structure, no cartilage about it. So how Jack could perceive that its nose was crinkled up as if something foul were in the air, he wasn’t sure. But the big cat seemed in consternation at what it could smell, and it started moving backwards.

“Annie, move closer to it. I want to test something.”

            “Are you crazy?”
            “Has there been anything sane happening on this island at any time while we’ve been here?” Jack said. “No? So it doesn’t matter if I’m crazy, does it? Just move toward it!”
            “Why?” she shouted.
            Jack lost his patience and pushed her forward, towards the massive tiger. Confirming his theory, surprising Annie, and offending the poor tiger’s nose, the beast backed up very quickly.
            “It’s your perfume!” said Jack triumphantly. “It can’t stand it! Chase him, Annie, chase him!”
            But Annie, still trying to gain her bearings on what was happening, didn’t need to. The tiger retreated, and dashed away into the thick, dark, but no longer very foreboding jungle.

“Hurrah for peaceful conquerings,” Jack commented. “Won’t see that too many more times on this island. But it’s a cute, fuzzy cat, so we don’t want to kill it. The poor thing. Anyway, let’s go!”

Before Annie could recover, and continuing on in her perpetual stage of fright and flight, Jack pulled her onwards. Out of the canyon, they passed through another grove of trees and emerged from the jungle atop several large boulders that sat on the borders of the raging river. The river itself was about as wide as Jack could swim in one breath, which is to say, either not very far at all (if he’s at home in his own swimming pool, if he were to have one to begin with) or about the length of the Caspian Sea in a rainy season (if a girl happened to be in trouble or a nuke was about to go off in Switzerland and the only way to stop it was....well, you get the picture).

            But the length was nothing compared to the rapids themselves, filled with more multitudes of sharp rocks than a vengeful caveman’s armory, and more undertows than the mosh pit of a punk rock concert. Here was clearly not where the gods intended him to cross.
            He hoped.
            But what the hell? It might be more exciting this way.
            He was about to jump when Annie screamed and grabbed his arm. He looked around but found no one nearby to frighten her.
            “You frightened me!” she said. “We can’t jump in there! We’ll die! Why do we need to go into the water, anyway? Where are we going? What’s the exit strategy to all of this?”
            “No idea,” I---he---said, and prepared to jump again.
            She screamed and grabbed my---his arm again. “We can’t jump in there! We’ll die! Why do we need to go into the water, anyway? Where are we going? What’s the exit strategy to all of this?”
            “Just shut up and trust me on this one! And on all the other ones, too!”

She grabbed his arm. “We can’t jump in there! We’ll die! Why do we need to go into the water, anyway? Where are we going? What’s the exit strategy to all of this?”

            Something fishy this way came. In addition to the fish in the river. If there were fish who went down river rapids that led to a waterfall.
            He looked at her, and tested it once more. Started to jump.

She grabbed his arm. “We can’t jump in there! We’ll die! Why do we need to go into the water, anyway? Where are we going? What’s the exit strategy to all of this?”

            He noticed it. Our heavy-handedness. But what can you do when your creation tries to do something you never planned for him to do? Subtlety, admittedly, is not our strong suit. But you already know that, and who wants subtlety in a tale like this?
            “Fine,” he said. “We’ll go down river a bit and try to cross at a gentler place.
            And so they made their way down the rocks to the more smooth parts of the river bank. The rapid did decrease, but the noise did not.
            Hmm, thought Jack. That’s a clear sign.
            “I can still hear the rapids,” said Annie.
            “Those aren’t rapids, honey,” said Jack wryly before smacking himself in the face.
            Annie looked like she wasn’t sure which clause of that sentence she should respond to. The first one evoked confusion and, to a lesser degree, fright, and the latter, utter bliss. The various aspects of her face reacted in different ways, her mouth smiling, her eyebrows raised, then lowered in confusion as she was still smiling in delight, then her smile vanished and she blinked, then she opened her mouth to say something, then her nose got all scrunched up, her cheeks flushed, and so on and so forth.

Jack took advantage of her conflicted silence to act and get away from that unfortunate moment, that unintentional term of flirtation. The only problem with this act was that it was to again take her by the hand and pull her along, as he had been for a while. For Jack, holding her hand served as a signifier of frustration, the same as a frown and a sigh, as he had to keep on rescuing her again and again. For Annie, this was the most romantic thing he had ever done, besides saving her life, which Annie felt like he had done multiple times but had never actually done at all. In consideration of both cases, it really adequately summed up their whole situation.

They came to a spot in the river where they could not pass on the bank itself, as it was too full of trees and shrubbery and pink fluffy flowers that looked like they’d bite you if you got too close. So they had to go around and climb over a huge fallen tree trunk, then duck between two trees whose branches formed a tiny arch that would have been a perfect size for a panther standing on its hind legs, or a human on its hands and knees, which is what they had to do.

When they found the river again they also found an open stretch of land on the bank, about thirty yards across and free of jungle trees until about twenty yards inland. In addition, the roaring of the not-rapids-honey had grown much louder, and it became quite apparent to Annie what was making that sound.

“A...a waterfall?” Annie gasped.

“Yes,” said Jack. “It’s here where we need to decide where we want to go and what we want to do.”

The river disappeared over the edge about ten meters downstream. Jack couldn’t tell how far it fell, but the deafening roar was a pretty good indicator: fairly far.

“We have to be careful in the water here, if we do want to cross,” said Jack. “We don’t want to get swept away.”

“Isn’t that what’s already happened?” came a calm, demure voice, barely audible over the waterfall.

Jack and Annie spun simultaneously. Vanasmas and a team of gun-wielding soldiers materialized on the fringe of the jungle, coming out of the thick, foreboding darkness. Upon seeing this, Annie immediately spun back to face the river. Jack did not notice this.

“Now, Roget!” Vanasmas said.

One of the soldiers raised what looked like a real gun and fired it at Jack. A splotch of red hit his white shirt. Jack touched his fingers to the stain and raised them to his nose.

“Paint?” he said, his head tilted slightly.

“You are now marked,” said Vanasmas. “All will be able to recognize you on sight. And you will come with us or die.” The gun-wielding soldiers stood there stupidly, blank and empty looks in their eyes.

“You’re really still trying?” Jack said. “After you’ve seen it all? After you’ve seen how I’ve evaded and defeated your men? And that one woman, too?”

“But see, you are surrounded!” proclaimed Vanasmas with delight. “I have my soldiers. You are backed against a lethal waterfall of the most deathly or peaceful powers, depending on how connected you are to the spirits. And to you, it is most assuredly the deathly power. You see all this yourself. So I ask you: Where is your god now?”

Jack glanced behind him at the churning waters, then back at Vanasmas.

“Why don’t you shoot me now? Why talk to me? Why insist on trying to spike the ball before you’ve scored?”

Vanasmas gave him a wary, appraising look. “What---”

“Exactly! Because you need to let me get away. It’s in the script.”

And Jack whirled around, grabbed the back of Annie’s shirt, and shoved her protesting into the water. He himself lurched into the river, still holding onto her shirt, and let the current sweep them away downstream, right into the raging waterfall of death.

“Shoot him! SHOOT HIM!” shrieked Vanasmas, and the guards all raised their weapons simultaneously and fired.

“Come on! You can do better than that!” Jack shouted back at Vanasmas. Then he clarified as bullets zipped into the water all around him: “I mean your line, not your aim! But maybe both are impossible, for fellows like you...”

He pulled Annie, who was shocked by the sudden wetness of the water (water tends to get pretty wet) as well as its coldness, as he paddled downstream. When Annie finally realized what was happening she screamed again.

“No! No no no, Jack McDowell! NOOOO!!!!”

This last bit was said as the water delivered them to the precipice of the waterfall, the aquatic event horizon, and they saw in slow motion the fate before their eyes, before their whirling arms and foundationless feet, and as their already churning stomachs rose into their very mouths.

A downward plunge of two hundred feet. Down, down, down, so far that much of the water was turning into mist before it hit the ground. Jack, having done this kind of thing many times before, took it in stride, and actually yawned as he dropped. He didn’t really mean to; it was not a purposeful display of irony, and he noticed it in himself and chuckled afterwards.

Annie’s typical and predictable scream fell with him.

“You’ll want to not land on your belly!” he said to Annie over the waterfall’s roar, but under her scream, so she didn’t hear. He shrugged and twisted into a feet-first position that would shield his most vulnerable parts, something Annie didn’t have to worry about. The thought occurred to him that she had known how to dive properly out of that seaplane in the beginning. But that took preparation for her, mental readiness. Here Jack had just pushed her over the side, almost literally.

Say! he thought, snapping his fingers. Is Annie really---?

Then, mid-thought, he, they, hit the water. This time, both had fallen like tortoises.

The water’s impact severed their handheld connection, and the raging, whirling currents threw them in different directions. This was far preferable, however, to the sharp rocks severing them literally, or being thrown against the boulders. As it happened, they survived, and without major injuries.

As Jack surfaced, rose out of the water and took his first steps onto the rocky, he glanced around, looking for Annie, but not consciously, so he didn’t think about it too hard. In his mind, which was still gathering its sensibilities, he was congratulating himself on another successful waterfall plummet. He had done this previously, of course, but he was always so grateful that he went over the other horrible possibilities in his mind. He did this as he craned his neck to see the very top of the waterfall. All that way and not a single scratch, nor a single bruise! He laughed out loud at his triumph.

Then he stepped forward, slipped on a wet round rock, and landed on a different rock, cracking his skull and knocking him out cold.