Chapter 9 – A Journey

     Matthew and Beatrice had several things to do in Anworth before we left so I accompanied them on their visits around the city. I still wore my normal clothes but they equipped me with a canteen, some blankets, and a backpack they had scrounged. Mark promised to keep the rest of my luggage. Everywhere we went people turned to look. Many turned away when we saw them. Others gave a brief nod, and still others came up and talked to us.

     Business in town ended up taking all day so they decided to camp in Wilson’s Park that night. We walked through the dark, silent streets of the city. Suddenly we heard a yell. I could not tell where it came from. Matthew and Beatrice took off running and I followed behind them. Beatrice abruptly stopped, pulled the bow from her back, strung it, and fitted an arrow to it. I saw the glint of the arrow tip as she pulled the shaft back. Matthew continued running. I looked in the direction Beatrice was aiming; there was a commotion not far ahead. A man was on the ground, rolling, writhing, covering his face with bloody hands. Over him stood another man, little more than a shadow in the night. At first I couldn’t clearly see what was happening. Then, with horror, I saw the one man was kicking the other on the ground.

     Matthew came up behind the attacker. “Okay, you’ve had your fun. Stop it now.” The man turned. “Stop it.” Matthew seemed to suddenly stand much taller. “That will do,” he said, and a knife fell to the pavement. The attacker hesitated a moment, then turned and fled. The victim had already disappeared, melting into the shadows, unseen to us.

     Beatrice lowered her bow and looked at me. Her brow was wrinkled, her face hard, and her eyes bore into mine. I was shaky, suddenly realizing that she meant to kill to protect her husband. Never before have I seen a sight like this. Such was my introduction to saigim life.

     After reporting at a police station we camped in Wilson’s Park. They showed me how to best lay out my blankets. I wonder what will happen when it rains. We then had some bread to eat, but nothing else. I somehow doubt this adventure will make me fat.

     Before they went to bed Matthew read out loud from a book, then they held each other and murmured something, then did a short dance that consisted of them joining hands and twirling around, faster and faster, until they fell over. I lay on the ground watching them with curiosity. What is the significance behind this ritual dance? What ancient deity do they summon? What protection does it grant them during the night? I asked about its significance. “It’s fun,” they said, laying side by side and giggling.

     I awoke this morning after a night on the ground to find Beatrice leaning over me and grinning. “Top o’ the mornin’ to yah,” she said in a faux Irish accent. I grunted a response. Every muscle I had ached. I started to get up but discovered my arms couldn’t move freely – my blanket followed their movements in a mocking dance of imitation. Looking at my sleeves I discovered they had been sewn to the blanket. Beatrice’s grin broadened. “We don’t want you to feel unloved,” she said. She carefully unstitched me. “Must save the thread.”

     To make amends for the prank they gave me the cleanest tin plate for use with breakfast. Matthew cooked on a small stove made from soda cans, using alcohol as a fuel. He has an ingenious device to start the fire. It’s a small metal cylinder with a plunger at one end which he pushes down hard. He takes the plunger out of the cylinder and there is a burning ember on the end which he then uses to light the fire. “A spark! A spark! Such a strange sight, here in the park,” he said as he lit the stove. The meal of rice, meat, and some leafy vegetable cooked quickly but was not very good. We were packed and on the road minutes after eating. Au revoir, Anworth.

Chapter 8 – Matthew and Beatrice

     Mark felt my education was still lacking. “You are here to discover our country, and more,” he said to me one evening. “You must go out into it. You must see the highs and lows, the good and bad. Get out of the city. Travel. Then, boom! You will understand us.” I asked him what he had in mind. “I have friends,” he said, “they are saigim. Matthew and Beatrice. They are going to their village. You must go with them. I have arranged it.”

     I had a one day reprieve in the city on my own before meeting these saigim. So that I wouldn’t appear to be too ignorant to my new hosts I spent the day at the Museum of National History (not to be confused with the Museum of Natural History, two blocks away. Very impressive Tyrannosaurus, by the way). Judging from the crowds it is a very popular attraction. It traces the history of New Maldon since the first people arrived (estimated to be two thousand years ago) up through the present day. While there I discovered that the saigim are a small sub-culture. Although now made up of many different races they trace their cultural history to a small nomadic tribe, also called the saigim. Today they are a motley group of people who, for various reasons, have rejected mainstream Maldonian culture.

     I met Matthew and Beatrice later that evening. It had begun raining that afternoon and they walked into the ordinary during dinner, water dripping from their packs and broad hats onto the floor.

     “My friends!” Mark said, standing and walking quickly towards them, arms wide. He embraced Beatrice, kissed her on the cheek, then grabbed one of Matthew’s hands with both of his. “Come, join us.” He pulled two extra chairs to the table and they sat after removing their packs, bags, rifles, bows, canteens, and other assorted paraphernalia. The other guests said little to them at first, would hardly even look at them. Mark didn’t seem to notice and leaned forward while talking to them, his eyes wide and a smile on his face.

     “How long have you been on patrol?” he asked.

     “Eight weeks,” Matthew said.

     “How much longer will you stay out?”

     Matthew reached for some bread. “Our time is dear, whether there or here. But our return, yes! the time is near.”

     Beatrice leaned against his shoulder. “That one wasn’t very good, dearly beloved.”

     Mark laughed. “I’m afraid she’s right, my friend.”

     “Ouch, acushla,” Matthew said, putting his bread down. “My friend and my wife, both against me and my lovely verses!”

     “So, um, Matthew,” McPhee said, “have you always been a, um, saigim?”

     “Yes,” Matthew said. “From the village just south of the Enomier.”

     McPhee choked a little on his soup. “And you, Beatrice, I assume…”

     “No, I’m from Berkeley Springs. Matthew won my heart. And my mind.”

     “Oh. Have you been married long?”

     “Three years last week. We married after I graduated from university.” The others were very impressed.

     After dinner the other guests left, leaving Mark and me with the two saigim. “This is my friend, the American I told you about,” Mark told them.

     Matthew turned to me. “Yes, I hear you would like to travel with us to our village.”

     “Well,” I said, then noticed Mark looking at me. “Yes, I would. Camping is nice. It might be fun.”

     “Nice?” Matthew stood. “Nice?” He grabbed my hand and dragged me to a window, pointing out into the rain. “My people are out there. Living out there. Dying out there.” He grabbed both my shoulders and looked straight at me for a moment. “Yes, I see,” he said. I couldn’t look in his eyes for long and glanced down. His shirt was dirty and decorated with a subtle embroidery. A long knife hung from his belt. “Yes, you should come,” he finally said.

     I looked up.  “Is it dangerous?” I asked.

     He reached down and picked up his rifle. “Dangerous? Of course.”

     Beatrice now stepped forward. I noticed her rust-red dress, the bottom caked with mud, was also embroidered and her belt also held a long knife and several small, dirty pouches. “It is dangerous,” she said, “but it might save your life.”

* * *

     Matthew and Beatrice decided to take Mark up on his offer to host them for the night. “After all,” they said, “even we like the occasional soft bed and warm shower.” I noticed that Beatrice showed Matthew how to turn on the water at the sink.

     I have a bed for one more night. After that, the ground for the foreseeable future.

Chapter 7 – Tricket

     I was wrong when I imagined that Mark does all the work at the ordinary on his own. His helper is his daughter Sarah. She lives with her husband on the same street, several houses down from Mark, and comes over everyday to help with the business. Mark said that she plans to take over some day, but he’s putting it off as long as he can.

     This morning Sarah brought over her own daughter, Jenna, to have breakfast with us. Jenna is an active three-year-old who quickly won over the hearts of the other guests. After breakfast McPhee showed us that he has a tender side by sitting on the floor with her and building a fort out of pillows from the couch. She squealed with delight as he pretended to be a sea monster, rising up and then encircling the fort with his arms. Mark teased him about this unknown side of his generally introverted personality, but McPhee ignored him and continued to play with the little girl.

     Today Mark was going to the market in Tricket, about twenty miles away, and asked if I’d like to go.  I asked him why he didn’t use the markets in Anworth.

     “Because,” he growled, “there are none like the market in Tricket. Fruits and vegetables like you have never tasted. And what selection! It is magnificent. Yes, my friend, you will come and be introduced to the king of markets. Tricket’s the ticket! Hoohoo, ha ha ha!” He went away roaring. The man who can amuse himself is never bored.

     Our transportation to Tricket was in an old van. It was missing several seats, the exterior was dented from long years of use, and the sliding side door was gone. A chain covered in rubber took its place. I was surprised how clean the inside was, though. A light rain was falling as we sped down the highway, dark mountains visible in the distance. Mark let his legs dangle out the side as he talked about the countryside. I held onto the side as tightly as I could. “Why aren’t we taking a bus?” I asked.

     “This is more convenient,” Mark said. “Also, the driver is a friend of mine.” I glanced over at the bushy blond hair that stuck up from the driver’s seat. He must have seen me looking at him because he held up one hand in a V sign and said, “Peace.” Mark laughed. “Ed has seen too much Yankee television.”

     The market in Tricket seemed very similar to markets in Anworth. The same stalls, same accents, same banter between sellers and customers. Mark continued to insist they were different. “Go off on your own. Taste. Smell. Talk. See for yourself!” I obeyed.

     After visiting several stalls I still saw no difference. True, I haven’t yet spent much time in an Anworth market, so perhaps my education hasn’t been thorough enough yet.

     Mark had asked me to meet him at a certain ordinary for lunch. Shortly before I was to meet him I was talking with a man at one stall who suddenly gripped my shoulder firmly and said, “Saigim.”

     “What?” I asked.

     “The saigim. Don’t turn around. They’re here.” I turned around. A man with a dark cloak pulled over his head was approaching. A rifle was strapped to his back. A number of people stepped away. Our eyes met for just a second. He squinted his eyes, gave a slight nod, and turned away.

     Over lunch I asked Mark about the saigim. “Why do you ask about them?” he said. I explained the encounter. He shrugged. “There are some who don’t like them.” I waited. He sighed. “There are some people who, for various reasons, have chosen to live outside of society. Some were born into it. Others do it because of personal beliefs. Many people support them, or at least stay out of their way. Others believe they are criminals, outcasts, malefactors.”

     “Are they?”

     “Perhaps some of them are. But no, not all of them.”

     After our meal we carried the boxes of his purchases back to Ed’s van. Mark was strangely quiet on the trip back. Once only he pointed out the side and said, “There they are.” I looked. There were about ten people sitting in a field. As we sped by I could see their clothes were tattered and worn. They showed no interest in our van. Mark took off his hat as we passed. Grey clouds swirled over us, and it rained once again.

Chapter 6 – Christina

     Last night at dinner I mentioned that I was planning on going to the capitol building today. Christina, a young woman also staying at the ordinary, was planning on visiting it as well after a visit to Pidjwé. She is visiting Anworth on business but has one day to see the sights. As she has a car I accepted her invitation to go along. Her car, in my opinion, is barely worthy of the title, being a cramped two-seater with peeling paint. It makes funny sounds, too.

     Christina has never been to Pidjwé so we went there early this morning, shortly after the sun rose. I watched as she knelt and gently ran her hands over the rough path. “Amazing,” she said. “So many of my ancestors walked here.” We walked into the crater. Different areas were labeled with signs explaining the history. Christina saw one sign and ran over to it. She stopped for a moment then ran up a flight of stairs leading to a ledge. I stopped and read the sign that described how, on this ledge, a group of Maldonian soldiers had fought off a British advance during the revolution. I then followed her up the stairs.

     She stood there, leaning against a short wall and looking down on the exterior of the volcano. I looked around the crater behind us; it appeared that we were at the point where the wall was shortest.

     “My great-times-seven grandfather died here,” she said. “Samuel. Samuel Arthur. The British were trying to come through the gap here. Look, it’s the easiest place to attack the fortress at. They were coming closer. Samuel pulled out his pistol and jumped up on the side, right here, to rally his men. He was shot seconds later. His men alone could not drive the British back but reinforcements came from inside the crater and together they drove the British back.” She turned to look at me for the first time and I saw she was crying, just a little, but smiling too.

     I felt awkward. “Christina,” I said, “it’s OK. It was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

     “What?! Is that what you can say?” Her volume and pitch had both increased. “This is my family you’re talking about! Of course they matter. If it wasn’t for Samuel I wouldn’t be here now. Are you saying his sacrifice means nothing to me? To this country?”

     I felt more awkward. “It’s just that it happened so long ago. Look, we don’t worry about…”

     “Oh, so I worry about things I shouldn’t, is that exact?” We were drawing attention. “You Yanks don’t worry about things, so why should we? We’re a quaint people, right? You can come and visit us and marvel about our means then go back to your own people and tell them what an interesting time you had.” She paused and breathed heavily for several seconds then turned and looked back over the side of the volcano.

     I did the same. A thought came to my mind, one I hadn’t thought before. I knew what I had to say, but had to swallow all my pride to say it. “Christina,” I finally said after a long moment, “tell me how you live.”

     She didn’t speak for a awhile. Then, “I know what you’re doing. Thank you.”

* * *

     Christina left this afternoon to go home. Tonight I sat out on Mark’s porch after dinner, pondering the events of the day. I have never been a ponderer; this is new, frightening, and also somehow refreshing. Mark came out after awhile and sat with me. “I never expected to see you out on the porch,” he said.

     “I usually don’t.”

     “What happened between you and Christina?”

     “How did you know?”

     “I observe. I watch.” He laughed. “If you ever want schooling in human nature just open up your house to guests. Please, tell me about it if you wish.”

     I told him about Christina’s outburst at me. He was silent. Then, painfully, I added, “I suppose I was partly responsible.”

     “Hmm. Partly?”

     “Well, she didn’t have to get so angry.”

     “No, she didn’t. I did not know her until several days ago, but I am disappointed in her.” He shook his head. “She needs to control herself better.” I appreciated his defending me, but he continued. “You, however, insulted her ancestors and her country.” I didn’t know what to say but started to speak. “My friend,” he continued, “you are in a great nation, amongst a wise and understanding people. You need to understand us. You need to be more active. That is how you will grow here.” I sat in stunned silence, unsure of what to say. Never has a host talked to me in this way.

     Mark shouted a greeting to someone in the street, then glanced at the door. “I should go in. Another busy day tomorrow.” He went back inside and left me sitting in the darkness.

Chapter 5 – A Dance

     Boom-boom-ba-boom-ba-ba-boom.

     Feet stomp and swing as a small choir drums and sings. “Then into the fire/The rain of the fire/The men bravely charged/They would not retire.” The people around me on the grass sit at attention, their heads straining forwards to see the intricate movements of the dancers. The blue and white uniforms of the men and women on the small outdoor stage become a blur as they intersect and cross, their feet nearly invisible.

     The dance occurs on the grounds of Fort William, New Maldon’s “West Point,” and is performed by several cadets there. It is a weekly event, outdoors when warm and indoors when cold. Tonight is a perfect night. The air is warm, the sea breeze is salty, and the dancers are very good.

     I was puzzled why the army would put such emphasis on dancing. I asked a man sitting on the ground next to me and he said, “A man who can’t dance is not a soldier!” He is a veteran himself and explained how many ideals of chivalry are still present in the Maldonian army. I hesitate to believe him; can any modern army embody those ideals? Could any one ever?

     One thing is for sure: the Maldonians love to dance. Frequently in the evenings I have seen dances in their parks and their ordinaries. Large ones in Wilson’s Park are attended by a mass of humanity, many ages, and most social classes. They may seem egalitarian, but I am not invited to attend.

     Mark is perhaps the most assertive host I have ever met and a strong defender of his country and its customs. I am watching this dance at his urging. He says I don’t make an effort to see enough, but I know what I’m doing. I’m a travel writer, of course! Anyway, Mark claims that the Maldonians participate in things, such as the public dances, without invitation. Perhaps, but such such behavior seems rude and uncivilized to me. They are an interesting people.

     Outdoor activities of all types play an important role in the lives of these people. Men and women of all ages participate in a variety of sports and games in the evenings, in addition to the always popular dances. I am curious about what they do during the cold months, as the people now seem invigorated as the weather warms. Perhaps they halt for the cold; they do not for the rain. Several days ago, while riding on the bus, I saw a field full of young men playing a rough game that I did not recognize. Water streamed from the skies and mud from their bodies. I passed by within seconds, but seconds such as those make impressions.

     I’m becoming too sentimental, and I think this country is responsible. Everything here is in its place and all is right with the world. It can’t last; these people must be brought to reality sometime.