Love Chase - In Re-write

1. It's Like Dying Patty falls prey to this feeling every time, without fail.  The flight, the gliding  above it all, the mounting freedom, it is the apartness from everything else which completes her inside. That's why she rides the thermals whenever she can and as often as she can catch them.  When the wing grabs a straight one rising from a canyon, she can drift for hours. She twice rode thermals outside of Tuba City, Arizona that carried her craft to Grand Canyon and North Rim in one flight, clocking over 120 miles each flight. Once over Ewa Beach, Hawaii she rode thermals, rising up and westerly from the numerous buildings and pavements of Honolulu, for nearly three and a half hours. That particular flight drove her husband John to tears.  Celtic Kunning warned Mr. Carroll that his wife would be aloft for a ride of her life that day, much to John's worry, and Kunning's concern, but to Patty's utter delight.  Her husband's soothsayer - wizard, psychic, witch, or whatever the man's title in Carroll Industries is - could foretell the future; she never doubted his word once he had proved his abilities. He can read hearts also; why not read hers now? Presently her feet seemed welded to a canal's edge in Florida. Patty scheduled this flight, she is longing to take it, so why is he against this flight?  Doesn't his strange talents see inside her, right inside; where it all really matters? Catching air flows and  thermals from off a beach is nothing like jumping from a cliff. The pilot approaches the active air from the bottom up. That's why so few even attempt it; it's not sport. Patty's recreational manager, Tommy Trip, Patty's recreation manager, needed first to find a ground team which specialized in such flights.  Then to determine locations suitable. What luck to find a team and a location right in her back yard, less than an hour away from their mansion in Naples, Florida. The team called Ferris Wings has its main office on Marco Island where John and his entourage had business this particular week. The team along with boats needed to pull the kite-like gliders airborne were hired and in position. Rain or shine, the flight is scheduled. If it rains, or for any reason the flight is cancelled, the bill remains due. This morning Kunning seemed beside himself with complete terror. She's not to fly today, not today, he went on and on about it.  Until John made such a fool of himself by begging her no to go up. She hates it when he does that; listens to the witch. And hates him when he begs. Stop it, John, she demanded while fitting her suit.  The day is too nice not to try the skies.  They had been on Marco Island now for almost a week and everyday was business, business, and business.  Even the nights, laden with food, drinks, dancing and flirting among business associates, is just business. Enough!  Today the skies are clear. She had heard from Tommy Trip that the thermals rising from Gullivan Bay, just west of the Everglades, were to die for, and she was going up. "Patty, this if Florida. Hand gliding is too dangerous along the southwest coast of this state.  Weather changes too quickly and without warning.  In this swampy state, where there are thermals, there are pop-up thunder storms." Even Mr. Trip does not argue against John's logic. Patty holds a reputation as a world class glider, still the swampy keys scattered across the crystal blue Gullivan Bay lay like yawning alligators, just waiting for Patty to drop out of the sky. Once Kunning weighed in she almost turned around, he is pale with concern. Patty has never seen the wizard so adamant about the dangers of her favorite hobby. Usually she does exactly the opposite of what he tells her, she tries to prove him wrong for spite. They play a game between themselves; when the stakes are simple and harmless. This morning, she entertains second thoughts simply because he truly looks as dreadful as the fears he reports. Usually the wizard spoke in dry tones from a face tightly austere and aloft. Speaking to people from his bench between this world and - wherever his mind took up residence. She had no use for the man; he is the danger in her life. Yet her husband John swore by his every word. 'He built Carroll Industries, not me', he'd say - only to her, of course. She loathed John for not taking the credit due him, for being a front man to a wizard whose only success gleamed in giving John that edge he needed. That edge he should gain from his wife, not a nut case witch. This morning, she requires only the results from Celtic Kunning,  "Will I die in a crash?" A problem every wizard tackles with is giving up information that will remain intact once it is revealed.  Exposing fortune will modify the outcome because, once adding the exposure to history, the future reads differently. "You will not die, no," Celtic added with a clear expression to his frustration. "Not today," he said directly to her.  Another unusual act for the wizard. His method is always to whisper his advice and warnings into John's ear, not directly to Patty. Oh, you'd think the two of them joined at the hip.  John permanently standing in front of Celtic Kunning; the wizard a silhouette behind John - and whispering in his ear. He is not timid this morning; today he walks directly up to Patty.  He stands, a bit bowed before her and seems to take a stab at begging. The reason to put off this flight is so much more than the weather, so much more than the hungry animals found in the Ten Thousand Islands. It has something to do with Shell Key.  Patty asks what.  He does not reveal what he knows but pleads as best he can. There's no danger, the skies are clear. I'm going up. Patty can be a bitch.  John wants to heed Celtic's advice and threatens to fire Tommy Trip had not they been through that before. It is the only time in her life that she gives John an ultimatum. He goes, I go. She did not even believe she could stand up to John. After that experience, she now knows she can, but also feels she respects him enough not to engage that power over him.  It's not fair. Which does not comfort Mr. Trip much as he drives Patty, John, Celtic and a small band of others down San Marco Road, turn right onto Goodland Drive, a left onto Harbor Place and welcome to Goodland Bay and the team of Ferris Wings. Three motor boats are fastened to three gliders. The small motor boats sit atop brackish though very still water. Like the gliders resting at the shore line and the hard fiber ropes strung from bird to duck, they are as motionless as a country painting scene. The team leader, Rocky Ferris, disturbs the beauty of the scene as he directs Mexican looking men along the rope lengths.  Patty's life depends on these ropes and their fasteners. Because this is not parasailing, it is hand gliding, tacking wind up into an air stream is dangerous and arduous. Failure to catch a wing full of updraft usually occurs almost immediately; thus the three boats waddle in line awaiting rescue and another attempt. The new arrivals emptied out their cars. Celtic knows even before Mr. Ferris comes up to greet them that the second glider would seal the man's dreadful fate; though he can say nothing. Tommy trip handles the introductions then takes Mr. Ferris on ahead to conduct business. Patty begins putting on her flight suit while she studies the shape of the crafts. Patty is anxious to fly, John looking over the gliders and boats grudgingly gives his approval. Everyone is bringing the shoreline to life, taking their assigned positions and vantage points. Patty mounts her glider. She is strapped in and ready to fly. Once air born and caught by the air currents at the first try, Patty drifts for less than a mile south to catch the thermals rising up from Gullivan Bay and Ten Thousand Keys. This is what it's all about. Drifting with the wind is like dying. You await it, but never know exactly when. Then suddenly you are no longer you. It takes you away without warning, no fanfare, drawn heavenly like a weightless particle, like a moth to a lamp light. The bright sky draws her into the sun. She has no control save for a gentle steering which compromises the hand of God, though it can not disobey the lordship of the wind. All around her the world twists and turns. Up and down, and sideways are all dimensions to marvel at, not be limited by. The earth moves quickly away. John holds no sway on Patty up here. The higher she glides, the faster she forgets anyone, everyone, especially Celtic Kunning. Even her good friend Yvonne is from that place down there. And, essentially, as she pulls at the handrail, yanks her body to steer the wing, she loses Patty herself. Until the thermal catches her.  Being taken by the shafts of hot air rising off the earth's surface is like going to heaven. Up, quickly up, now there is nothing for her to do, but ride. Thermals are like uneven steps in the sky.  They draw her up, sometimes sideways. If the air comes steady and thin, she can sit like a hawk that surveys all the land below. Sometimes Patty dips. She will not drop unless she glides outside the shaft of air.  The air is cooler and still outside there.  When she does venture outside the thermal, she pulls and twists and aims back for the warmer uplifting air. Once safely back inside the shaft she can play with the wind. Pulling herself over the handrail, she can bring the glider into a full summersault.  She holds records for such maneuvers. Or Patty will turn the glider on wing -  at a right angel to the thermal - and fall down the shaft. A most amazing feeling riding this airy waterfall in the opposite direction! On the ground, her husband is beside himself.  Celtic is praying. But Patty is riding the current, overcome with freedom.  In the arms of her soul mate, she often called it.  On the shore, Mr. Ferris suddenly goes pale. He says nothing as he hands the binoculars he pulled off his face to a surprised photographer. He dashes for one of the two gliders along the beach. Without words, but all hand motions to men in the second boat, he orders them to take him aloft. There is trouble brewing. John notices Mr. Ferris tying himself to the glider just as Celtic moans.  "Look, over there, John.  The western sky has turned cloudy." A storm cell sits at the rim of this lovely blue sky. On this perfect day for flying.   "So fast?"  John runs to Mr. Ferris who says nothing but yes to John's every question.  "You going up?  Radio not working? Is that cloud headed her way? Will I lose her if it reaches her?   Please hurry!" At the water's edge Celtic stands fuming, scowling at the skies. He grumbles completely to his injured feelings, "Why do some people get nothing while others have fortune drop from the skies like rain?"   2. Promise Me He knew this would happen. "I knew it and I even told Godfrey this would happen!"  He yells with all his might at the pair of hungry eyes wading in his direction. The 14 foot alligator figures it has a meal stuck in the mud and is in no hurry. It had never eaten a human before.  This is its first time but the yelling would not deter it. "Sure, get yourself a pair of these here fancy tracker boots. Right! Plain old western boots won't do. Oh, no! Heels are too narrow and high, toes too pointy. Who'd be caught dead in them. Me, that's who! Cause now I'm gator bait in mud-sticking-tracker-boots!  Damn you, Godfrey!"  He roared mostly at the gator. He knows the yelling will not stop the critter, but it will slow it down. Without waiting for a reply over his cell phone, he yells for Godfrey, then pockets the phone. "Damn mud.  Shell Key is mud.  Mud and mangrove. Not one Whitey here, not one!" He roars louder while the alligator moves in, cautiously. A water oak is out of reach, although it is his ticket out. An instant image comes to mind. That of Lisa Anderly using her famous whip to draw herself up to a water oak from quicksand. Probably the only time she ever employed the whip, and the reason for its fame. But other than Lisa, no one else walks around with a whip on their hip. Pulling off his shirt, he makes a lasso of it.  Too short.  Off comes the utility belt.  He ties it to a sleeve and goes for a branch high over his head. The alligator with a brain under the size of a plum, is figuring this out all the same. It would not go for the  human's mid section.  An alligator will grab prey as near to a quarter of its length because it kills by thrashing; dashing the food back, forth and all around until dead. This beast locked its sites on the man's knees.  Just above those brandy new tracker boots. "Damn you, Godfrey," he screamed and pulled hard at the makeshift lasso. Should pull him right up  - the tracker boots held him firmly in the mud.  He instantly pulls his knife from its holder in the utility belt and throws it at the approaching alligator.  It lodges into the animal's shoulder.  The beast pulls back, rolls around, and vanishes under the muddy water only to surface without the knife and angry as hell. "This is my day!" he can't let go of his lasso because it will swing toward the approaching alligator and out of reach. So he is hanging onto it while trying to untie the tracker boots.  Not an easy task when the laces are under water and deep in mud. Fella Godfrey replies to the earlier call. Talking on about Whitey and asking what's up. He can't hear his partner crying back about what a moron he is and about a hungry and very angry gator just a few yards away and closing. "Oh, good!  One foot out!"  He doesn't waste time on the other boot and begins pulling for all he's worth.  The shirt begins to tear. What next?  He is yelling, spitting, cursing, and twisting in the boot just as the animal strikes out for his knees. Crooked rows of sharp white and decaying-brown teeth come at him. If these teeth snag flesh and do not take the man down, bacteria infection very well can. The man makes an attack of his own. The free foot lands a smart blow to the creature's snout which yanks the other foot free, and in one fell swoop, he is in the tree.  Huffing and puffing. "Hey, what's goin" on?  Where yer at?" Godfrey is still talking into his phone. "Talk to me, partner.  Come on, pal, don't tell me yer skinny dipping and removed those beautiful boots. Did yer?" He is too exhausted to answer.  He is glancing down at the alligator which is now chomping on a boot. He is covered in heavy sweat and with the first wind from off a distant storm cell; he falls back against the security of the water oak and peers up at heaven. What's this?  He grabs for the phone. "Godfrey, shut up a second.  Look north west."  "Bunch of cat tails." "No, up. Look up!" "Those gliders? N'ver saw glider near "round here." "And a pop-up!"  He wrestles around the tree and jumps from it. There are no roads on Shell Key.  Many trails and lots of quick sand. A hermit or two, maybe. There are alligators everywhere. The gliders are obviously trying to find a place to land. The storm had driven them two miles off course and Shell Key came as the only inviting island among the Ten Thousand Islands which offered some dry land.  But he knew better.  Touching ground here meant stepping into the fangs of death.  He ran to the western shore of the key. He is standing right on Gullivan Bay, Tripod Key and an island of mangroves visible before him. The gliders were falling fast toward the bay. He is not sure if they would be better off in the water of the bay, but doesn't trust those waters. Crocodiles live in these waters, snakes too and the shallows are nothing but tangle foot.  If all that doesn't get them the quicksand will. "The trees!"  He starts yelling into the skies. He exaggerates his pointing gestures toward a scattering of palms and water oaks. Trees are dangerous enough, yet snakes and gators nest in the cat tails. It's a no brainer. "Land in the palm trees!  The palm trees!" Patty flies just yards above his head. She hears his calls. But palm tress are very small targets compared with water oaks. And don't they have coconuts and long, pointy rachis in them? She pulls her glider up and catches a thermal from off the swampy key; it is week, the air is cooling from the approaching storm  She fears the choices she has below. Looks like one small area of dry land then nothing but mangrove, palmetto, cat tails and oaks. The wood will smash her bones, she'll be impaled on branches. The smallest of twigs can blind her for life! She has precious little time. The wind which brought her to the key is also now pulling her away from it.  She glides toward Mr. Ferris who is motioning her to land as soon as possible. He sees that Patty is falling from the thermal and heading toward dry land so he makes his landing. "No!  Pull up!  Go back!"  The man on the ground is running at top speed for Mr. Ferris. "The trees!  Don't land in the cat tails!" Ferris relies on experience and decides to skim a field cat tails, using it as a friction brake. Once slowed, he expects to land nicely along the shore of Shell Key.  He motions for Patty to follow him down. Patty ignores the crazy man on the ground and pulls her glider so she can follow Mr. Ferris" landing then come down safely near his glider.  She watches as he drops quickly and makes for a long patch of cat tails, an area void of any solid ground, inviting a soft landing.  Ferris ignores the man screaming below them and fends off the sting from the cat tails whipping at him as he meets the swampy key.  Patty begins her approach when suddenly she sees all kinds of movement surrounding Mr. Ferris" glider. He is thrashing about.  Alligators appear from nowhere and tackle him and the craft. She sees four, maybe five. They are the color of the brackish water, unseen until they attack. Except one.  It is big and white. Solid white and has Mr. Ferris fully in its mouth! Patty falls fast from the handrail, drops her body clear of the glider and it captures a cool breeze. The craft folds in upon itself then like an acrobat it sails straight up and away from the cat tails. There is not time to digest anything. Go for the nearest tree and hope her fate is better.  The wind yanks her out toward the bay again. Another few yards and she will be lost to the storm.  Thunder cracks along with striking fear.  She needs to turn the glider in. Back to the key but not just anywhere, at a tree. Using a sailor's maneuver, Patty pulls her entire body under the wing and tacks the craft against the wind. It starts to fall hard. The man on the ground is expecting to be picking up pieces as he starts toward a sandy area of quicksand where she is aiming for. When just as quickly Patty drops her body from under the wing and letting her feet detach from the craft, she swings like an athlete on an Olympian high bar and the glider turns hard and then upside down and lands flat on a water oak. "Nice landing!"  Godfrey cries appearing from among the cat tails. He and his partner make straight for the tree. She is not gaining consciousness easily. The blood she lost has her moving in and out of a dream-like state. She is living in a white light that pulls her up then down again. She likes it, relishes the experience, because she feels soft. There are no hard lines, there are no beginnings or endings. She thinks that it's morning, still drifting in and out of dreams. She drifts like when she is in the arms of her soul mate. And he is like a rock, strong and true as he carries her. She opens her eyes once in awhile. There he is! Holding her, embracing her. Yes, he is her soul mate, her Adonis, her place of completeness and fulfillment. He is here with her and she is there with him. Music too. Like drum beats coming from the sky. Such wondrous music growing louder, surrounding her and her soul mate. Perhaps they are dancing? Everything is swirling. He has locked himself up with her. His skin is electrifying to her touch, so tanned, so muscular. Heaven is filled with music and him. She wants to know his name. How did he find her? Where has he been? Why did John take her from him?  Is this John?  There are voices. Voices strung with long tails of echoes that lead her in and out of consciousness. Gods and angels chatting among themselves? Talking about &ldots; shirts?  Boots? She opens her eyes to gaze once more on his regard features. So handsome, so caring. It is not John. It is truly her soul mate. He is holding her to his chest while walking into the source of the music. Suddenly he looks down into her eyes. He knows her too!  She is not dreaming. This is her soul mate! "Who are you?" She asks. "Hunter, name's Hunter Gadar." Just as he answers, she drops out cold. Celtic reaches from the helicopter, saying, "OK, Mr. Gadar, we'll take it from here." Celtic, in an uncharacteristic manner, jumps from the helicopter and grabs at the limp girl. Hunter pulls her away from the stranger. She is too badly damaged to be handled like a reptile being crated for transport. "She's hurt badly. The leg," Hunter motions at her torn open right leg.   Mr. Carroll is upon the scene along with two medics. He is devastated. "What happened? Where is Ferris?"  "If you mean the other glider? Gators got the other glider." All Hunter is looking for is a stretcher which the medics bring from the copter.  He lays her atop it. "You'll be fine, beautiful lady," he says and comes close enough to kiss her lips. She faintly, dreamily replies, "now I will." "Who is she?" Hunter asks Celtic as the medics swish her aboard.  "Never mind." He says, adding, "Thank you very much, Mr. Gadar. You have saved her life and her family will show appreciation for it."  The men roll into the craft, even as it jars and rocks itself off the ground. Hunter moves to enter, but is pushed back by a medic shaking his hand no.  "The storm is too near, we must go," The pilot is air born as the words rush from his mouth. Hunter and Godfrey step back while the first copter leaves. A second and third run their engines.  Several men approach them, one is sheriff Ripton another is park ranger Bill Wundermeyer.  Wundermeyer waves at rangers and a cop to follow him toward the area where Mr. Ferris met his doom. Ripton is waving one of the birds to leave.  He approaches Hunter and Godfrey.  There lives no welcome in his greeting, he likes Hunter well enough, but he hates Fella Godfrey for all the right reasons. The big black man is a notorious run-around; and so is Ripton's wife Mary Jo. The meeting of the three men begins with a vanishing nod of heads against a steady drizzle of rain. "I know that woman from somewhere," Hunter comments mostly to himself. Ripton looks incredulous at Hunter. "Yeah, Patricia Carroll, so what? Everyone knows her. Married to the guy who sent you down here to get old Whitey out of the way of his oil refinery. You didn't hurt her, Hunter, did you?" No, but there is a lot of explaining to do.  Wild Bill, Ranger Bill Wundermeyer, is a tough, no nonsense salty dog who works in the brackish waters of the Florida Everglades. He can drink anyone under the table and is the best pool stick found from Key West to New York. But is all business all the time. Standing under the cover from a palm, several yards in from the ambiguous shoreline of  Shell Key, he keeps his men away from the tall cat tails and bushy palmetto grasping unto the fallen glider. The air still reeks from sliced weeds, torn palm and blood soaked mud.  The rain is beginning to drop in few but heavy drops. They can gauge the weight of it as it belts the torn wing. Bill pulls the rim of his ranger's hat tighter onto his brow. The other four men do the same, the cop  produces a plastic rain vest and tosses it on. "Cops get perks, rangers are jerks, " Bill grumbles. "Y'all going in there?" A ranger asks Bill. "What for?" He growls. "This isn't our beat and the gator with the full belly needs a tracker to find "em. Let the cops clean up the mess. We're here to watch our helicopters and make sure you dumb cops don't get eaten." Police expect rangers to act snobbish. These under paid, hard working troops do know the dangerous turf and risk their lives daily. Not against criminals - unless one makes a run for it into the swamps - but against stingers, quicksand and jaws. Jaws which will track a ranger down and take his life with far more deadly precision than a kid with a pistol can. The cop, mostly for his own education, asks, "There any good trackers "round these parts?" Instantly all the rangers hands went up into the rain, pointing back toward Hunter and Godfrey. "Your boss is talking to the best there is right now." High above them, Celtic broods over Patty's limp form as the helicopter struggles against the storm. "She must never see him again, never," he says.  The roar of the engines, the slamming of the rain against the vehicle, drowns what he says. John knows Celtic is speaking with dreadful worry written all over his face, he, his face close to his wife's, asks why Celtic is so concerned over this stranger? Patty is out cold, yet will survive to fly again. And Celtic has stared down every adversary before with confidence and authority. What is different now? "She must never come near this Hunter person ever again, John. It's a long story, and I can not even tell you the why of it.  I am here to protect your interests. Promise me, she will never go near him again. Promise it!" John takes the vow but so lightly.  His concern is for Patty, her leg badly damaged and bleeding profusely. One medic attends her leg, another works instruments, tubes and needles.  No one fears for her life, they fear navigating the storm.  Everyone but Celtic, who moves aside. He buckles himself into a seat and is studying Patty. His mind far away. Finally, amid the tossing and tumbling of the bird, amid the cries of concern from John and the medics as Patty is tossed about, Celtic flatly tells John he needs to visit Tulum.   3. Begin at the Beginning. From Tulum, a small resort city on Mexico's Yucatan peninsula, Celtic leaves that Caribbean Sea port and travels inland toward Dos Estrellas. He travels alone, often watching over his shoulder. His route brings him into highlands and jungles until, hidden from view; he comes upon an old Mayan pyramid.  The pyramids found across this part of the world are of Mayan design, built 2,000 years ago. They are shrouded in mystery and not all are known of.  This one is known only to a handful of people, including Celtic Kunning. Many of these structure have features no one knows anything about. Several hold chambers with no entry or exit. Some hold chambers filled with gravel during construction and most, like this one, holds layers of mica at its base and at its peak. Mica from Brazil, 2,300 miles away. Tons of mica carried in sacks through jungles, marshes, mountains and coastline by Llamas and men with packs on their backs. The Mayans never invented the wheel. No one has figured out why the mica was required in the construction, except for those who learned why from their teachers of the old ways. Celtic leaned from his teacher. An odd man named Michael Scanlon. A reclusive, defrocked priest who lived almost all of his life in the swamps around New Orleans. Monsignor Scanlon is the teacher of the old Inca traditions thought to be long lost to time or destroyed by the Spaniards during their conquest of the Mesoamerican world. It is still night and the pyramid looms like drapery falling from the shadows of trees. He gazes upon the high building covered in heavy vines, lichen and mold. It's an eerie place even for a wizard because, like all magic, it reveals the truth. Truth can be very deceptive. Among wizards it is commonly agreed that Celtic is top of the class. But Celtic is smart enough to realize that the more he knows the sooner he will error. That kind thinking calls him back here every so often to sharpen his skills and confirm his thoughts. Moving aside a stone, he checks the jungle before entering the dank pyramid.  It is before sunrise and he must get to the bottom chamber before the planet Venus leaves the visible sky.  He must hurry but eyes can be anywhere.  A toucan cries out. A low growl might be a jaguar. With no sign of human eyes, he enters. It is a damp, dark, and spider infested tunnel leading down four levels. The entire pyramid is nine levels from base to peak. When at last he comes to the very bottom, Celtic lights a torch for the first time. The chamber is alive with fiery speckles blaring off of flaky mica.  He checks his watch, Venus is still in the sky.  He moves into the center of the chamber, turns his head up at the ceiling and watches as the reflections of light tell him a story. The story begins on the other side of the planet in southern Libya, Africa. The year is 5,000 B.C.. The Sahara is not quite all waste and many tribes of dark olive skinned men were still able to live off what was once a fertile land. In large fortified villages these tribesmen were born, grew, reared children of their own and died rarely ever seeing another person from beyond their village.  Little came known of the outside world except for an occasional traveler or a rare return of a village member who originally left with his family for greener pastures. During this time, tribes to the west lived both in villages as well as caves. Those tribes were mighty. Indeed, today archaeologists still discover remains of their civilization now buried by desert sands. And to the East lied Egypt. Then called by many names, but most people called it The Delta. Still greater than all these at the time was Nubia, a kingdom equal to Egypt; an ancient kingdom  south of Egypt and south east to the huge Sahara.  One such village in southern Libya was called Ahutu. Or to translate, Hutu's people. Hutu being the surname of the original tribe which settled the area a thousand years before. The village consisted of 105 men and 145 women with 50 households flowing with children. It was a tranquil community, at least, at the start of my tale. Ahutu flourished upon the breast of the Sahara. Like its fortifications, homes and governing structure, the men were proud and strong. The women, fruitful and hard working. The men were divided at birth, or by selection during youth, into hunters and herders. The few strong were the hunters, leaders who sought after the lion and met strangers who might be traveling near Ahutu in order to ward off undesirables. The others - herders - tended to sheep, goat and whatever livestock the tribe shared. Generally speaking, these ancient tribes followed a communistic form of government with an Oligarchic twist. Each household was headed by the oldest male member. Their lives were, no doubt, simple with few taboos outside those which dealt with very personal hygiene or sexual behaviors. The older men given the blessing of longevity over forty years of age held the posts of elders - the chieftains who advised and guided the village. Actually they had very little to do. Mostly they were respected simply because they reached such an old age. Women were the workers as is common among primitives. In Ahutu, the women bore children, maintained the homes, created the clothes and prepared all meals. And the children, like children of every era, laughed, played and dreamed. Four such children were Tanu, Sheba, Karut and Meka. Tanu was a very young boy of eight years old. His father, Noblemi, was a hunter. Once Noblemi held the position of first among hunters. But, unfortunately, a lion fatally cut him down when Tanu was only an infant. Yet Tanu aspired to recapture his father's glory. He would tear limbs from dying trees and jab madly at invisible lions. Announcing the whole day through that his day to hunt drew near and his heart would be ready for the task. Hunting was this lean boy's very breath - hunting and Sheba.  Sheba was betrothed to Tanu. This olive skinned beauty, two years Tanu's junior, spent little time away from her future husband. During child's play they were inseparable. Together they shared a wonderful and carefree childhood upon the Sahara. She distained lion hunts and a little boy's frightening mock spear though, at times, she found amusement in his invisible taunts of lions and boar. She and Tanu seemed never to be far from each others sight or thoughts. She often sought his advice; he being a boy and all, and loved him when good advice was forth coming.  Sheba was a thinking sought of girl. Even as a child, she displayed a distinct personality. A tender character, she preferred the softer things in life, obtained her own personality, always embracing a doll of weeds while being silently firm in her own convictions. Even while Sheba had only reached six years old these qualities were very apparent.  Sheba became betrothed to Tanu because her father, a hunter named Imblu, took Noblemi's post upon the latter's death. Surely, all believed, the son of Tanu and Sheba would be a magnificent hunter. This seemed a match made by the gods to everyone - but Karut.  Karut entered the world a herder's son. He hated this accident of birth into the house of a cattleman and shepherds. He envied Tanu to no end yet admired Tanu's aspirations just enough to befriend the young hunter. Karut stood taller and wider than Tanu in their early years. He could not wrestle down Tanu or climb as high, but he ran faster and threw the boy's hunting spear further. Karut often commented that they were switched at birth; now, the fates would deal him an undeserved hand. Long into adulthood, their friendship developed, built on a bitter-sweet brew of admiration, respect and envy. Karut also envied Tanu's betrothal. Sheba had the charms every young boy gazed and wondered over; lovely, shy and she disliked everything boys loved. Yet she partook of every game any boy could invent. She enchanted Karut. But Karut was betrothed to Meka. Meka lacked youthful enthusiasm. Outspoken as a tree ape this cute girl, quiet, knew right from wrong and held dear her family and religion. A hard working soul who walked through life in her own orderly fashion. Meka was the quintessential Sahara female. She arose early, tended promptly to all chores, treated all persons according to their station in life then, at the end of a long, hard day, said her prayers and fell quietly into a well earned sleep. Such traits were virtuous charms for a woman in primitive times but not through the youthful eyes of Karut. Nonetheless, they were betrothed, they vowed to protect each other and become one in the eyes of the gods. Meka sensed her husband-to-be lack of affection for her. However, she calmed her heart with the instinctive knowledge that age would develop a true bond between them. A bond molded and pre-ordained by the gods; no matter the young boy's temporary distractions. She labored to grow up to be the best possible wife a man could have. In this way, she believed, his longing glances for Sheba would turn toward her. Simply because beauty could not maintain children and a household all by itself.  The four children befriended early in life. Karut tagged onto Tanu out of sheer respect for hunters. He copied Tanu's actions right down to how the young hunter gestured, spoke and developed his thoughts. Karut played hard at Tanu's games, always allowing Tanu to invent the games, then playing always to win. Meka and Sheba were closely related by birth, cousins in fact. So the two, being of equal age, formed a life long bond. All four comprised a clique among the many groups of children in Ahutu. Tanu began each day with Karut on his heels and the girls, once chores were done with, caught up with them. Often finding the boys pretending a great lion hunt.  As the vision proceed, it focused upon a particular moment back in time. Clothed only in a loincloth, Tanu pranced merrily in afternoon's bright light. Forever with his mock spear, he play acted to impress little Sheba who clung tightly to her doll for uncertain security. Sensing his girl's discomfort, Tanu paused and sat beside her. He saw her immediate approval and this filled him with a youthful pride. To further please Sheba, he forgot the hunt in order to speak of things a girl would find more interesting. Tanu said, "My mothers family is moving with the sun in three moons time." Sheba squinted up at her young hunter. With a wrinkled nose she asked why. "They go to the great land of Nubia. My mother says all the soil in Nubia is black. It is wet and the gods feed it with many rains." Tanu gazed skyward then downward along the Sahara's long horizon. Sheba's eyes followed his. "We seldom see rain."  "The gods up there rained on us not long ago," she argued.  "My mother says that's not enough. The gods do not like us too much, I fear."  "They like me!" she rebuked. "I never do them any harm!"  Tanu smirked at his lovely's misunderstanding. Giving a slight love tap at her doll, he explained, "Silly monkey! They do not like us living here."  This rattled Sheba. "We cannot leave Ahutu. We are betrothed!"  Tanu thought on this awhile. What would happen if his mother decided to follow her family's lead? What, indeed, would become of Sheba and Tanu? Looking into her wide, dark eyes, he saw her same concern. This triggered Tanu's inborn mannishness to protect her. Rallying to a reply, he touched her arm and gently stroked at her doll. "So then, when we are wed, then we will go to raise our children in Nubia!"  "And leave my parents?" Sheba frowned deeply. "Who will take care of us?"  "Sheba!" Tanu fell back both exasperated and amused by her lack of wisdom of adult ways. Like all men, young or old, Tanu's ego soared whenever she would appear confounded by his expertise in all matters. "When we are wed, Sheba, we will be full grown. By the gods, we will be fifteen and thirteen! You will not need parents. Nor will I, for certain! We will be our own parents and have our own children. We will be one person in two bodies forever."  "Forever?" Sheba grappled with the words total meaning.  "That is what betrothal means, silly. We are made for each other, you and I. My mother said that before time began you and I were one person. We were a god! Then we were born upon the Sahara as two. We must be married so that we can once again become one." Tanu studied his young bride-to-be. "Do you understand?"  Sheba gave her young man a challenging pout, saying, "My mother never told me that stuff. Are you sure, Tanu?"  Puffing up his chest, being the older, wiser and stronger, Tanu crowed with confidence, "Sure! Why else would we be betrothed? It is the way it should be forever." He thought a moment than added. "Remember Luona and Tetta?"  Of course she did.  Tetta had died recently and his body placed in a grave where years before the villagers buried Luona.. "Remember how they told us children that our dead return to the great white sands of Sahara? That within these white sands all are returned to the gods?"  Sheba was not quite as sure as he. But it fascinated her. "I like the part about forever." She gazed at him with that special kind of love only children can experience. "I will be a good wife for you and give you lots of cute babies," she boasted while hugging her doll. Both children shifted trying to recognize and then display the enormous emotions swirling within their tiny hearts but another child's voice broke their intimate mood. Like small ground hogs their heads turned to see Karut dashing their way. "What could he ever want?" Tanu took offense by the herders son calling him away from Sheba.  Sheba understood Tanu's annoyance but also valued the ethics of politeness. She waved to the approaching boy. "What is it, Karut? You are so excited! Isn't he, Tanu?" But Tanu merely sat stone faced and watched Karut merrily run up to them.  "Tanu, hunters have brought a lion into the village gate!" he cheered. This turned Tanu right around as he sprang to his feet. "Come see, quickly! Come, Sheba. Come now, Tanu!"  "I do not like dead lions," Sheba waved Karut off. "I do not like hunting at all."  Not wanting to delay himself from the excitement, Tanu took but a moment to gather up his mock spear and to try, just once, to get Sheba to come along. Or, at best, forgive him for running off. "Your father is a hunter, Sheba. How can you not want to see him return home?"  Sheba spun from the anxious lads, "Uggh! You go. My father will tell me all the awful stories later, I'm sure." So saying, Tanu shrugged. Karut pursed his lips and off they ran, cheering all the way.  At the entrance of the Stone Age village of Ahutu there rose heavy the smell of dust, sweat and blood. Quick footed lizards darted from low grasses along the bottom of dried mud dwellings. Bright African sunlight heated the homes, forcing all but the very old out into the desert air. On this morning they gathered in pockets of shade along the villages outer wall; families gathered filled with expectations of an adventurous story and a portion of a good supper. Veiled women readied sharp knives of stone and spread blankets in order to claim their household portion. Herdsman came covered in their full cloaks to watch their fellow villagers return from the hunt. Children gathered to learn what some day would be their celebrations. A medicine man, parading a high fagot, walked through the busy crowd while chanting praises for the hunters. Chants few paid any attention to except the impressionable children and an egotistical hunter or two.  This was a bloody sight, never-the-less. Not only was the lion a torn apart but, since the hunters did make contact with their prey, the hunters, although not seriously hurt, were covered with dried blood. As the dozen hunters threw their catch before the elders, who arrived last to announce the hunt officially ended and successful, the women scrambled to spread out the poor beast and divvied it up.  Onto this scene came Tanu and Karut. They broke through the crowd at where Sheba's father, Imblu, stood. The mountain of a man immediately recognized the boys. He tapped at Tanu's shin with his heavy spear handle. Smiling down, he winked at his future son-in-law. The big mans strong smile and silent nod boasted of a great kill.  "Look at this, Tanu," Karut glowed. "Have you ever seen such a big lion?"  Impressed, Tanu marveled. Soaked in admiration, he asked of the mighty hunter, "Imblu, you killed this giant lion?"  "Yes, young hunter". Imblu smiled. "I and my brothers"! He motioned with great favor to the other hunters as they cheered and reveled over their leaders graciousness and their victim's great size. One hunter hollered back that Imblu made the killing thrust! Full of the glory of their hunt he mimicked Imblu's chase and battle with the lion. Every hand applauded the mighty hunter's bravery.  The medicine man loudly finished his chanting which meant the women could begin carving up the beast. They pretended their first cuts to display the portions each household would get. Imblu's portion was first to be cut and proved to be the largest and choicest of the bargain.  Tanu fell willingly right into the spirit of the festive moment. While women began to argue and bargain for pieces, Tanu announced to the tall hunters that one day,  "I will kill a lion such as this one!"  "So will I," Karut broke into Tanu's boastful aspirations.  "Your family tends cattle! You will never hunt!" Tanu rallied back while the huge hunters either took to their own children or smirked at Tanu and Karut.  "But I will be a hunter!" Karut insisted.  "Never!" Tanu shouted and waved him off. Thinking Karut now put in his place, Tanu bragged on loudly, "I will be the hunter and bring a lion home to Sheba. She will be very pleased."  Karut could not accept his lot in life. Falling prey to his youthful jealousy, he shouted, "I will be the hunter, you shall see! Then I will bring home the biggest lion. Then Sheba will be more pleased with me!"  Tanu cringed under his words but held off from striking the boy. Tanu's eyes blazed at Karut.  Laughter filled the scene while hunters separated the boys. Imblu tore away half his portion and handed it to Tanu. Such an act symbolized his acceptance of the boy as future husband to his daughter and as a would be hunter. It came also in respect for Tanu's household whose loss brought Imblu to his position in the village as well as a responsibility to the family. Take this to your mother, brave hunter, he laughed. Go now! Excited Tanu ran off with his prize. Without warning the chamber went dark.  Celtic Kunning stood in pitch darkness. Had Venus been engulfed by the morning sun? Already? Celtic realizes his torch went out, that made more sense. He should have a least another 40 minutes until the chamber lost its electromagnetic responses from the blue planet. Celtic begins to search for the torch, watching for dying embers and feeling for its heat. Meanwhile he can not help but review all that he just witnessed.  It is the third time in his life that he reviewed this particular vision. He must interpret it correctly because his own fate is tied into it. So far, he is sure he is following the correct path, doing everything right. Feeling the hot stick, he picks it up. He lights the torch. Taking his position, the scene returns. This time it is years later when the Sahara began showing sure signs of its ruin fate, we catch up with the four now grown.  Under a very hot sun, Celtic sees a group of  Stone Age women. They sat restless and sweltering outside the entrance of Ahutu. The village had shrunk in size, now much smaller. Many families had left for Nubia or lands far from the dying Sahara. Live stock dwindled along with its vegetation to feed on.  Sheba and Meka were two of the women in the gathering. The girls are now mature women. Their skins are tough. So too are their hearts. But these hearts do not lack kindness or devotion to their families and people. In that aspect, their hearts were firm and unyielding.  Softly the women held conversation among themselves. When the talk fell idle or grew boisterous, the speaker cared not whose ear turned up. When they spoke of darker things, only a woman's whisper could be heard as not to arose the constant upturned ear of children all around Ahutu's gate.  "Six days is a long time for a hunt," Sheba worried as she sat close to Meka.  "The beast is on the run," Meka glanced from under a hood to along the bright horizon.  She lay an assuring hand to Sheba's forearm. "Our men will return with a great animal. You shall see."  But Sheba merely nodded and worried all the same. She never did grow accustomed to the awful waiting women had to endure ever since hunts began. Uncertainty gripped her always as she feared for her husband Tanu. By day light she longed for his comforting presence and strong touch. Her nights moved slowly filled with strange dreams. Dreams which brought them together through the quiet African night.  Last night's dream bothered Sheba for it rattled her sleep with odd visions of strange men unknown to her simple mind. She could not reconcile this dream and it created worry deep inside her. "I wish I had your patience, Meka."  "Patience is nothing more than understanding the flow of things,"  Meka shrugged as if brushing the comment off her shoulder.  "I can tell you have been spending much time with the medicine man, by such odd words." Sheba's heart beat too low for laughter but she forced a wry smile.  Meka hurried to change the subject. To bring Sheba's restless yearnings to a momentary pause. "When will you and Tanu have children?"  This subject came much lighter for Sheba. She had no children of her own but always found time for any within arm's reach. "When the gods bless us so," she beamed and grabbed in jest at a young boy rushing by after another. "I hope it will be soon. You and Karut are very blessed to have three."  "Not so sure," Meka rolled her eyes. "Whew! They are everywhere always! Would you want to take one off my hands? Oops!" Meka caught her words, "You would; wouldn't you?"  The women shared a laugh when suddenly some children nearby alerted everyone to the hunters coming over a distant ridge which ran parallel to the village's stone wall. Sheba and Meka looked up without moving. Carefully they searched the approaching band for their men. This task has to be the hardest and most solitary ordeal for a Stone Age woman. For within that moment, her entire life and the lives of her family might change forever. A thin string balancing between her man arriving safely or the remaining hunters gloomily accepting her and her children into their keep out of respect for their dead brother. And all this was the way things were after each hunt.  "I can see Tanu!"  Sheba pointed, took a moment, then cheered, "And there is Karut!"  Meka delightfully peered out as Sheba recognized another hunter by name. "I see Lumbo also!"  "She always did see the men first," Lumbo's wife, Gaz, half joked, half mocked.  Rising as if to alert Tanu to her presence, she smiled back at Gaz. "Because I am with my husband forever. What he sees, I see."  "That talk again," Gaz mumbled while she tried to ascertain Lumbo's condition. Gaz accepted her man was in one piece and back home. She commented on their conversation while keeping her attention on weaving cloth for her fourth son. Weaving it now more calmly then during the wait. "Something unholy about you and Tanu. Don't you think so, Meka?"  "Never you mind, Gaz,"  Meka answered firmly.  "Sheba is a gullible soul. Tanu put those crazy things in her head long ago."  "And Karut puts things in your head!"  Gaz went on. Not exactly scornfully but, never-the-less with abomination.  "And he doesn't treat you with much care...That I can see anyway."  "That is true, Gaz,"  Sheba replied,  "That you can see."  "Let her think as she will." Meka waved both the women off. "Let Sheba think she and Tanu are one or whatever they're suppose to be. No harm to you, Gaz."  "I should be talking to you!" Gaz rolled her eyes heavenly. "Soon you will become an Enchantress with all the time you follow the medicine man around. I see you hanging onto every word he says. Everyone sees it. I think Sheba is now taking lessons from you!"  "But it is true!" Sheba took up the fight with a wide grin for her home coming hunter and acid in her voice for Gaz.  "Tanu is Tanu, and you are Sheba," Gaz said and looked up momentarily. "You are two different people. You are a woman, sister to us. Tanu is a man. He belongs to the world of his gender."  Then she warned,  "The gods will punish you for such thinking." Meka looked hard upon Gaz, asking, "Are you placing a curse on us? Is that what you want?" Gaz felt stricken. Curses should never be wished upon anyone. Besides, only a holy man can place a curse. "You are so overly protective! I am sorry, Meka. Sorry, Sheba.  I could never curse my sisters. I warn of the trouble one can gain when putting words in the mouth of the gods.  They will strike at you."  Sheba growled, "They will not, these gods! I believe it for I feel it. A feeling I know can never die," she firmly stated. Then her voice went soft.  She added that they were forever. "Do you not also feel the same for your husband, Gaz? Meka?"  All the women gathered then looked into Sheba's innocent eyes. They thought of their own individual love for their husbands as well as the burden of being wives, rearing children and conducting homes. They all tried to sense the balance between the love for a man against what weight the task of loving the man, as the conversation died.  From beyond the gate rose a cry, "They have a kill!" All six women swiftly rose up. They began to hurry out to their men. Now that a kill had been determined, the women could traditionally display their approval of the homecoming. Children scurried to alert the village. Some shot out towards the hunters while others brought the good news to the villagers.  From the ridge Tanu's tired eyes saw his lovely wife and the other women rise to begin their approach. He smiled not, for age and hunting had long removed any trace of youth from his soul. His body had grown immense and strong. His dark eyes went tight from the bright sun though his sight was as sharp as his spear. The eyes did not dream of exciting hunts any longer. Instead they only sought the prey and guided deadly hands unto the kill. If any soft spot remained in his vision it was for Sheba and Sheba alone. For in his heart he held her alone dear and where she was, he permitted no strife. From his distance he studied her flowing form as she moved nearer. The sight usually warmed his heart and swelled his chest for she certainly was the loveliest of all the women of Ahutu. But on this day he harbored more concerns than just the hunt. His heart pumped with worry for his Sheba and a confusion of things seen during the hunt.  Tanu lead his weary hunters toward the village and the approaching women and children. They struggled behind him, dragging a torn apart boar by its hind legs. The men all were visibly relieved to see their wives and Ahutu. The hunt dragged on and on. Deep in their souls they wished for the old days when the lion roamed the Sahara in great numbers. But the lion also went to Nubia leaving behind only boars, monkeys, cattle and a new creature no one dared kill because of its value for traveling long distances - the camel.  Not a hundred paces away, the women halted. Amid happy children they laid down blankets and extracted long knives. Sheba and Meka joined their blankets and knelt close together. Something is wrong, Sheba suddenly grew dim. Something is not right. "Something bad happened out there."  "Unholy talk again." Gaz called over from where she set up her blanket.  "They look safe to me," Meka shrugged. She wondered what Sheba meant while a chill dashed at her spine from the thought Gaz had interjected.  As the men drew closer, children ran up to them. The children delighted in helping to drag the boar. From the village came many others. The medicine man chanted, women came with blankets and knives and the herdsmen followed the village elders.  Almost in tears the women embraced their brave hunters. Men sank into the bosoms of their wives. "Here is our kill!" Karut cried from Meka's embrace. "Downed by Tanu!"  Everyone cheered, Tanu only nodded to them as he gently met Sheba. He did not embrace her then as the others had their wives. That he saved for when they were alone. Sheba understood his ways. After all they needed no such display as they believed no real distance ever lived between them.  Sheba welcomed her man; she smiled into his strict face. "Welcome home to your village and my bosom." Then she came closer to his ear. "You are troubled, Tanu. What has happened out there?" But Tanu tenderly pushed her from him and told her to choose their portion of the boar; which she promptly did. Not any less concerned, however. Watching her, Tanu saw the worry she harbored. Leaning to his loving wife, he kissed her olive cheek and whispered that he was merely tired from the long hunt. And Sheba, wise to the tricks of her man, returned his kiss and smiled while returning to the boar.  Everything would have been fine and hidden had not Karut opened his mouth directly from his embrace with Meka. "Armed men," he said to Sheba, his voice almost tattle-tale "That is what Tanu thinks of today." His words made Tanu's eyes growled at Karut. They seemed to reach right out and strangle him. Sheba knew Tanu would feel betrayed so continued with her own thoughts, head down and hands busy.  "What men?" Meka asked.  "Nothing," Karut, with eyes now cowered, tried to recapture Tanu's respect. "Nothing, Meka. Cut the boar, woman." Then stepping toward Tanu, he grunted an apology.  Tanu remained unimpressed.  Tanu knelt to Sheba as all the hunters began to hit the ground aside their women and around the boar. Tanu knew Sheba had thoughts of her own. Sitting close to her, he ignored the others. The ordeal of the hunt left little strength for his emotions to pull at him. Yet he felt disjointed for he seldom lied to Sheba. He turned his attention from the gathering and the hunt to speak only to his wife. "I just want to look upon you for a while." She half smiled back. Her almond eyes brewing with love. "Then sit close!" She tried to leave her questions behind her. He nudged closer, she pushed him fully down amid laughs from the others. Instantly their separate moods joined into one of love. Tanu succumbed to a smile yet waved her unto the boar. Sheba giggled as she drove into the creature. "I will take my fair share!" The women then joined her.  The medicine man came to Tanu. He waved his hands about the hunter's head and sang out chants of praise to the delight of everyone. Tanu appeared slightly embarrassed which only added to everyone's glee.  As the boar got divided, old man Imblu found his way through the villagers and to Tanu. Behind him came other elders to congratulate the brave men and name the hunt a success. Imblu loudly told everyone that Tanu's boar was bigger than any lion Ahutu had ever seen. But Tanu knew better. He, upon hearing Imblu's voice, lost all concern with the gathering and stood up to speak with Imblu. Tanu also called to another elder, Talki. He tried to do all this without attracting attention but many eyes watched as Tanu directed the two old men from the crowd. Sheba, naturally was first to take notice.  "Your eyes are dim, my son," Imblu expressed concern once they walked a comfortable distance from the others. "What is it, Tanu?"  Tanu jumped straight into the matter, "One day's walk from here we saw armed men."  "Are you certain?"  "Yes, strange men with long spears and very long knives hanging from their waists. Some wore strange and very colorful clothing and many others wore nothing but the knives and foot gear."  "The Delta," Talki mumbled through his heavy gray beard.  Imblu only replied with a perhaps to Talki then asked how many men Tanu saw.  "Many," he answered then wondered, "What is the Delta?"  "A land far away," Talki told him. "It is a village as large as Sahara itself and filled with people."  Tanu stood amazed. "This is true, Imblu? Such a village really exists?"  "Yes, it thrives off a river which has a name."  "The river is called by a name!" This struck Tanu. To him a river was just a river. Perhaps it flowed to somewhere or was a landmark of sorts, but a river being called by a name was unheard of. Imblu told him its name - Nile - and the village was called The Delta.  Tanu's awe turned to worry and concern. "These men must be from this Delta. Never have he seen so many men at one time. Their walk created thunder across the valleys. Surely half their numbers could hunt a heard of the largest boars.  Ahutu will have nothing to hunt or eat!"  Imblu appeared thoughtful. He glanced about to be sure no other ears heard. He spoke low with careful urgency, "They do not hunt beasts, Tanu. " Tanu frowned at his words. If boar were not these stranger's game then which creature did they follow with such unusual weapons? "These men hunt men," Imblu shocked him. "And not to eat. Merely to kill."  Tanu immediately feared for Sheba. His glance marked his thoughts as he peered back at her amid the crowd hard at festive work.  "By the gods!" Tanu shook. "Imblu, they are headed this way!"  Imblu was alarmed; Talki also. Imblu ordered Tanu to finish your day then come to Imblu's house. They needed to talk and consider this revelation.  Thus when the festivities were over and the day ended, Tanu told his lovely wife to tend to their bed while he left their home to visit her father and speak of many things. Tanu left as Sheba went about her duties. She looked forward to that evening together after the worry of a long hunt. On nights like this, in the sweet stupor of a hardy supper, love would come easy and good. Softly she sang as she worked. Her voice complimented the happy Saharan song. Her heart was with Tanu. He had been different since his return. Sheba thought of Karut's slip of the lip. Whatever Tanu saw during the hunt lived on inside him. He spent more time inside himself than with dinner or Sheba's charms. She could sense totally his mood yet she could not share it or diminish it. She hoped that his visit to her father's house would settle his troubled soul.  Sheba stirred a moment when a tug came gently to the hut's door. She called her husband's name. Stepping directly behind the door, she called once again. The door jarred a bit as Karut popped his head into the dim light of Sheba's home. "Tanu is not here?" he asked.  Greeting him with a smile, Sheba replied that he is with her father. "They speak of serious matters I know nothing of, Karut."  Karut moved but a fraction more into the doorway. Knowing that Tanu was not at home he feared having anyone see him enter the hut. Such things were taboo. "They speak of the many men. True?"  Sheba lost her smile by the impact of his words. She knew the subject would arise of these men but she hoped her husband would be the one to bring it to her. A trace of anger gripped her voice. "Karut, You must tell me of these many men."  Still in the doorway, Karut shook his head,  "If Tanu will not; I must not speak a word, Sheba."  "You must tell me!" Angrily she searched his face. "My husband is hurt inside his heart from this thing. I must know how to comfort him!"  Karut seized the moment by throwing care to the wind and stepped into the hut. Closing the door behind him, he appeared very concerned with her dilemma. He told her to calm herself.  Sheba was taken aback by his boldness. She moved from Karut whose hands had reached out to her. "Why do you enter, Karut? It is forbidden to enter a house without children!" "Sheba..." Karut's voice and eyes pleaded to her. He desired to touch her, to hold her. There rumbled a hunger for her in his soul. An emptiness which lived with him since his youth. But it was a forlorn quest. Perhaps he even realized the emotion was nothing more than an off shoot of his respect for Tanu. To be like Tanu in every conceivable way. He had lived his life in Tanu's shadow in want of Sheba. Thus why, though born a herder, he rose above his rank to become a skillful hunter. But Sheba's love could not be bargained for, he knew this. She could not love a man for what he gathered in life. She loved Tanu because Tanu belonged to her and she to him. Karut's love for Sheba was a lie, a fantasy which would alter his entire life. Ruin it if he would not chase it from his mind. Ruin also his love and relationship with the one who was his, Meka.  Awkwardly trying to counter his display of emotions, Karut defended his entering into the hut, "I make no advances."  "Yet you are not my husband. Step out, please."  Standing his ground, Karut spoke as swiftly as his mind raced for the words. He claimed not to be able to speak of the many men from outside. "Someone may hear. It is not for the ears of others."  Sheba stood baffled and lost. Not knowing what to do, she insisted Karut tell her of these men. "Tell me quickly least Tanu returns to catch you defiling his house."  Karut took Sheba's hand. He did not hear her command; only felt the tenderness of her olive skin. "What magic is this I feel inside?" He asked as Sheba withdrew her hand. Her face tightened as she peered into Karut's eyes.  "The gods shall punish you from now until the day you return to them if you carry such desires within you, Karut." She grew fearful of him for the first time in her life.  "You must honor none but Meka or she, herself will be your undoing. For she is your salvation. You must stab the image you hold of me in your heart. Tear at it over and over again with a knife sharper than stone can be! Speak not of me. Speak to me of Tanu, or speak not at all, Karut."  This scolding had been in the far reaches of her mind since their youth. She always knew of Karut's affection for her. It lived as a kind thing she held dear.  But her silence ended then and there.  He assured her of the strength of his love saying he'd never betray it. Sheba turned away and demanded only to hear him speak of the many men. Embarrassed, somewhat disheartened, he confessed what he knew. Without warning the vision turns into just flame reflecting off of mica.  The sun flooded the sky outside the pyramid. There can be no more until tomorrow, and then for only two more mornings.  After that, Venus will not appear in the morning sky for another nine months. He drops to the chamber floor and falls deeply into reflection. What confuses him is Hunter Gadar. It's the man's name and occupation. Hunter, Gatherer. Celtic decides to sleep on it. Dreams are visions too.   4. White Alligator Project They placed Patty in traction and promised to move her back to the mansion in Naples, Florida within a day or two. "I look horrible in traction," she said over and over.  Her entire face and upper body is riddled with bruises and scratches.  Her right femur bone is slightly fractured but that is the least of her troubles. The right leg was so torn up that she required three sets of stitches. 12 stitches to her inner thigh, 21 from the outer thigh across her knee and to the inside of her calf and 12 more along her shin. Her personal doctor had he set up in traction to keep pressure off the stitches. He said she would be fine but would be in misery once the bruises kicked in, and then for a couple of days afterwards. By John's request, the doctor arranged a suite with a sofa and an extra bed. John will not leave her side until she orders him to do so. Yvonne had a desk setup in the hospital room, one for John and one for her. She earlier arranged for security at the door and a bundle of work delivered for herself and John.  Carroll Industries isn't going to stop over 45 stitches.  John had been upset from the start, he still is.  Between every phone call, every time Yvonne issues a signature from him, he starts fussing over Patty. When not involved with his wife, he's asking for Celtic. It is characteristic of John to be attentive to, and watch out for, those he loves.  He defines himself by his friends. He plots his life according to the needs of his family, especially to the wishes of his beloved Patty. Unlike Celtic, who cares nothing for anyone or anything but John's business and his hocus-pocus, John Carroll has an open door and an open heart for everyone. He wasn't always such a sweet heart, but since Celtic arrived into his life and introduced him to Patty, everyday is blessed. He spends all morning at her side watching the bruises go from red to purple. "Second day's always the hardest," he tries to console her.  They both know tomorrow will be even worse. No sooner than lunch appears, Yvonne leaves her station and huddles around the hospital bed with Patty strung atop it like a mobile. John wants to spoon feed her just to dot on her, but Patty refuses the attention. She feels so lucky to be Mrs. Carroll, yet sometimes it can be a smothering experience. She began unwrapping the plastic containers on the metal tray in front of her. "I don't remember much, but there was a man carrying me, wasn't there?"  John considers her question. Her recollection forces a giggle from Yvonne who is arranging her own lunch beside an I.V. hangar. The giggle makes Patty smile and ask, "What? What?" John, sitting across the bed from Yvonne, interjects with, "Yes, he's an employee. I didn't get his name, darling." "Works for us?" Yvonne is no less surprised as is Patty. "The White Alligator Project," John reminds Yvonne and informs his wife.  Yvonne glows at Patty, "Gosh! You landed in the right spot! Miles of nothing and you fall into the arms of one of our own boys!" "White Alligator Project?"  Patty asks of John. She also swipes his buttered beard. The speed she moved to steal the bread causes a sting in her right arm. She sighs quietly,"Ouch!" Yvonne takes the question because she is more hands-on of the project than her boss ."After years of trying to get this country to build a refinery, and get an administration in Washington to even entertain the notion, then find a location remote enough to build without protests, turns out the area holds the only source of crocodiles in North America. The only place on earth where there are salt water alligators and, get this: a white alligator, maybe even an entire species of them" "But that's only half the story," Yvonne adds. "The islands, keys - all that lands running alongside the Everglades - is completely untouched by industry. Introducing an oil refinery over on Dismal Key might very well create a dead zone.  That's a phenomenon which when the water becomes hypoxic. Hypoxia means low oxygen. If so, we'll all see manatees, alligators and anything else that's lives in those waters go belly-up. The White Alligator Project is to assure everyone that the animals will be safe from harm." "Never heard of a white alligator," Patty commented. "Only one or one of it's kind. Right here in Southwest Florida." John adds, "The man who saved you from the tree is the man who is tracking that white reptile. His job is also to determine where all the reptiles live. We can not go dropping a refinery on innocent creatures - and not end up on cable news."  Patty doesn't remember much of the crash, but she recalls the man on the ground wildly waving.  She recounts often Mr. Ferris" fate. "I'm not sure, but I think I saw that white alligator," Patty says, though she is very sure of what she saw. "It's big.  Big enough to swallow Mr. Ferris whole." John extracts his pilot.  He punches at it while assuring Patty that her testimony will reach the right people. Wife and secretary ignore John as he phones the go-between to the recovery on Shell Key, now in it's second day.  "Does he have a name?" Patty asks Yvonne. "I'll look it up after lunch." "Did he call?" "Call?" they both look up. John distracts himself from the phone conversation to ask, "Why?" Yvonne knows it is only human to check up on the person he saved. "You would, if it were you, John. Wouldn't you?" "Ah, yes, of course." John handles the entire conversation with ease and a friendly tone. "I'll bet he calls first thing after he leaves Shell Key." He then stands and completes his phone conversation out of earshot. Patty agrees; he'll call as soon as he is available. That makes sense.  Yvonne mentions communications with Mr. Ferris" family, some tedious talk concerning the incident and local police. Patty acknowledges that Mr. Ferris was a hero to come after her. Other than that, and her hiring the man and his gliders, she did not know the man. She felt only deep sorrow for him. "He'll be in my nightmares for some time, I'm afraid." "You should have heeded Celtic's warnings." John says as he pockets the phone and sits back down.  He is not one to wag a finger of  "I told you so's," but Patty must start to give the man more credit than she does.  Yvonne sat out of this phase of the conversation.  "He is remarkable, John." She reflected on just how filled with fear Mr. Kunning was that morning. "But you give him too much credit." "Too much?"  John pretends disappointment by her words, although he knows exactly how she feels about the man. "Wasn't for Celtic, I would be without you today." Patty knows he means - today as in: he introduced us. It is that man on Shell Key who carried her in his arms that gave her this "today." She wishes she could remember what he looked like, if he spoke to her.  It's all a blur. "Wasn't for Celtic I'd be one of a hundreds of drafters, plotting out our next refinery; not it's owner." Patty hates that talk. "John, Celtic knows nothing about the makings of a refinery. He's no engineer.  He's a &ldots; a &ldots;" "Wizard," Yvonne contributed, but remained on the side lines. "Wizard&ldots;" Patty says then asks - not for the first time - "That's really a legal name for a  legal profession?"  They both nod and she hangs in traction incredulous. Reaching for humor, she adds, "How come he doesn't wear long robes and one of those dunce caps, or carry a wand?" Yvonne replies, "Gosh, he does if you study the man." They realize he's an expensive dresser, but how did she mean? "Ever notice his clothes? Those trousers of his? Yikes, how many bell bottoms can one man own? And, no seams. None. How do you make shirts and slacks without seams? Ever notice the way he walks? You know, his gait. Even though he always wears those elephant bell bottoms, he walks like he's wearing a dressing gown. And how old is he?" They both shrugged; guessing they say 53, maybe 55. "His Worker's Comp has him at 68. He's no 68." "Vonnie, you're too analytical." They both chalk it up to being Celtic Kunning. Patty asks. "Where is he anyway?" John answers, "In Tulum." Patty returns to her meal while she fends away a chuckle. "I scared him, huh?" "Right out of his wits, dear." Yvonne interjects.  The governor's office phoned earlier and they understand fully if Patty and John cancel their dinner date. John comments, "Gracious of them to offer us the opportunity to cancel." "That's like two weeks from now, right? Saturday night?" Patty guesses and Yvonne nods. "Go, John.  Take Yvonne with you. I'll probably be in so much pain I'd bore you all to tears. Go!" John, no less Yvonne, disagree. "You'll be coming up roses by then, Pat." John tries to insist. "Forget it, John. Take Von." She argues. "Fact is, I'll probably have had enough of you two by then."  They all share the laugh.     5. It's all about the curse Celtic relieves himself about fifty yards from the pyramid. Heads back toward the dark structure while recounting a fond memory.  Monsignor Scanlon stood watch while the young Celtic Kunning did his business.  Taking his time returning to the chamber, Scanlon asked why he took so long. "Why rush?" asked the boy. "You said wild animals won't eat people unless they're very hungry."  Nowadays Celtic laughs as he recalls the shock he had when Scanlon replied, "No such critter as a wild animal that is not very hungry." Setting the torch, he moves to the center of the room. He gazes straight up into the emerging vision. It grows slowly out of the reflections off the mica. At first the vision seems very dreamlike because what is seen is a fire. A small fire in a dark room. Three elders sat atop a decorated cloth in the center of Imblu's house. They were: Talki, Phro and Imblu. About them were figs, dates, and goat's milk. In the center laid a Moorish looking sword. Such a manner of weapon Tanu had never seen before he had witnessed the many men. Zizza, Imblu's wife left the men to visit her daughter Sheba. The men were alone. They greeted Tanu in a fashion deserving of his post as leader among the hunters then instructed him to sit and enjoy any refreshment he desired. Imblu turned to Phro, saying, "Tanu has seen warriors during the hunt."  Phro, oldest of the village yet erect and strong, looked upon Tanu. "I once was a warrior," he sought Tanu's reaction but Tanu did not comprehend the meaning of the word. Phro reached to handle the sword. Slowly he ran worn fingers along its blade. There existed a melancholia in his gray eyes. To Imblu, he said in a low voice, "This is why you desired my sword?" Imblu nodded as Phro turned aged eyes upon the hunter. He picked up the implement and handed it to him. "You had seen warriors with swords such as this?"  "I saw men," Tanu marveled at the weapon. It was forged with a substance unknown to him that shone silvery blue in the hut's dim light. At its end, an engraved handle fitted his hand perfectly. The sword felt dense. Yet it weighed less than any stone weapon of the same size. He looked back to Phro. "Strangely dressed men. I do not understand this word - warrior."  "Phro pursued his questioning, "Did they have swords such as this one hanging from their sides?"  "Yes, Phro," he answered jarring the elders. Their suspicions were confirmed. They looked from one to the other as if danger lurked in the shadows of Imblu's very home. But the only danger Tanu perceived laid in the eyes of the old men. "What does all this mean?" he begged for answers.  "Imblu answered the question first. "They are a human force known as an army. They may be from the land of Nubia."  "Nubia would not send so many to Sahara," Phro interjected. "Half of Nubia is formed from our people. They may be from the cave cities of Tassilli or the great Delta of Egypt." All these names confused Tanu. He had never heard of all these places and these things before and wondered how the elders gained such wisdom.  Tanu sighed and dropped the sword before the men. "So many men?"  "Men are everywhere," Talki smiled into Tanu's innocence. "Sometimes they live in small villages like ours. Sometimes men gather into great villages called cities. Villages as big as the mountains of Nubia. Once, long ago, Sahara was such a city, legend tells us. My grandfather told me stories of great cities when the elephant roamed our Sahara."  "Where are these cities now, Talki?" Tanu wondered.  "Talki answered philosophically, "With the elephant; to Nubia or some such place. Wherever the soil is rich and the sun cool."  "Tanu, like the elders, conjured up individual, heavy thoughts. Finally he broke their silence. "Now these men return to Sahara?" Still he could not grasp the concept of organized governments and their formidable armies.  "Phro mumbled, "I think not, Tanu."  "If they discover Ahutu, they will level our beloved village," Talki made the hard comment. "Kill our men, rape the women and drag away the children in heavy bonds."  "Horrified, Tanu's face went pale. "What?" he gasped. "Why would anyone do such a thing?"  "That is what a warrior does." Talki stated sadly. "Am I correct, Phro?"  "You are, Talki," Phro's face turned swiftly to Tanu. "But again Talki is incorrect. A warrior is a man put at arms for a divine purpose. He is the strength of a ruling lord and makes certain all others obey his lord's commands. A warrior conquers land for his lord. That is probably what this army is doing, but while taking land they also plunder it." Shifting his gaze from one to the other, Phro added, "We may be in terrible trouble, my brothers."  Tanu was worried more than ever. He said quickly and in a fearful voice, "They can not be far away. The morning sun may find them in our village!"  "Do you expect us to run and hide?" Talki challenged him. "Hide on the flat breast of Sahara?'  "We must not run!" Phro, the ancient warrior, rejected even the thought. "We need to meet them eye to eye. In a manner which will gain their respect. To run from them will only excite them into a chase."  "Imblu pulled at Phro's robe, "Just how do we meet them? Eye to eye?"  "With a warrior of our own," Phro placed the sword squarely into Tanu's grip. "One to defend us from this army." But everyone else appeared confused at best. Phro noticed their reaction. It rose him to a level of authority and importance simply because of his past. It was long ago when Phro left Ahutu to trek off into Nubia. But, instead, he landed up in a realm far from both places. Fate had put him into an army as an ordinary soldier. However, shortly thereafter, the army dispersed and Phro found his way back to Ahutu. For the rest of his days, he spoke of many adventures beyond the tiny village. With all the fire in his tales only the elders listened for the children could not conceive of places and endeavors beyond their little world.  But now he had a captive audience. Young and old needed his expertise. "Courage is well respected by warriors. If one man from our village will stand between us and them, they will respect our courage and perhaps bargain with us."  "Then they will go their way?" Tanu hoped as the fire's embers reflected into Tanu's eyes from off the sword's blade.  "No," Phro shook. "That they will not readily do. But they will bargain with a man's courage. Tanu, you are the strongest and bravest of our village. You must take this sword and stop this army at Ahutu's gate."  Tanu led a cold silence which befell them. He did not believe himself to be the man they described. Tanu would fight and die for Ahutu so long as Sheba was in Ahutu. Were Karut a stronger man, Tanu instantly would have named him to the task. But Tanu stood taller and wider than his brother and often had a single mindedness in battle which Karut rarely displayed. With a great sigh, he committed himself to the wisdom of the elders. An uncertain commitment, to be sure. He felt unprepared. Never had he fought a man in outright battle. Never did he ever believe men would invent the sport.  Back at Tanu's hut, Sheba and her mother sat in an awkward silence. Sadly, and somewhat embarrassed, Sheba's head hung low. Zizza, in her old womanly wisdom, did not comfort her daughter but sympathetically looked on. Zizza had walked in on Sheba and Karut. After seeing the intruder out she wanted to scold her daughter for allowing another man other than Tanu into her house. She saw Sheba's shame, however, and remained in silence to await an explanation and to assure Karut would not return until after Tanu arrived back.  With a heavy heart Tanu entered carrying the sword. His eyes fell immediately on his wife as Sheba's eyes pleaded for her mother's silence. Zizza read her daughter well and kissed her, bowing to Tanu, she left.  Tanu placed the sword under a burning torch. He starred with gloom down at it and without a word or glance, he reached out for Sheba. She remained frozen across the room. Tanu missed her touch. He turned to her, seeing her odd reaction to his silent call. "What is it, Sheba? Why are you silent?" Lowering her eyes she sadly grunted into her breast. Tanu forgot all about the sword and the task which stood larger than life before him in order to rush to his stricken wife. "Are you in pain?" He gently embraced her. "Tell me. Tell your husband of your sorrow."  "Sobbing, Sheba hid her face into Tanu's coarse hunting garments. "Oh, my husband!"  Tanu grew suspicious. His big hands pulled her into plain sight, eye to eye. "What has happened here? Speak, Sheba!"  Her heart ached and she began to weep. "We are one forever, Tanu. I will always be with you until we return to the gods and become one." Dropping her tearful eyes, she begged, "Tell me this is true!"  Under the stress of such a rare evening, Tanu grew savage. "What has happened here, woman?" he bellowed.  Sheba quickly caught herself and placed her hands to his chest in order to quiet her big man. "Please do not rage, my love." He visibly restrained his anger. Through fiery eyes he commanded her to answer him. Stammering, she cowered away from him saying, "A man came into our house while you were at my father's."  Furious but trying to control himself, Tanu slowly growled and asked, "Did he touch you?"  "Only my hand. Nothing more." She replied on the edge of hysteria. "By the gods, nothing more!"  Slowly he turned from Sheba. Anger gripped his brow. His belly ached for vengeance. There, under the torch he eyed the sword. Murder could have come easy to Tanu then and he wrestled with the concept. Picking up the sword, he asked seething, "Who was he? Which brother has made folly of our vows?"  Sheba flew to his side. Fearful of his intentions, she grabbed the sword as tightly as Tanu held it. "What is this long knife and what will you do with it?"  Looking deeply into her eyes he spoke displaying all the emotions boiling from within his soul. "His hand belongs to me now! I will take what is mine! Who was the man?"  "No, Tanu, he meant no harm!" she pleaded.  "Then why was he in my house with my woman? Who is he?"  Sheba dropped her hand from the sword. In the orange flicker of the torch her face fell, her eyes poured tears down upon her hand. She felt lost. She virtually drowned in her own submissiveness to the will of her man. A man she always believed to be her counterpart, her equal for all time. She presented the hand to Tanu's enflamed stare, tear drops still cling to her fingers. "Only my hand. My husband, is that so bad?"  Tanu felt her awkward position standing like a berated child before his mighty frame which reeked with anger. Yet all knew the taboos. The intruder wronged both husband and wife. Somehow Tanu had to correct or punish the insult. "Who? Tell me who."  "Sheba surrendered to his insistence. "He is Karut," she sighed.  Shock overcame him. Tanu unwittingly lowered the sword and peered with miserable wonder into her wide searching eyes. "This evening is too much for my heart." Karut was his life long friend, confidant and tribal brother. The boy born to be a simple cattle herder who fought all odds to grow up to be a strong hunter able to hunt tirelessly at Tanu's side. Tanu might have been the stronger but Karut held an inner strength for endurance. Karut was the type to cling endlessly to what he believed was right. Yet the laws were to be obeyed. Crimes needed to be punished. "I must go to Karut," he fought with the words.  Sheba again placed her hand tightly to his. "Please, husband, sleep on it. He is our brother. Would a brother mean you harm? He came only to tell me why your heart is so heavy. Do you fault him for that?"  Tanu then argued with his fury. He frowned at Sheba, asking, "What did he tell you?"  "Of the many men and their march toward Ahutu."  "He had no right!" Tanu roared, knowing fully the implications made urgent by the appearance of the army. "He will be cursed for this and for his disloyalty to Meka and my household! A curse binding until he, himself, or I expel it!"  "Tanu!" Sheba, with peering eyes, scolded her man. "Say no such things. Karut is our brother!' "I curse him!" Tanu forced the issue. "An honorable man's curse. I am permitted this, Sheba; we both are permitted this." He turned fully away and gazed at the sword. "He wronged me twice.  I am permitted to curse him. I swear a high curse upon him."   He spoke almost as if delirious. Sheba did not know how to react to any of this.  Not the incident, not the sword, not the curse.  Instead she barked back hard at her husband, "No curses! No hate among us and those we love, Tanu.  Stop this!"  Her mood shift made Tanu regain his temper. Tanu felt hurt yet angry and confused all at once. He pulled Sheba to him. "My heart is very heavy. I hurt dearly. Comfort me, my lovely Sheba. I need you now." She embraced him like mother earth would the fury of ages ruined and returning into her bosom. Into a heath where unity becomes the foundation for all the universe. Celtic, with is right foot, kicks the torch so it falls and the vision disappears. He wants time to think, though time is important. Venus is in the sky for less than another two hours. It's all about the curse. His entire life has been about this curse. All his lives since Tanu cursed Karut; effectively cursing them all. Celtic reaches the same conclusion as when he first saw the vision as a young apprentice. His mission to Mr. Carroll, to himself! is to bring an end to the curse. To get John to end it. But with Hunter returning to the scene, things might get sticky. Celtic feared this when a recent vision foretold the nearness of  John's rival. Celtic has to find a solution to this issue. Otherwise his plans to have the curse end will fail. He raises the torch into position. The story unfolds. Many hidden eyes from within the safety of Ahutu watched Tanu as he met the sunrise. Standing many yards from the village entrance, he clung to the sword. Tanu stood ramrod straight while observing two men approaching on horses. These men loomed so big that the horses appeared rather to be short ponies. Tanu could make little of them save that they were black and wore head gear. Head dress was rare in Ahutu and only worn by women during rituals of fertility. This outer world which rode directly for him seemed very unusual to Tanu. His fears mounted as they drew nearer. These men looked like gods from under their bright golden head dress and, now distinctly seen armor. Tanu never could imagine such a strange sight. They rode high with long lances atop horses which, when in perfect view, were as large as Zebras.  In a cloud of dust they halted before Tanu who stood displaying no fear though his heart spilled worry like hot oil upon his gut. The two warriors drew no weapons as they studied Tanu. One removed a golden helmet while the other merely sat high with shaded eyes targeted upon Tanu. The one wiped his brow. He glanced from Ahutu back to the olive skinned man who clung to a sword, then he spoke a greeting in a strange tongue. Tanu just stood squinting up at them. He dared not move for fear of arousing the men into early battle.  Trying again, the mounted warrior greeted Tanu in a language often used in Nubia. Tanu understood him to say, "Good-day. Are you from that village?"  Tanu peered past the panting horses and replied in his own tongue, "I am." They understood him and the one altered his dialog accordingly.  "Good." The warrior stated bluntly. He leaned toward the hunter. With an almost friendly, if not comical tone he asked, "You always greet the new day with a sword?"  "They expected us," the other blandly commented in a language familiar only to them..  "Tanu remembered Phro's advice. Courageously he warned, "I am here to protect my village." This ignited a laugh from the two. "I shall guard it with my life!" Tanu roared as they hushed instantly and eyed him more closely.  "The two thought Tanu very mad. Such a man, as big as he was brave, still was no match for an army. "You are bold!" The one complimented. "But do not challenge us." Replacing his helmet, the warrior reared his big horse. The other brought his to attention and shifted higher upon its saddle. "Make way, swordsman," the warrior cried and nudged his horse forward. Tanu stood his ground.  The warrior's horse reared eye to eye before Tanu. Angry, the rider shouted to move or be run down. Tanu stood firm. Raising the sword, he meant to behead the animal. Instantly amid the grunts from horses and men the warriors pulled back and drew their own swords aside pointed lances. The first warrior meant to attack, however, his comrade held him back by saying something to him in their native tongue. The two calmed their steeds and returned all weapons. They sat looking down at Tanu who stood ready and wondering. His heart speeding madly. His temples pounding and neck twitching.  "Very well, swordsman," the first finally said, spitting to the dusty earth. "We shall leave you. But we will return soon." So saying they drew their horses in a circle around the cautious hunter then kicked up sand and rode away. A deep sigh of relief fell from Tanu as he watched them ride over the ridge.  Contrasting the thunder of the horse hoofs, joyous cries rolled from Ahutu. Tanu turned as a smile grew from his soul. Swiftly the entire village, led by Sheba, was upon him. Tanu was a hero!  Not long after, the two warriors rode into a massive camp. They rode between the hundreds of gray tents while speaking to each other about the brave swordsman. Both warriors admired the manner of which Tanu handled himself and, as they approached near the encampment's center, they began comparing the swordsman with their lord's own champions. Their gazes strayed left to the decorated tents of the powerful champions just as one exited his. "Lord Tammer should have sent him," the one said, watching the champion stretch wide mighty arms to greet the new day. He twisted a torso seemingly of iron to and fro, its bulky shoulders flexing high like two erupting volcanoes. Stopping in mid-stream, the champion took notice of a new decoration in front of his tent. A tall elm branch, thick and dry, with colorful bird feathers strung at its top. He regarded it a moment. Then, thinking it only a gift from a secret admirer and not from his lord, he ripped the branch from the soil and in one mighty burst broke it in half.  "Would be the swordsman," the one warrior remarked to the other with a dreadful smile and nod of his head at the splintered branch.  Slowly past saluting men they guided their horses to the camp's largest tent. Inside sat five great generals and their lord. Lord Tammer munched on Kola nuts and spoke pleasantly to his generals who sipped on bamboo wine. They sat in a half circle while pushing many maps across the sandy floor. The middle aged lord Tammer adjusted a jeweled turban and buttoned up his jacket of finest silk when the two warriors came,  announced by an attending slave.  The two approached their lord. Bowing before him, they saluted then awaited his permission to speak. Instead the biggest of the generals, Tubac, from behind a braided beard spoke to lord Tammer. "Your messengers return empty handed, my lord." Tubac's one eye asked Tammer what he thought of it while under a black patch, had he another eye, it would have mocked the young leader.  Lord Tammer gave the two the benefit of the doubt. "Have you arranged it with this little village?"   "They are reluctant, my lord," the first warrior answered.  "Tubac frowned. "To lend us a guide? Remarkable!" He caused similar reaction among the other generals. "Don't they know where Tassilli is?"  "We never got to ask," the second warrior replied.  "Explain," commanded Tammer. He pawed at his clean shaven and youthful face while listening to their explanation.  "They think we are here to level their little circle of huts. my lord." This brought a jolly laughter to Tammer and his generals. "We came greeted by a swordsman. A big man with eyes of a lion, hands like a god's and legs as big as tree trunks. He would not let us pass, my lord." There came a trace of fear in their voices but only Tubac picked up on this correctly. The others mistook it for respect of the swordsman.  Lord Tammer pursed his lips at the men. "Such a god that your horses could not ride over him?"  "You commanded us not to insight trouble or fear," the warrior reminded.  "He's correct," Tubac irritated Tammer with the remark.  "So I did." Lord Tammer challenged Tubac's one eye with both of his. "I will send my champions into this village. They will do me justice."  Tubac's head cocked. His face filled with a cunning uncertainty. "Oh? What have our champions which these brave warriors lack?" Tubac resurrected an old battle between he and Tammer. When Tubac's armies were defeated by Tammer and the two forces became one, the lord chose to claim Tubac's champions as his own. To compensate Tubac, Tammer awarded him with his own dethroned champions. However, Tubac never acknowledged the turnover. He knew Tammer's champions were actually of his breeding and training. And now, under a new master, Tubac disbelieved the men would serve as well. "My champions are the strongest in all of Egypt. They fought braver than yours, Tubac, in Nubia, Benin and against the nomads of Assyria!"  Tubac would not challenge outright but refused to back down. "But lack of battle has softened them." Lord Tammer appeared slighted by his words. However, the two warriors were downright insulted. They, like all Tammer's troops, worshiped their champions no matter whom the mighty warriors presented the spoils of war to. Yet they only gnarled silently and looked to their lord wishing he would turn the champions on Tubac.  Instead Tammer asked, "This swordsman, a villager?"  "I believe so, my lord," one answered.  Tammer rallied at Tubac, "You expect my champions to fight a hunter of swine or a sheep herder?"  Still Tubac returned, "Try him, my mighty lord. The village is reluctant to give you a guide to Tassilli. Slay the man, if your champions can, and put the fear of Tammer into their hearts. They will then oblige you anything."  Lord Tammer had built his battalions under the strict, skillful hand of cruelty. Once his legions elevated their leader to a powerful position of a reigning lord, he evolved naturally away from cruelty into discipline as do all men. Nowadays Tammer, plumed and jaded, worn and wiser, had begun to lose grip of such regimented ways. He grew mellow, feeling a paternal relationship with his legions and less the mighty tyrant. This did not blind Tammer from the realities of military life. So when one of his generals remarked, "And if your champions should be slain, you gain another yet stronger," Tammer felt the stress of his position forcing him to succumb to what could be only the slaughter of a simple plainsman.  Later that same day Tanu and Phro stood outside Ahutu. Filled with awe, they observed the many battalions approaching the ridge. Captains called out as the massive army halted. Their lines covered Sahara's long horizon with bright helmets atop broad shouldered warriors. Lances pierced the sky where horses and covered wagons did not. Nine horsemen rode from the bannered ranks toward the two villagers. "I haven't seen horses since my youth. Today I see so many," was all Phro said. Tanu did not reply. He only met his first horse that morning but concerned himself with the men not the beasts. To a hunter an animal is just a potential meal, possible bait or nothing at all. They can be slaughtered or disregarded. Animals have no weapons like those men carry in their hands or in their heads. Phro sensed Tanu's anxiety. Brushing gently at the young man's shoulder, he said, "Be brave. Fore bravery will save our people."  "I fear death by a knife such as this one." Tanu glanced from riders to sword then back again.  "Remember what the medicine man always says: you never were not nor shall you hereafter ever cease to be." Then Phro frowned while looking back toward Ahutu. Aloud he wondered, "Where is our medicine man anyway? I would think he should be at our side with his endless chants."  Under a nervous smile Tanu remarked, "Probably praying with all his might that the gods speak truthfully."  Nine horsemen rode thunderously up to the brave villagers. Lord Tammer led the company. He rode with three generals behind right and left. To the rear followed the champions. Big, dark men who wore scars from many battles. Around their wide shoulders hung fitted armor glistening under polished helmets which revealed dead serious faces. Their muscular abdomens laid bare above strong legs armored at the shins. They wore nothing else except a sword about the waist. As was common to warriors of the time, they entered battle naked, save a sufficient amount of armor.  Lord Tammer halted the company not ten paces from Tanu and Phro. Tammer wiped at his brow and steadied himself atop a big white steed. He eyed the villagers then the village. Experience showed him two brave men, one able and young the other worn and old. He knew eyes peered from every shadow of the village but each gaze would be harmless. Turning about in his high saddle, Tammer turned to Tubac with a nod. Tubac then rode up to the two villagers.  Tubac teased the two with dust and an advance of his steed but neither stirred an inch. Slightly impressed, Tubac roared out, "I am first command to the great Lord Tammer," he nodded in his lord's direction. "To whom do I speak?"  Phro moved closer to the general. "I am Phro, an elder from the village you seek to plunder. I was once a brave warrior for the king of Benin."  Not impressed, Tubac pointed to Tanu, "Who is this beast?"  Tanu stood firm and quiet as Phro answered, "He is Tanu. One of the many warriors who will protect our village to the death." His statement caused mumbled jeers among the nine while Tubac reared his steed back to Tammer. Together they agreed this Tanu was raw stuff of champions. Both men desired a contest.  Tubac returned to the villagers. "Old man, you fear the mighty Tammer will plunder your little village?"  "We do not fear you!" Phro roughly responded. He rattled his bony arm at Tubac. Tanu thought him a bit hasty. Such over-kill, Tanu thought, could have gotten everyone murdered.  With an injurious chuckle Tubac emphasized, "My lord is bent on the destruction of your tiny field of huts. He has killed many men since we left our homes. We have ravished women while leveling every hut along the way."  This unsettled Tanu who until then had hoped the village elders were over-dramatizing the conduct of the many men. He instantly pictured his beautiful Sheba being raped by these foreigners. "Tammer is a cruel lord and a merciless taker of lives!" Tubac raged then settled down, looking for a reaction. Yet the two stood firm. Turning lighter, Tubac smiled down, "But your courage amuses my lord Tammer." This excited Phro. He knew courage could save the day. But Tanu wasn't all that certain. After all, the odds were against him. This Lord Tammer could say anything he liked then turn right around and do anything he cared to. Tanu would not trust these strangers. Why should he have? If they could easily kill, lying must also come naturally.  "My lord proposes that your warrior go against his personal guard." Tanu and the two champions carefully eyed each other. The champions were eager to kill a man. Tanu wondered how to.  "At what stakes?" Phro bravely asked as if he had a choice.  Tubac pursed his lips back at Tammer. Both seasoned warriors and leaders of men thought all this was growing tedious. Tammer originally wanted a guide to Tassilli. Then he fell into a wager that, at best, would only obtain him another champion or a guide. And now he sat bargaining with a defenseless plainsman. Nevertheless, Tubac carried on the scam. "Your courage has already saved your little village," he said delighting Phro and Tanu to no end. "The stakes you want shall be for a man. If your beast here wins, we will enlist him into the greatest fighting force in the world! If he loses, you give us another man - any man - to guide us to the high lands of Tassilli." Suddenly Tubac wondered of something which might have just forced the powerful Tammer to turn and ride off realizing he was only wasting his time. Tammer would ignore their wager and the villagers if: "Are there any men here who know the route to Tassilli?" Tubac asked.  "I do," the not-to-bright Tanu spoke not thinking he would ever see Tassilli.  "He speaks? Remarkable!" Tubac pretended surprise to match the folly of this entire scam.  Phro sent victorious glances for saving Ahutu at Tanu who, relieved for his village, worried over the battle sitting atop two horses. They hungrily shifted in their saddles like two hunters ready to spring on a lion.  Tubac moved back to Tammer. "Simple fools, these people," he whispered into the lord's ear.  "With what we lead them to believe," Tammer replied, "Did they have any alternative?"  "Naturally they did not."  Tubac turned and called back to Phro. "Is he the only man who can lead us to Tassilli?"  No one wanted to kill the only guide. Tanu lacked the experience of his combatants. However, once injured, his animal instinct for slaughter, the hunter's endurance and thirst for blood, out matched that of the champions. Warriors hold guarded ground and advance while hunters stalk and rush. Then with powerfully skilled hands they strike their victim.  The strong champions tried endlessly to the jeers and cries of the nine to surround and trap Tanu. Tanu jumped constantly out of harm's way like a gazelle. Each time a sword swung in his direction, Tanu dove away with a slicing contact of his own blade.  Cries, jeers and gasps came from both the army and the village. Sheba clung to Meka the entire time.  She nearly collapsed twice.  Onward they fought, all to the frustration of Tammer's guard. Tanu controlled the battle. He almost came to enjoy it. Until the champions grew totally annoyed and furious over this simple plainsman. Ripping off a piece of his armor, one of the champions, in disgust, threw it with all he had, striking Tanu at his brow. Tanu went down dropping his sword as the two rushed in for the kill.  The two, cut and bloody, came down on their victim. Muscles tight, strands of blood decorating their bodies, swords held high, they moved swiftly to do away with Tanu. The man who threw the armor grabbed Tanu. Kicking away the hunter's sword, the naked Blackman held Tanu for the others fatal blow. Tanu squirmed, struggling to break free as the man in front of him stepped eye to eye with him. He stopped the hunter's struggle by placing his sword's sharp blade to his neck. Smiling into Tanu's frightened face, he sneered, "I will now kill you, sheep herder. Then I will find your woman and have her."  Tanu saw red. Effortlessly he broke free with just a scratch to his throat. Tumbling away from surprised combatants, Tanu turned and lunged back upon the men like a lion attacking a water buffalo. Filling the air with a gruesome cry and tearing at the two who scrambled from under his weight, Tanu's large left hand went for the man who wished to defile Sheba. In the moment that the champion stood confused with mouth gaping by Tanu's show of quick strength, Tanu's hand sailed deeply into the open jaw. The hunter growled while forcing his hand between the champion's jaws. There existed only a moment's struggle before Tanu closed tightly his fist into bone and sinew of the skull. As if ripping away the anger left over from Karut's visit to Sheba and Tanu's rage which swelled at his sweat ridden temples, Tanu swiftly tore the warrior's skull right out of his flesh. The man fell dead instantly. In that same moment Tanu's right hand gripped then crushed the throat of his remaining adversary. Falling with the dead, Tanu pounded madly at the two corpses until Tubac and Phro pulled him off and to his senses.  The contest ended. Tanu knelt in awe at his dreadful deed. This was what it was like to kill a man. No beast could ever do battle in such a fierce manner. Tanu thought back upon the angriest of animals. None, no matter how swift, no matter how sharp of claw or teeth, matched the single mindedness of man. Nor would any other creature pursue such a deadly endeavor.  Tubac walked over to Tammer. The lord looked down amazed from his tall horse, "The man fought like a god!"  Your champions, at their best, could not overcome that sort of rage." Tubac turned to the others, "Cheer him!" He ordered. And they did.  Tubac looked over at the exhausted hunter still on his knees and panting. Slowly the general came to the man's side. In his mind he saw not a hunter, not a champion, but an emperor. This hunter was no mere man. He could be a god! Such a man, if guided through the ranks of military might, could rise to a throne. Such a man could be employed by Tubac to unseat the young Tammer. Spreading his arms over Tanu's blood stained body, he exclaimed, "Tanu, you are now and until your death first guard to our Lord Tammer, master of all warriors!" He motioned to Phro to approach him. "Bring Tanu before his people, old man. Tell them of his noble deeds and tell them to praise him. Then, with the rising sun, Tanu, come into the camp of your lord to begin your service to him."  Tanu, mouth dry and body shaken, forced one question from his swollen lips, "Sheba?"  Tubac squinted, "What does he mumble, old man?"  "His woman. May she attend him in your army?"  Tubac mounted his horse while Tammer and his generals began to ride away. Tubac looked back, " Nonsense! We are warriors; he spat out the words, reared his horse and rode with his lord. In an instant, men fell upon Tanu. They wrestled him into a tangle of ropes then lead him away. An early morning soon arrived when Karut saw Sheba move secretly past the rocks of their youth, then steal out beyond the safety of Ahutu. Sorrow had griped her from the moment the great army tore her husband from her bosom. Wails endlessly rose to the heavens and at the gods whose promise now laid broken across the white sands of the Sahara. Nothing and no one  found her receptive to any acts of consolation. All attempts failed. Until this morning. Amid predawn stars Sheba scampered out of her home and moved westward, closer to Tanu. Karut remained doggedly at her side or nearby. Meka removed him at times, still he returned, often defiant to her warnings of his proper place. He did not care.  Life had bestowed him an eminent opportunity. Fate had handed him what he sought all along. By design he grew to stand equal to Tanu. By fortune he would step to the head of the hunt. And in his lust he vowed that Sheba was rightfully his. He followed her into the wilderness of Sahara. Remaining low and out of sight. Often he checked their distance from Ahutu. That span grew quickly. Sheba made haste, mindless of Karut,  and of everything she put behind her. Soon they were in open desert and as night faded he knew she would see him at her very first glance. When she did, Sheba stopped dead in her tracks. Dropping her head into her hands she cried out to Karut. The words painted with anger reached across a hundred yards of sand. "Do not follow me, my brother!" Karut hurried at her. She dashed away upon his first step in her direction. It took him longer than he imagined to catch her. Grabbing her, he spun her around to face her straight on. "Where are you going, Sheba?" He twisted her, facing her back toward Ahutu. Neither one could see the village other than a few traces of smoke reaching into the rising sun. "Your home is here." "My home is with Tanu!" He began to drag her. He handled her like a stray sheep that fought its shepherd. "You are the hunter's woman. You now belong to me." Sheba jolted so hard, his grip slipped from her. When he looked back, he witnessed eyes of a lioness froth with anger. She said nothing, and Karut reached for her. She slapped his hand away; her eyes still fixed deeply into his. He reached again. She caught it and threw it back at him. "Tanu and I are one!" She barked as if at a misbehaved youngster. She stepped back then positioned herself to do awful battle with her own brother. To stand against the incestor, an usurper, a thief. "Leave me," she demanded. "Tell no one of what I do." Karut would have none of it. She was now his property. The gods ordained it when they removed the life long obstacle they themselves placed between him and the object of his lust. He would take everything that he owned. He ignored Sheba. He discarded all she ever was. He moved into her. "Karut, no," Sheba whispered. She saw what had overcome him. He came to take her virtue.  "We are like brother and sister, Karut. Take hold of your passions." She warned, but he her heard nothing. She turned and took flight. She cried high into the morning air. No ears heard, they were too far from their homes. Karut heard nothing but the pounding of his heart. He desired nothing but to touch and take her flesh. The memory of her hand in his had never left his skin. He captured her in one deft swipe and threw her to the white sand. Sheba started scampering away, her body facing his, her feet and hands back peddling with all her might. Her eyes never left his, yet they never once recognized the man. He snatched her right leg in full motion and picked her completely off the desert floor. Yanking her body hard in mid air, her garments flew back over her naked torso as she fell flat. She screamed.  She punched at whatever part of him within reach. He mounted her, and then entered her. Sheba brought both hands over her head, clenching them together, she pounded his shoulders so forcibly that each thrust pushed him from her womanhood. He continued relentlessly, unconcerned with her counter attacks. "Never shall Tanu forgive the curse!"  She bellowed across the Sahara. "Never shall you be forgiven for this. Sinner!  Liar! Adulterer!"  Sheba resisted him to the end. She struggled and twisted and fought against him. She cried and slapped, but he wallowed in a passion swelled since their youth. He neither saw nor heard her protests. Until Sheba rolled so that she spied a rock peeking out of the sand, and within reach.  She grabbed it.  Rolling back at him she swung for his forehead. Karut sailed several yards away along with the stone. The rescue attempt only served to impassion him more. This time the fire reared back at her filled with anger. Picking up the rock while he returned her to his body, he slammed her face. She passed out. Cursing her for her insubordination, he entered her and this time with both hands, heaved down the stone upon the lioness he had hunted for so long. She would not fail to be the fount of his life long desires. He raped her without remorse, with purpose. She had denied him and she now paid for her insolence to his superiority. With his left hand he tore away her robes and took the breast he longed with endless years of hunger for. He seized the wondrous bosom, his ultimate trophy.  With his right hand he struck down again at her face. This time he killed her. The hunter knew it. Killer was his title, his occupation. He took her completely.  Seeing his utter triumph of Sheba, he lost no passion. His right hand discarded the weapon and took her by the throat. Drawing her face near he gazed into her slack jaw and spit. He pulled her up into his thrust, and as he fornicated with her in life, he fucked her in death! He rejoiced in his awful sin, he yanked at her, pushed fully into her. His smiling mouth opened to take in air scented with her final perfume, and saliva flowed from his teeth like a jackal  mounting a slaughter. The spit fell onto her neck and he took no time considering the lust which overtook him.  He extended his jaws and devoured her flesh. Celtic can not handle this any longer. He breaks the spell. He falls away from the vision. His legs give out and he is prostrate to the floor. He cries. Tears flowing, sighs turning into sobs. He has seen this vision too many times, but he must see it again. "My dear, my love," he wails as if the vision had ears. "Why did you do this to me?" With such evidence, should the curse ever be forgiven? Didn't matter much, Venus had fallen again into the sun. It is daybreak. He has one more night to gather confirmation of his thoughts. Or wait another nine months.       6. Gators Do Not Prefer Humans Mosquitoes are easily tossed about in a breeze. On a still night like this one, insects gather along the mangrove covered shores of the small keys. Repellant barely works and any part of the body missed by the repellant - including garments - will not be protected from their bite. Perhaps if it were pitch dark, Hunter and Godfrey could stand a chance against insects. But the Lee County Sheriff's Office lined what solid shore the key had with bright yellow lights for a quarter mile north and south. Everyone is seeking the animal which took Mr. Ferris. Of course there is no hope for him, but most of his body can be taken back.  Alligators store their food, crocodiles too. And what was eaten can be cut from the belly of the beast, even now, after 60 hours since the incident. It's nearing midnight. The air temperature is 93 degrees. Heavy humidity clings over Gullivan Bay, they can taste the brackish swamp as its water evaporates up into the darkness as easily it seeps into the muddy mangrove shore of Shell Key. The island itself blares of frogs croaking and screaming, forming a solid bubble of sound from that direction.  Hunter and Godfrey lie still in a air boat; Hunter draped over the seat and Godfrey prone across the front deck. Hunter is the only one who swings at an insect every now and again. They watch the activity along the shore not 100 yards away. Nothing much is happening. The sheriff, four cops, and two park rangers move about, fixing camp for the night.  The rangers were assigned mostly to educate the cops concerning gator holes, nests, snakes and dangers unimaginable. They are calling it quits for the night then turn into their tents. Godfrey looks up to Hunter. "Think any of those crackers disturbed any gator nests?" "Think they'd know by now, if they did." There's a long pause before Godfrey comments, "Gonna be lot of baby boys this season. Damn heat just won't let up this year."  The temperature inside the nest determines a gator's gender during the first 3 weeks of incubation. Eggs at temperatures greater than 91°F (34°C) develop into males. Hunter made no effort to reply to the notion of bringing a larger male population of gators into an already male dominated area. An area which will see an oil refinery added to the scenery. Another long pause swells onboard.  Godfrey thinks he hears the splash from ripples nearby.  He turns on his flashlight and explores.  The bay water is clam and dark even with a half moon above. He sees nothing across the water's surface and douses the white light. Their air boat is fixed with red and green running lights and two large yellow spot lights. There are also two hand held flashlights onboard. Then there is one powerful search light tucked inside a storage box behind the pilot's chair. When all lights are on the boat can brighten an entire side of a key. The white beam from that search light, when used, brightens the scene immensely more. Which also draws flying insects immensely more. He wonders why Hunter is so quiet. Perhaps the long, active day of doing nothing but poking into gator holes. Is he asleep? "You awake?" "Yeah." "Unusually quiet, pal." "Yeah." Godfrey tries to assess his mood. "Wish yer were hunched over a pool table with Wild Bill, don't yer?" That's where they suppose to be tonight; at Mangrove Pete's shooting pool with Bill Wundermeyer and Teddy the Fink. Fella Godfrey wishes he were at Pete's more than any of them, Mrs. Ripton is likely there right now still hoping Fella would appear. "Sipping down those 7&7's and gitten yer ass kicked at pool." "Not really." Godfrey has seen Hunter in this mood before. When the tracker senses something near, like danger or a gator. But Hunter did not appear to be in a searching mode. Perhaps the man is just tired and needs to be distracted? "Hey, Hunt? Tells me the story of the four brutters again." "Four Brothers and a Sister," He corrected Godfrey. Hunter grimaces so much the hairs of his day old bread bristle. "Not again, Godfrey. Gosh, I hate that damn awful story." "Is my favorite." "Another time, perhaps." Godfrey is puzzled.  He sits up and rests back on his hands. "K, what's bugging you, pal?" "The chick."  He answers.  Hunter then turns toward the prop and opens a storage box.  He extracts the search light. Its cable requires plugging into the four batteries of the craft and he slides off the seat to plug them in. "Just, the chick?" Godfrey says and turns aft to man the anchor. "Sure waz hurt bad." "Yeah. Wonder if she lost the leg?" "So call again." Godfrey employs his flashlight to follow his progress with the anchor. "Someone's gotta know somethin." "Been calling, Godfrey. Can't get to first base." As Hunter speaks, his phone rings. It's Ripton. He forgot to mention earlier that someone from Carroll Industries called. Mrs. Carroll wanted to extend her appreciation for Hunter and Godfrey's heroic efforts. "She thanks you for her life, Hunter. Nice lady y'all ran across." "Very nice," Hunter replied. He felt that way when he first pulled her from the tree. He just doesn't know why, and he also wonders why he should feel the way he does. "She lose that leg?" "Nope. Did say she saw old whitey, though."  This perks Hunter right up. He looks at Godfrey to send a clear message that good news prevails. "Says that Ferris guy is in its belly." "Very good news, Sherif. Talk to yer later." He returns to the cables with a bit more zest. "Whitey has the victim," he tells Godfrey. "We knows that, pal." The anchor now aboard, he moves over to help Hunter, who is virtually finished. "Take the rudder," Hunter orders. Godfrey sits himself in the chair, buckles up while Hunter positions himself to the right of the chair.  He stands with his back against their weapons locker and with a flick of a switch the entire north western coast of Shell Key is flooded with light. "They told me only family gets any info. Good they called Ripton." Like moonbeams, eyes light up across the swamp and keys. Headlights attached to the faces of  beasts not seen in the darkness. Godfrey points over at a pair of headlights near a bunch of mangrove roots. "Large enough?" They both try to estimate the size of the animal sunk below the roots by the spread of its headlights. "Sos why don't yer call and say yer her uncle Hunner?" "Didn't think of that." Before Godfrey fires up the prop, they study the muddy waters and the mangrove infested shore. Headlights abound. Not all are gators, though most are. Some are snakes - they never sit still. Some are sea water crocs. Right along the mangroves and further ashore wild boar will congregate, though they are rare on the smaller islands. You can identify boar by the closeness of their eyes and the reddish glow. Even scarcer are panthers, but they stray inland, near Everglades City. Every once in awhile they come across headlights they can not identify. After hurricane Andrew in 1992, zoos all across southern Florida lost animals into the Everglades; no telling what lurks about. The trackers are looking for eyes set apart by roughly 12 to 14 inches. An animal large enough to eat a man. Godfrey raises the engine and the air boat heads due east; right at Shell Key and the area of the downed glider.  He leans into Hunter so to be heard. "Getcha cop friends to kill their lights, will yer?"  Hunter dials the number Ripton gave him.  Ripton answers as he's just getting cozy in his sleeping bag. Yelling into the phone for the sheriff to turn off all the lights in the vicinity where the glider went down, Ripton obeys the request. He, in fact, shuts them all off. Godfrey kills his engine as the boat drifts within yards of the glider, still set tight among the mangroves and cat tails. Alligators do not prefer humans as food. Especially during the commotion of a traumatic event - like a glider smashing into the animal's environment - a gator is more likely to run than to grab lunch in the mayhem. They both realize this fact and it's the sole reason they are out here. Not because Collier County hired them to track down the beast. Not because the opportunity to be at the scene and thus hot on a trail. They were here because this animal went against the rules. They instinctively knew this animal might be Whitey. Ripton conveyed the confirmation of that. "Thinks it's em?"  Godfrey unbuckled himself as the boat drifted against a field of lily pads. "Mating season's over, Godfrey, eggs in the dirt and getting ready to pop. Ain't no hungry enough gators out here to pull a man from a downed glider. Whatta you think?" "Lily pads near roots git me ascared. What I think."  Gator holes can be identified by a secluded section of lily pads, especially if found tucked in among mangrove roots. Trackers like Hunter and Godfrey are keenly aware of this and Godfrey has every reason to beware. But Hunter thinks the hole too small to be a threat. Besides, gators, being cold blooded, need a good reason to move around after the sun goes down; no matter how warm the air temperature. "I think, if this is the hole, Godfrey, we'll know within seconds."  Hunter made sense. A gator will take the food it can not devour and store it and guard it within its hole. Coming anywhere near it is good enough reason for an attack; no matter how cool the air temperature. The men approach the area slowly and with extreme caution, and keep it well lighted. "Something about the way she looked at me."  Hunter says as he drops to his knees. He hugs the side rail of the air boat. "Duh chick?" "Yep." They both hear a wallop to their eastern flank.  Hunter covers the suspect area in light. The beam hits the brown colored water and reflects wildly off mangroves.  The water across the swamp rocks in bad-dream motion, but no ripples, no sight of a reptile's tail. Nothing. "She looked dead to me, man," Godfrey replies. He steps from the chair. As he does so, he spies a pair of headlights due north about 3oo yards into the dark. It is difficult to make a fair measurement at such a distance, yet the beast certainly is big. It moved faster than any gator and as fast as any snake. "Check this out, Hunt." Hunter looked over. Spotting the eyes, he turns the lamp fully on the animal. "Too far to make it out." They peer far out upon the waters. Godfrey tries binoculars while Hunter moved to the other side of the boat. "Going to &ldots; or leaving Tripod Key?" "Think duh chick lost duh leg?" Hunter glanced over at his partner. Shrugging his shoulders he turns back toward the headlights.  "What's dun is dun." "Never thought that way," Hunter replies.  He aims his light just beyond the forward path of the animal to guess its ultimate destination. Reptiles move slowly and seldom far from any nest during evening hours. "I know the saying, 'done is done,' but I never got a handle on it. Kinda like I feel as if nothing is final, things can be rehashed and changed. No matter what." "Ever' thin' keeps goin' on fur ever?" "Yer know!" Hunter puts the headlight aside for a  moment to make his point. "That's exactly the way I felt when I had the chick in my arms."  He is not seeking a reaction and doesn't get much at all. Godfrey is trying to follow what he means. "And it wasn't until she opened her eyes and started chatting away. She made me feel like we didn't meet then. Like we were long lost, er, er, friends? Like brother and sister?" "Gotcha," Godfrey thinks he picks up on his message." Y'all goin' on 'bout reesincannation. Jesus not goin' like that kinda tawk, Hunter." Hunter makes a face and gets back to the thing moving in the water.  "Does look like the thing has left Tripod key. It's heading east fur Gary's Hole."  Godfrey hands the binoculars to Hunter who agrees with his assertion, but is not sure it's one animal. Could be a couple of smaller gators; might even be a lost beaver. "Eyes believes in reesincannation tho.  Y'all?" "Com'on, Godfrey. We gonna have another one of these Jesus-talks again?" Godfrey meets the comment with a deep southern drawl chuckle. "No, really?" "I don't know. Suppose anything is possible." "Says that's what love at first sight is. Y'all ever hear them tawk?" Hunter checks the water through the binoculars and quickly warns, "Never said anything 'bout loving the chick, Godfrey. So y'all shut yer mouth specially 'round Coreen." Every soul in Collier County claims Coreen Dollins as either friend or family. Miss Dollins is a gator hunter. An Everglades Red Neck woman who's square shoulders accepts any weight from those she loves and befriends. Hunter holds the honor of being called her lover. An honor he'd rather not have, though he adores Coreen. But Hunter has never been one to walk on egg shells as is required of any suitor for Coreen's heart. He would lay his heart at the lady's feet if she asked him too, she just never asked. Question marks were not part of her vocabulary and, besides, as she is fond of reminding her men,  women like to be taken, not given. The romance of Hunter and Coreen is the eternal stalemate. Godfrey happily acknowledges the thought. Meanwhile he is trying to get more light on the beast. The swamp water is brown, nothing below its surface is apparent.  Hunter takes advantage of the added light to see if the beast is white by chance. It's not. "Coreen is aces, I don't need trouble with her." "Eyes hear that, pal. And damn good that britch is to y'all." "Too good. A drunkard's dream." Soon the animal turns the bend of Shell Key, and out of sight. "Git after it?"  Godfrey returns to the chair.  He buckles up. "Just sez the word, Hunt." "If that's 300 yards, seems too big to be a single gator, Godfrey." "Ain't been but a couple sightings, Hunt.  Everyone sez it's a big log. Could be alls guess work. Could be alls truth." "Moved fast for a gator, especially at night." "Probably half  'er way to Miami by now, friend."  Hunter realizes what Godfrey is telling him. He stands beside the chair and indicates for Godfrey to fire the engines and make chase. The propeller's spin adds to the screams of crickets and frogs as the boat jumps to the surface.  Air boats can reach over a hundred miles an hour in a matter of seconds. Not a smart move around these islands. Still they eat up the water between the boat and gator in no time. It ducks them.  Killing the engine, they drift nearest to where they saw it last. Hunter turns off the light. Gators cannot hear human voices when the animal is submerged because their ears are within valves on the top of their heads and the valves close when the beast is underwater. But at night, the gators rarely submerge. Instead they hide along the banks and sleep with their heads above water. A waiting game begins. They sit quietly for 40 minutes or more Finally, "Near midnight," Godfrey says, "No mo' dinner to be had." Hunter tends to agree.  He goes to turn on the lamp for one last look-see when another light catches his eye. "Take a gander  'round that bend," he says, pointing in the vicinity of Gary's Hole; a known fishing spot where a local named Gary Smith drowned in '75.  Godfrey turns in the chair and follows the light, then another and another.. "Eyes sees maybe three beams.  See that?" "Yep." "The britches," Godfrey smugly determines.  Which is not good news.  Coreen and her two side kicks are alligator hunters. They kill gators. Without another word, the men latch onto anything firmly attached to the air boat. No time to buckle up. They fire up the boat to chase after the lights. No one can afford to have Whitey killed, least of all not Carroll Industries.  One could argue that if the alligator did consume Mr. Ferris, retrieval of the remains is essential, dead gator or not. However, if Whitey is a mother, with hatchlings somewhere on or near Dismal or Shell Key, a dead gator will find easy sympathizers for its murder, and pour out a bloody stream of negative press all over the project to build America's first oil to gas refinery in decades! They find the women tucked into a small key very near Gary's Hole. Nothing is ever quiet around the britches. Commotion is Coreen Dollin's middle name. Intrigue is Lisa Anderly's middle name and Instigator is Barbara Hummingbird's moniker. Crickets are singing, frogs are screaming, the girls hunt atop three boats: one pontoon and two air boats. The props whirling behind the pilot chairs of the air boats groan loudly across the swamp; yet these britches can be heard above it all, specially when trouble is brewing. Within the blare from all lights lit, and flash lights being thrown about, making the pitch dark swamp blaze like a Garth Brooks concert with out of control stage lighting, there is trouble brewing. All three women wear hats yet, either because of their hairdos, or the style they wear the hats, their hair colors are readily distinguishable across the distance of the swamp. Usually, Lisa gets first spotted, with that bright blonde surprise. Tonight both Godfrey and Hunter target in on Coreen's strawberry blonde curls just as her hat flies off and her torso is snatched from her airboat by an angry gator. Everyone shifts into high gear. Godfrey kicks the gas, Hunter swings open the weapons locker. At the scene, Lisa is quickly turning her airboat hard against Coreen's boat in order to clear it from slamming back into Coreen, now being pulled under water. Lisa is stirring with one hand while stepping from the pilot chair. She kills her engine with her free hand just as the black haired Barbara, who just idled the pontoon boat's engine, drops into the shallow, murky water to do battle with the gator. They move quick, in lock step, while shouting and screaming all the time. Coreen's voice is naturally husky but her shrill screech comes full of information. She is badly bitten. Lisa is yelling orders to Barbara who probably is ignoring them. Lights from their boats twist, twirl, yank and bob like traffic lights in a hurricane. When the men arrive, Lisa is hanging onto ropes from all three boats with one hand and has a firm grip of her whip wrapped around the gator's tail with the other hand. A gator's tail is exactly half its length and weight and strength. Fighting an alligator is a fight against two animals at once. Either one can kill you. The serpentine tail can deliver a death blow. While an average gator's jaw can apply upward of 900 pounds of pressure per square inch. Barbara has mounted the gator behind its head. She has a rope twisted around the gator's upper jaw,  preventing the animal from chomping down into Coreen who is seated fully in the gator's mouth while punching its eyes with all her might. Her free hand is trying to give space between the bottom jaw and her body. Unfortunately her hand needs to delicately maneuver around teeth, a few have already punctured her palm. As the men move nearer, Godfrey aims a rifle, but the gator begins spinning. The death spin.  Barbara and Coreen twirl with the creature. On clue all the women extract weapons - Coreen a knife, Barbara a pistol and Lisa drops the ropes to produce another pistol - and everyone begins to slaughter the black colored gator. Repeated gun shots punch the air followed along with roars from the beast. Coreen strikes so hard that the men, even from their distance, can feel her blade gouging at the gator. Godfrey is right on Lisa, who is surprised he is even there but happy he is. "How'd yer dumb britches rile up this 'ere critter?" Godfrey shouts as he grabs hold of the whip. "We ain't no bitches, Fella!" Barbara barks from atop the defeated creature. She and Coreen are drenched in muddy swamp water and blood. Barbara tries to steady the gator so as not to hurt Coreen anymore. She regains her hold on the rope and pulls back the animal's upper jaw. "Only bitch here is Corrie!" Hunter jumps into the water to join the hands already stretching the jaws in order to extract Coreen.  She is crying like a baby and cursing too while using her knife as a meat hook to help open the jaws. It is extremely painful as teeth rip her tender sides and rump. She suddenly sees Hunter. "Oh, my man!" She stops her efforts and falls fully against him. Dragging the gator after her, its teeth caught in her skin. "I knew you'd come, my handsome hero, you!" "You gotta get up, Corrie," Hunter knows she will fall victim to trauma any second. "How'd you ever spook this critter?" Gators are docile at night unless they sense danger. Of course Coreen is a walking library about gators, so he speaks mostly to keep her distracted and attentive.  But then, the britches never shut up anyway. The scene comes wrapped with distractions. "Hold this tail, Godfrey," Lisa lets go the whip. She also drops the ropes and pours herself into the water scene. "Where'd y'all come from?" Everyone, except Godfrey is painted with brown swamp water and blood. Which is not lost on the immediate attention of all kinds of insects. "Hold this rope, Lee," Barbara calls. She needs a free hand to ease Coreen away from the upper jaw. "Lift her gentle like, Hunt." The three negotiate Coreen from the dead gator's jaws. "Out searchin" Whitey," Godfrey says, answering Lisa's question.  He has both eyes on the water action while securing all the boats. He turns off all engines. "Good we shows or yer cute asses be in deep sheet right now." Lisa did not hesitate for an instance at his remark. She helped Hunter gently extract Coreen.  Barbara pulls the beast aside and into a net sack attached to her boat. Lisa and Hunter hand Coreen up to Godfrey who becomes quickly sprayed by gushing blood from the woman's waist.  "Antibiotics in the red box, Fella," Lisa shouts. "Told yer my man would show." Coreen is falling into shock. "We're forever!" "Gots no needles 'ere." "On our boat, Godfrey." "Right here," Barbara has lifted herself atop the pontoon boat and deftly extracts a needle wrapped in plastic. She tosses it to Godfrey on the other boat where Coreen lies twisting in pain. "Why you put that in your sack?" Coreen complains to Barbara, ignoring her own serious situation, while Lisa and Hunter begin tearing away her wet, muddy and bloody clothes. Even in the hustle Hunter gives Lisa a smirk when she pulls off  Coreen's belt and displays a beaded message across it's length: Coreen and Hunter Forever. done up in both pink and blue beads. "I sewed that up for your honey,' Lisa announced. Tending to the wounded thigh, Hunter remarks, "That needs stitches." "Here too, "Lisa tosses aside the belt then reaches for bandages from the red box. "Gator's yours, Coreen, don't fret," Barbara states as she stands at the controls of the largest boat. Barbara busies herself by swishing off mosquitoes and finding a cell phone. She knew Coreen will be leaving in a park ranger's chopper. "Why'd it attack you?" Hunter is perplexed. "My gator, my man. I suffered for it. It's mine." Actually they share their trophies. Moreover to whoever made the kill gets to sack the gator. Apparently only Coreen alone worried over protocol this night. Lisa answers Hunter, "Dumb bitch decides to knife the gator instead of shootin' the thing. Stupid!" "Oh," Hunter held back a giggle. "So it decided to return the favor with a set of teeth. Makes sense." "Git 'ere. Hold 'er up, Hunt." Godfrey has the injection ready and is pointing in a menceing fashion directly at where Hunter starts to lift her at her waist. "I'll git her a shot in "er pretty ass." "My ass is Hunters, get yaw cheeting black hands off my ass, Fella Godfrey! My name ain't Mary Jo Ripton."  Coreen suddenly lets out a harsh scream. It racks her so much that she apologizes for the involuntary outburst. "Be still goil," Godfrey says as he grabs hold of her just so his hand will remain steady. He gives Coreen an opportunity to choose the target. "Get yer self some place that's numb, then?" His remarks did not take the urgency off the moment, though it does magic for the stress factor. "Numb?" Coreen is fading, almost swooning. "Yeah, like it tingles?" "Hey!" suddenly she catches a second wind, "Y'all watch it, buster. Tingle means something very different to you as it means to us gals." Then turning to Hunter she is swooning again. "'Cept yer cute and wonderful man, you. Yer make me tingle longer than a panther will trail a wild hog."  Her remark lifts spirits again, yet when Godfrey sticks the needle into her exposed buttocks, Coreen cries out louder than a wild hog torn apart by a panther. "Don't hold it in, Corrie," Lisa pardons the outcry. She is trying to stop the bleeding from Coreen's thigh. "Gator's yours, girl, Now shut up." Barbara calls from the opposite side of the action. Coreen screams again. Lisa jumps away from the wound half startled. Then immediately returns to the gushing wound. "It's OK, honey, hang in there. Do it for me." Hunter holds her. His being there comforts Coreen. She begins to turn pale and starts to shiver. Soon she is violently shaking.  Lisa frets and rips a sleeve from off Hunter's shirt to form a tunicate. "Fella, call for help, I can't stop this bleeding. Hunter, hand me a butterfly." "I got the call, Fella." Barbara is speed dialing. "You keep your hands off my gator, Barb! And off my man too!"         7. Pharaoh's Curse Twenty years later, Ahutu was a ruin of itself. Many huts were but vacant memories of village life that had left forever. People remaining in Ahutu were just a reminder of a tribe which hunted no more. Food was short. The soil yielded little as most villagers lived only to find their way into Nubia or a grave in their sacred  white Sahara.  Karut, now a grandfather, a bit bent over, but strong enough after years of running the village, longed for his burial plot. His heart just a ruin filled with misgivings. His wishes from the Ahutu of his youth were just broken dreams. Yet he managed the village as best he could with what remained of him and it. He raised his family well and when Meka died, he ordered their children into Nubia. He undeservingly fouled her so would never leave her. Nothing but hardened and lean times befell this simple son of a sheep herder. Responsibility dropped like heavy rain into his life ever since Tanu left leaving Sheba to his misguided lust. He was the lead hunter until animals of prey vanished. He had opened Ahutu's first trade route and had overseen its attempts at farming. Karut stood like a statue around the village. Always leaning on his father's herding staff while watching and guiding his people into what future came their way.  Karut then spent his afternoons at the gate. Hiding from the infernal sun, he would gaze dreamily out toward the sandy ridge. In his mind he would see woman and children rallying around incoming hunters. But only thirst concluded each day dream.  On such an afternoon Karut saw the figures of equestrians rising over the sunny ridge like a mirage. He rose suddenly to his feet and grasping his father's staff, Karut paced a few feet forward. Squinting, he regarded the ridge while it became filled with equestrians. Until the entire horizon crowded with their thundering figures.  No children ran from Ahutu to witness the glorious sight. Few children had Ahutu. From deep shadows a lone face did peer out then turned away with disinterest. Only Karut, leaning on a worn sheep herder's staff,  awaited the army.  This was not the first army to pass by since Lord Tammer's legions disrupted Karut's life. In the past years armies came too often. They would do no harm. Occasionally a warrior rode off with a young bride or a hungry legion ungratefully made away with some precious livestock. But, overall, the armies only built overnight camps then moved on by the following dawn.  This new army appeared to be no mere army crawling across Sahara's breast. Their numbers were incalculable. Out from the ranks of horses approached tall armored black warriors. Their swords drawn, they marched fearlessly toward Ahutu. Thousands of these warriors filled the Sahara. Karut looked upon them wondering why so many came to such a desolate place. Why had they worn such shimmering armor under a coarse sun?  When loud commands halted the mass, Karut expected a warrior to approach him. None had at first and this unsettled Karut. Shifting his weigh against the staff, he browsed the army. He watched the great legions while armed warriors stood only paces before him in silence, acting as if Karut did not exist. Behind the mighty infantry the equestrians also stayed their armored animals. Not a whinny did Karut hear or hoofs tamp the sandy ridge.  Karut grew unsteady and feared that this army would be a hostile one. He drew out his staff - for whatever it could accomplish - and carefully stood with eyes wide. Many other eyes dashed upon Karut because of his movement, but not a muscle flexed. Had any weapon flinched, Karut would have been torn to shreds. Not one of the thousands of swords moved from a warrior's chest. Until, with a commotion from over the ridge, orders stirred the army into swift action. Karut crossed himself with the spear and, very frightened, jumped backwards.  From directly in front of him a wide column of men marched forward then flanked away. Like a deluge they maneuvered until they surrounded Ahutu. Karut knew not what to do or expect as he trembled back into the safety of Ahutu's gate. All the villagers now crowded the stone gate. Fear gripped at their throats while the gate sprang with loud cries from children clutching their helpless mothers. They watched as the black warriors marched, followed by an onslaught of tall equestrians.  Then came brightly clothed men. They followed the equestrians to either side of Ahutu. These men carried wide banners of silk with strange decorations across them. They carried musical instruments which reflected sunlight in magical ways. Ahutu was a Stone Age village; metal was rarely if ever seen. Karut and the oldest among them still remembered the day Tammer had come with his swords and shields, but few others were even born to remember that. As this company forked out they tossed cypress leaves before the gate. Their scent sweetened the desert air.  Karut went from fear into utter awe. However the afternoon would end, this display seemed heavenly to him. A sight reserved for the gods. Even the children grew silent while starring at the colorfully dressed men - who were smiling at the villagers - as they covered the beige colored soil with a thick green carpet of cypress.  Then came unusual music. Chimes, bells, horns and drums, music no villager could ever imagine to stroke their ears. But as the minstrels moved aside and ended their playing, the faces of Ahutu paled when they peered up the cypress ally left between the great mass of men. For there, not a hundred paces before them stood a god!  This god stood tall as an obelisk. He wore golden armor which beamed in the fiery sun. Atop a wide, golden helmet sat an all seeing eye encased in a triangle. At his sides hung great swords that swung to and fro as this god walked forward. Unlike his heavenly warriors, this god covered his groin with a pure white cloth. And walked across the cypress in finely made sandals.  The god smiled when he finally stood before the gate and its trembling folk. He rose his giant arms as Karut flinched in fear. But only his helmet did he grasp. Removing the highly decorated crown, Karut instantly noticed that this god had olive skin and straight hair unlike all his black subjects. Standing before Karut, the god smiled and paused.  Karut wondered how to react. He looked blankly upon the mighty god then back over his shoulder at his perplexed tribe. Grasping at the single emotion rummaging within his old heart, he fell to his knees and bowed.  "No, Karut!" The god roared while he grabbed the old hunter's arm and pulled him erect. Karut, no less puzzled, became more convinced that this certainly was a god. A god who even knew his name! "You do not bow to me!" The god stepped back. "Instead, I bow to you." And so the god did followed immediately by all his subjects. A great clamor filled the air as the entire legion went down before the amazed Karut.  "Have I died?" Karut stammered. "Am I into my next life? What is passing before my eyes? I leave the white sands of Sahara for a sea of mankind!"  The god rose before him yet the legions remained bowed. "Karut, my brother, I have come to honor you. I have return as Pharaoh of Egypt to remove your burden and reclaim my Sheba."  With this Karut and all the villagers gasped and grappled with the words they heard. Karut's eyes forecasted all the feelings which swirled within his heart and predicted the one's which would arise. He reached out his hand to touch Tanu's face. Tears ran wildly from eyes that hadn't cried since his youth. "Tanu." Was all that escaped his lips.  "Yes, Karut," he answered endearingly - for a pharaoh. Bringing the herder's son to his breast, he embraced Karut while every voice within and beyond Ahutu cheered. Music sprang up while children advanced toward the returning hunter who out did the many legends surrounding him. Women cried and men shook within their skins believing they were witnessing history.  Tanu turned to his army. In their language he called for silence. Instantly they hushed as all ears bent to hear more orders. Tanu called for interpreters then ordered his generals to fulfill any requests from any villager including safe journey to lands beyond the Sahara. Turning back to Karut while interpreters and generals gladly entered Ahutu's gate, Tanu embraced his brother. "Sheba?" He took Karut to him once more. "I return as a king to claim my queen. I have riches beyond her dreams to lay at her feet and yours, my dear brother. Where is my Sheba?"  Karut did not know how to deal with this brother now a king. He moved from Tanu and pondered a moment while watching Tanu's eyes as they searched through the village gate for his love. Tanu hoped to watch her as she emerged from a shady hut to discover his return. He peered in the direction of his old home. There were no huts at all in that section of the village. It had gone to planting food stuff. He longed to see how well she aged; the matronly swagger in her walk, the turning of her hair. Karut gently touched his arm. "You will not find her here, Tanu. She is with Meka."  "Then bring me to her immediately," Tanu commanded, with a kingly smile.  Karut turned down and he nodded away from the gate. "They are at the rocks, Tanu." Meaning the boulders not far behind the village where as youths the four would gather to play. Not far from where Karut stole Sheba's virtue and life.  "Good." Tanu lead the way. "No better place for a reunion!" Guards descended on pharaoh, halting him in his stride. "Pharaoh," one bowed and begged,  "Let me lead the way."  His guard naturally feared allowing the king out of their sight.  Tanu would have none of it and commanded his men to stay at the village gate.  They marched away from the busy gate, Tanu as erect as any warrior and Karut crooked with age, held upright by a staff.  Tanu tried to squeeze in all that transpired since he left. He spoke mostly of results and his longing to return to his home. "Now, as emperor of all Assyria, Egypt and Tassilli, I return to bring you, my people, into the lands of plenty. To cities of riches wherein you will be serviced as a god and Sheba will be Queen."  Karut spoke not as he walked beside his brother the king. So the great Tanu out did Karut after all. Why did he return?  To flaunt?  To reduce his brother's heart one last time? Karut listened to Tanu. He walked alongside the king. Yet he knew that in one brief word the king would fall, losing all he labored endlessly for.  He knew where this would end. And he both pitied Tanu and spitted him for it. This was, after all, of Tanu's making.  Karut had labored while Tanu lived among the luxury of kings!  At the rocks, Tanu looked feverishly about. Karut sat upon the largest boulder. "Where?" Tanu frowned. His voice came strong as the voice of an impatient general.  Karut stalled. He glanced hard over the waste that laid from horizon to horizon. "You return to Sahara's white breast as a king?"  "Yes," Tanu replied, wanting only an answer to where his queen hid.  "Sahara in all her span has no room for a king, Tanu." Karut gazed upon his old friend's puzzled eyes. "She is a queen who gives life and returns life into her sandy breast. Here you and I came to know our own destinies. Here we were given burden and greatness. From this soil," he scooped up a handful of sand and laid it into Tanu's royal hands, "from this you entered into life. With this land the gods molded you." Karut displayed angry eyes at the end of an outstretched arm pointing at the rocks. "There, Tanu, there is Sheba. The one you left behind. Your queen!" Tanu collapsed under the statement and turned into the boulders.  His hands entered between them as to burrow into the desert sands.  He lost himself; he drew completely from the world and clung to the rocks.  He did not hear his guard screaming out to him.  He had no thought as to what his brother hungered, for so long, to do.  He had no idea that the curse bestowed on Karut long ago would graduate itself upon those boulders. Karut came to Tanu's side.  He rose his staff to heaven as if to offer the gods their choice in the sinful act.  Then he struck down and slew pharaoh!"     8. Woman's Day Ten days after the accident on Shell Key. Celtic sits in John's office at the mansion while being briefed by Yvonne. He listens but is adrift in his own thoughts. "The trackers still have no remains. Word is Mr. Ferris was devoured by the white alligator; lends more credence to the theory about it being female, and having a nest near or on Dismal Key. A normal animal would have fled the scene. A pregnant or birthing one would take what's offered." Celtic barely hears her. Hefears such a day would arrive. His plan cannot work if Patty is recognized, on a spiritual level, by Mr. Gadar, and vice versa. Hunter will only try to steal her away. Celtic needs to find a way to removed Patty from the entire equation. Keep her occupied on the other side of the planet. It is really for her own benefit as well as Hunter's, and especially, and above all, for John's protection. That is essentially all Celtic cares about. "I have arranged a car to take you to the governor's mansion. Here's your plane ticket. You'll be flying with John and me, right?" Celtic nods with an agreeably smile. He takes the papers. He doesn't recall being informed about Yvonne tagging along. "I thought Patricia was coming with us." "She bowed out, Mr. Kunning. Doesn't feel up to it." "I thought you said she is fine." "Yes, she is. You know Patty."  Yvonne considered the issue closed. "John will be seeking your advice concerning the creation of a company to remove endangered animals from the Dismal Key area. Here are the details." She hands them over. Celtic browses through the dozen or so pages while Yvonne continues explaining the details in his hands. He hears what she is saying while he ponders more important issues. Foremost, he needs to impress upon John to pay closer attention to his wife. That's what Celtic's plan had been from the beginning: give her to him, have his fill of her. Patty, as expected, walked right into the trap. She has no idea the forces at pay. Until Shell Key the plan worked fine. Patty meeting Hunter has tilted the scheme, threatened it. If her devotion to John waivers or dies &ldots; Celtic shakes his head. "It starts all over again." Yvonne stops. "What does?" Celtic realizes he is not in control of himself. Drawing upon his remarkable talent to absorb words from a document if held in his hand, he uses the alibi,  "Sorry,  seems this plan can work only once each year. After the winter waters warm, manatees will return, birds too. We'll have to start all over again with each passing year." "Oh, I see," Yvonne is baffled. But then, Celtic often baffles her. "Well, you ought to take that up with John. I've yet to read the document myself. In other news&ldots;." Celtic biggest problem, which has never been solved, is that curse. Devising the plan to allow John to have Patty all to himself, thus soothing his passions -  all their passions - should allow room for forgiveness.  He sighs knowing the gravity of what must be forgiven. Still, he is sure his plan can work, as long as Hunter is not drawn near enough. But how to do that? He needs to study the visions more deeply. Yet Venus will not be in the morning sky for nine months.  He can recall each one; he has been studying them ever since Monsignor Scanlon brought the visions to life for him. Perhaps he should write them down, for the very first time. He thought that odd, writing visions down on paper. Then suddenly a word from Yvonne caught his attention. "What, what was that, Von?" he asked. "Alkaline water flow along the tanks," She repeats. "A team of aqua techs devised the plan to ward off the local plant life from the refinery's storage tanks." Sibylline oracle is what Celtic heard.  Clehorrah the Sibylline oracle. That is his answer. Find a witch with a crystal ball.   Behind a lacy black mask Patty lays in the governor's bed. Another morning wrestling with bad dreams - or good dreams? She can't recall which, but they are all pivoted around Shell Key, sudden storms, the white animal, Mr. Ferris and a man who moves like mist in and out of the dreams. No one has yet told her his name. Little they realize hiding the truth only encourages her wonderings. She hears John approach. "It's almost seven thirty, my love." John bends and leaves a peck on her brow. "Yvonne must already be missing me." Patty says nothing. She turns back into the covers. "Come on, sleepy head," John calls as he moves for the door. "Maid will be in here momentarily." "It's woman's day," Patty gripes from under a pillow. "I'm in bed for the whole day."   John has no problem with Patty having anything she desires, however, staying put is not her style.  He turns back into the room. "You OK?" "Yeah," she sighs. "Just miserable over this leg and all." John sits beside her and lifts the covers. Most of the bandages were removed yesterday and actually the leg looks pretty good. "Is it tender to the touch?" He gingerly presses here and there.  Patty shakes her head no and, removing the mask, sits up. "Just feeling lazy, maybe?" John asks and kisses her hand. "I want to do something. To be honest with you, John? I want to return to Shell Key."  That hits John sideways; whatever for?  "I think it's that beast that killed Mr. Ferris. It's like a horse I fell off of and I want to tackle the issue again." "You're talking about a man, err, woman killer, Patty." "I know." John gives her a little tickle then another kiss. He checks the leg again then says, "I may have a solution for you, dear."  She is confused, not another boring trip or dragged out dinner date? "The boys over in grounds clearing think we ought to make an all out effort to capture or kill this white gator; now that we know it exists."  He took no time in asking, "How would you like to field that project?" "Me?"  Her heart races because, yes! That's just what she needs; to get back to Shell Key and wrestle with the devil. "I think you can handle an official job around your own company for a change. Don't you?"  She jumped into his arms, but her leg pulled her back into the pillows. "Easy, girl."  He kissed her sweetly and headed for the door. "I'm briefing Celtic and Yvonne about the project at one sharp in the bay room. Be there or you'll be fired." John walks in on Celtic, Yvonne and Tommy Trip. Greeting them, he asks how Celtic's visit to Tulum went. John takes his seat behind his cherry wood desk while the wizard simply nods and smiles. Mr. Trip has stopped by to offer John a review of Patty's recreation schedule before showing it to her. Since the accident it has been, and still is only one page long. "Deep six that," John states. Trip is confused, but folds the page in half and awaits John's explanation. Extracting a five page report from a drawer, John lays it atop his desk and pats his hand on it as if pressing his seal of approval to the document. ""Lady and gents, my wife's first official tour of duty as an officer of Carroll Industries." No one thought the idea of putting Patty to work a poor decision. "The Ten Thousand Keys Clearing Project - or, as I like to call it: Kill the White Gator Project." Tommy Trip and Yvonne seem pleased. Both only need to know the details so they can work in their own schedules. But Celtic turns pale. He cannot handle Patty being mentioned in the same paragraph as the alligator; especially if it suggests going after the thing. "That's not acceptable," Celtic confounds John and startles his co-workers. "John, you promised me they would remain apart." "Who?" John replies then suddenly recalls his promise. "Oh, Celtic, they will never bump into each other. This project is not about tracking, it's about clearing the area. Besides, she can work it right from her bedroom. They'll never meet." "I can't risk it, John. You promised me." Yvonne suddenly interjects, "Is there something I'm not privy to here, gentlemen?"  Trip sinks a bit lower in his seat and tries to get unnoticeable. Celtic tries t hold his tongue, but he slips. Apologizing to Yvonne, and Trip, he comes right back at John. "You're playing with fire here &ldots; no, John, this is worse than figurative expressions. They meet, you're through!"  This frightens everyone.  John sits erect, forcing himself to appear professional, yet very aware of the wizard's remarkable insights. Celtic is miles out of character. No one - not John or Yvonne or Trip, nor anyone in the industry - has ever witness such a defiant Celtic before. Obviously, something is brewing. John slowly slips the document back into his desk drawer. "Let's discuss it later. I hit a sore spot."  Trying to lighten their moods, he added, "Wives should not go out to work anyway."  The comment goes over like a white alligator. Later, at 1 PM in the Bay room, Celtic corners John before Patty arrives. John cannot steel himself against Celtic - not ever. But the joy his news brought to Patty is priceless. He cannot let her down. "I have to go ahead with this, Celtic," he sighs. Celtic stands toe to toe with his boss and takes every word in. "She needs some stimulus in her life. Something to get out of bed for. Surely you appreciate that?" "I do," Celtic remarks calmly. "Can't you send her on another vacation? Keep her away from this area?" "No.  She's grown too wise to that ploy." "The two of you then. It is imperative that you pay closer attention to her, John. Your marriage stands in jeopardy." John's single fear in life is losing Patty. It seems a trifle far fetched that such a split can occur. They are very close, and he adores her. "I can't see us drifting apart." He respects Celtic, but he worships Patty. He understand, better than anyone, that the wizard made him what he is today. It was his magic that formed the Carroll's very relationship.  Would that same magic cause them to part?  "Celtic," John asked in whispers, "If I disobey you, will you bring an evil fate down upon me?" "No," Celtic stepped back. "That's not the situation, John. I am here to protect you and your interests. I love&ldots;" He breaks the sentence then continues. "There are things beyond your immediate scope of knowing. Forces which have shaped your destiny, and mine too. That man, Hunter Gadar, can alter all our fate, including his own, just by holding a conversation with Patty. This is not of my making, John. It's a matter of fate." "What kind of fate?" Patty appears as if out of nowhere.  The men break apart.  Celtic stands austere behind John while John happily greets her with a kiss. "Come let's sit," John escorts Patty to a large sofa in the center of the room. From the sofa spectacular views through a wall of glass pull the imagination out across the Gulf of Mexico. "Join us, Celtic, please." Yvonne enters along with two executives and a small army of waiters with lunch. Greetings all around as most dot on Patty and her bandaged leg. If Celtic is sulking, no one notices; except Yvonne.   9. The President's Brother Exquisite luxury with the right amount of southern hospitality is how John described his visit with the governor and his wife. Yvonne held herself up well all night but is now pooped. What was billed as an intimate dinner among friends turned into four hours of meeting lecturers, environmentalists, land barons, financers and a famous cellist. The governor is a warm person who comes across as bigger than politics. His smile suggests a thinking mind behind it with a Billy Bob demeanor. Most importantly he wants an oil refinery in the waste lands of his important state. "We have millions of barrels of crude pumped from the Gulf everyday. No reason it can't be refined right here."  John builds refineries. He thinks the governor an insightful man indeed! Celtic and Yvonne agreed, of course. The governor surprises everyone by insisting Yo-Yo Ma, the famed cellist, "Play us some tunes," as he describes it. In walks more guests; two women, one a pianist, the other a singer. John feels so honored he is awash in regret that Patty has to miss the governor's show of friendship and hospitality. No sooner they leave the state dinning room for the state reception room and the tunes, Celtic, Yvonne and one other man excuse themselves for some air. The governor's mansion holds a lovely garden just off its Florida room.  The two escapees discover-a-way. An old friend of Celtic's, Bob Estherlund, had been lurking all evening, though he remained completely out of sight until now. Yvonne just smiles and gives him a nod as they leave the Florida room and enter the Sculpture Manatee Garden, but Celtic takes his hand, and once out of sight, he embraces the man. "Good to see you again, Robert!" "Same here, old man," Bob says breaking their embrace. He catches Yvonne studying them. "Yvonne Jamison, nice to meet you."  His hand is warm and she clings to it, not caring if the handsome man never let go. He is much younger than Celtic which makes Yvonne wonder why they act like such pals. His aura is familiar, have they met before?  "No, I was just ease dropping over dinner." "Robert is the governor's wizard, Gaz." Celtic filled in the blanks, big time. Yvonne now puts up her defenses and returns to being John Carroll's personal secretary. "Nice meeting you.  I think I'll let you two catch up." She takes back her hand and greets an impressive metallic sculpture tucked away to the side of the garden; other who ran from the tunes have assembled there already. Bob and Celtic stroll and chit chat until they feel they are completely out of earshot. "You need my assistance?" Bob asks. "Yes, my friend. I need to do some scrying. I need to locate an oracle, a Sibylline oracle if possible." Celtic pays an appreciative glance around to be sure they are alone. "I'm not one for the Crafts. I know you dabble there sometimes." Estherlund places a finger to his chin and seems to be running over a list of names in his head. "Humm, not like you to seek out a witch, Celtic, old man." "I need a crystal. But I need a witch to induce the vision. It pertains to me." Estherlund strikes out his finger, he has a name. Producing a pad and a pen from virtually out of nowhere, he jots down a name, address and phone. "Here, Catherine Rebisher.  I don't think she's Sibylline, but she'll do."  The pen and pad vanish. "Then again, she may be Sibylline. She's well connected as only a Sibylline would be.You know she will try to enchant you." "Naturally," Celtic replies. "I have some tricks of my own, Bob. Besides, the plumbing's all wrong." "Oh, that's right!" Bob pops and they share a knowing laugh. They chat about things wizards chat about and make no haste returning to the party. Once back inside, everyone musters through. John fully enjoys the party yet he is the only one, besides the musicians to keep his eyes open. Finally everyone returns to life when Mr. and Mrs. governor retire for the evening. A limo driver and a valet escort them out of the mansion.  John is beaming because the governor is all green lights for their refinery and their Kill the White Gator Project. The valet opens the back door so Yvonne can slide in, followed by Celtic then John. "I thought that a pleasant time," John mused. He looks past Celtic in order to address Yvonne. "Patty should have come, right?" "I think she's better off for staying at home. To be honest." "Oh, hog wash." He turns to Celtic. "What you think, old man?" "Good that you have an entire government behind the projects." "Sure is," John replies. He sits back anxious to tell his wife all about the evening. "Like being back in Rome," Celtic sighs. His comment, though meant for himself, does not escape Yvonne. Not at all.   10.  Mangrove Pete's "The more you win, the sooner you loose." Wild Bill shrugs while giving away the first three games to Hunter. "Can't win forever, Hunter, my friend."   11. Into the Crystal So Pure Catherine answers her own door. Unlike the roadside gypsies, tramps and thieves scattered across the globe, Catherine Rebisher has no assistant running errands or fetching the door. She has two apprentices hidden away upstairs; they bury their noses in thick tomes or risk a thrashing. Opening the heavy wooden door, she is immediately taken aback by the man standing before her. Celtic and Catherine are of the same numen, but of different ilk. He is a high magician; she is an oracle of the ancient order of Sibylline. Celtic employs the powers of the Wholly Other; Catherine works the magic which is immanent in nature. She stays him at the door, holding the door only partially ajar. "Celtic Kunning, I presume?"  He nods. She offers him a greeting with her right hand within a pink colored kid glove. Without a word, she lets him in. The lady closes the door behind her, never taking her eyes from Celtic. She studies the way he walks, his clothes, the way he gestures and speaks. From behind a black veil her thin nose seeks out his scent. She guesses his cologne. Her bare feet are covered by a long series of skirts. She determines his weight by the impression  the thin, middle aged man makes upon carpeted floors. Green eyes peer out from the shadows of her veil and into his blue eyes, not to capture their color, she goes directly for his soul. She comes across as a mature women, a bright spirit who wraps herself in too many garments; tassels everywhere! They say very little. She offers him some tea which he refuses. He offers her a fee, which she politely refuses. They get right down to business. Ushering him into a darkened room through a doorway of hanging beads, they sit on either side of a small round table with a black table cloth. A crystal ball is embraced by linen of perfect pink atop the table.  "Comfortable?" She asks. Celtic nods and looks more closely at her when she sits and draws back a veil and kerchief. She is absolutely stunning. A goddess hiding from the world under layers of cotton and wool. She has age, yet it is pushed aside by marble skin and lovely Slavic features. The green eyes are hypnotic and piercing; two exotic blooms within a bouquet wrapped in veils. The spell he has fallen under is broken when she asks, "You suspect your time on earth is drawing to a close?" A magician would only call upon a witch to attend him with a crystal ball if the truth behind the vision is believed to be, by the magician, unalterable. Opposed to being fully in the vision, as in Tulum,  peering into a crystal is something like watching TV. Things can be missed or distorted. Catherine will view the vision also. She will aid Celtic so he doesn't miss a trick; perhaps point out information over looked due to his subjectivity; but there can be a price. Too much information can lead to a witch's brew of danger and entanglements. Celtic, holding status in the industrial world, is risking wealth and fortunes. John's wealth and fortune. "I'd rather not discuss myself with a witch." Celtic is not insulting her; he is wise to avoid her tentacles. She respects his wisdom; he will be that much more a trophy for her then. If she can steal his will through bribery, deceit or barter. She takes her veil and wipes the crystal ball, her eyes always on him. "Very well, Magnus. Then let's begin." Both their gazes fall to the crystal. Viewing the contents of a crystal ball is child's play, if you know how to do it. The proper term for it is called scrying. It's like reading text or viewing a painting; the message needs to be focused upon. When you read text, your eyes mechanically gather words, yet it is an image you see: think of a picture of a cloud.  It may be a sound you hear: the blast of machine gun fire. An entire drama can prance across your imagination; you lose sight of the text itself. The words serve to discipline your focus. As with a painting, the colors, textures, lines and dimensions cause images not included on the canvas. The artist frames your imagination within a strict set of visionary illusions, to wonder freely, but locked into the artist's vision. The magic of scrying lies with your ability to see the vision taking place between the surface of the crystal and the speck of light held deeply at its core. By fixing the focus at the speck and watching it as if reading it like words, a vision will arise. Unlike text or a painting, the discipline needed to hold the eye on the light lives within you. Each time your eye strays is every time you must begin again. In the darkness it is a ball of soft, velvety black with one speck of light, a reflection from beyond the room and off the perfect pink of the linen. The vision resides between the surface of the crystal and that lingering speck. Celtic searches for it, Catherine has focused on it by the time he sees it. Once he captures it, he recognizes the tale it tells, and begins his review. Meanwhile Catherine tries to organize the information into a series of logical scenes. Then she searches for a sweet morsel to bait a trap.  The year is 63 BC, Rome, at the home of Gaius Julius Caesar. Rome is not yet marble and Caesar is but the aedile, or commissioner of public works. Celtic has a leg-up on Catherine because he knows the story and its players. If only there is a way to fast forward to the scenes he needs to review. Unfortunately, visions do not work that way.  Catherine is fully into the scene. Her green eyes gathering up information. She can read the story as if from a book. Past Caesar, the first character was a man painted by history as a rebel, a villain. Lucius Catiline was a determined man. Like almost all Roman politicians, he flowed through the currents of office on a wave of ambition. The man stood like a god among the average Romans of his day. Tall, handsome with deep set eyes that would rival those of any eagle. Most Roman's admired Catiline as a man of action. A man who had the interest of his people at heart. He loved Rome and all Romans. Truly, as history paints him, he was a shinning example of a man who held democracy above all things. But Rome was a republic not a democracy.  The only breath of democracy that stirred any air in Rome came from the mob. The Mob comprised of the welfare recipients of the day. The outcasts, the sexual discarded, the homeless, those who lived off  the fat of Roman generosity. Just the same they were Romans allowed to claim rights and privileges non-Romans did without. The mob, although very much like a scattering of street gangs, did have a loosely knit organization to it and even had a flag; a white flag with an outline of a lily at its center. The Mob had no power but one, they were allowed to vote. Catiline was the mob's hero. Not that he courted the mob. At first, he did not. But he stood for equality. This endeared him to those who honored democratic thought, but enemy to those who placed themselves above it. Unfortunately, most Romans of any position hated Catiline as sure as they refused to accept themselves as equal to the perverted members of the mob.  The next character Catherine drew from the vision is a girl slave named Helen. Catherine almost glanced twice at the image of Helen in the crystal ball, but she caught herself before Celtic noticed her interest in the girl. A dark skinned beauty with shimmering black hair that curled like water crashing against a rocky and moonlit Mediterranean shore. Her eyes were soft and wide. They once saved her life from coastal pirates because her eyes of blue so amazed the rowdy bunch. Helen hailed from Athens, Greece, where she studied the arts until Romans carried her off. She then became a slave in return for the safety of her family. Helen was dragged to the eternal city. There she came purchased by the house of another who is fully within the vision.  The next character is a worldly woman who divided her time between budgeting the family fortune, studying the occult sciences, and handling her husband. She is Terentia the wife of  Cicero. And Cicero is the fourth player in Celtic's vision.  Catherine mentally takes notes. Apparently the vision, though it holds other faces and names, is concerned with the fate of these five. Caesar, Catiline, Terentia, and Cicero.  She feels less of a pull from Caesar; still she will follow his image as closely as the others throughout the vision's tale. At this time, the vision reveals Cicero as the Consul of Rome. The story opens immediately after his being elected by the people. The general election, as it had been called. Only one other body, the senate, had to vote to make him Consul. That vote would come the following day. Then suddenly the vision drifts almost as if Celtic or Catherine lost his or her trend of thought. Catherine sits straight, her eyes raise to his. She draws a kerchief over the ball. "Are you confusing me, Magus?"  Celtic is caught.  She is not angry; he is clever.  The oracle holds the kerchief in place and weighs her options. She can gather all the information she needs just by paying strict attention to the crystal. He can, on the other hand, force the manner in which that information comes through because, essentially, it is his vision and he knows it by heart. Catherine leaves the kerchief. She leans back and slowly removes her kid gloves revealing long painted fingernails. Still with her eyes locked to his, she suggests, "Let's make this easy, set this all up for me." Celtic knew her ploy put him at a disadvantage from his shielding against her power over him, but that is the gamble after all. He would leave her abode in a compromising position or as a soul one step higher than she. In other words, walking away free or spellbound. He has little choice. "So, let me begin by presenting Caesar to you as he enters our tale right from the start."  Celtic begins. "Caesar was more than just a cunning statesman. Though he hailed from the working class he developed noble tastes, loved exquisite surroundings and insisted on the finest clothes. The man was born a pauper destined to rein as king. He exulted an unearthly patience, especially during moments of stress. I would dare the suggestion that he knew fully well that one day he'd rule. All in due time.  "Catiline knew little patience. Nothing moved fast enough for him, not himself or his State. He lived possessed with a yearning for expedience. Being a man of great passion he understood the plight of the down trodden. Catiline could sense the burden of the poor man, who had to contend with both hunger and embarrassment all at once. Catiline felt for the invalid. Those who grew poorer against their struggle to survive. These needy were his children and he loved them aside from his own lack of human romance. He demanded justice for them and harshly cleaved into those who stood in the way.  "Two different men, Caesar and Catiline, yet they were long time friends - good friends since infancy. They shared the same tutors; chased girls together. They drifted in and out of the same circles of rough necks. No less could it be said that Cicero was once their friend, and during most of their coming of age years.  "Now things were different. Positions changed. Cicero studied law and lusted for a republic administrated by the business class. Caesar dreamed of empire while Catiline yearned for democracy.  "Three friends who allowed their vision as men to bring hate into their lives. All demanding superlatives in a city known for its eternal strife.  "I sometimes ask why when I glance back on it," Celtic comments.  Catherine takes note of this important remark. For he looked back at a reality that didn't exist, save in a vision. As pointless as it was to analyze egos from the distant past, he did. And this rang a bell for the witch. It tells her the vision intimately relates to matters in his present. She has won some yardage.  "Why the two lusted after kingship and dictatorship, I can only guess at," Celtic goes on. "But Catiline's longing did not arise from a sense of democracy at first. The man was not righteous enough to commandeer the ideology at its most unpopular time in history. Instead he only desired some sympathy and affection in his life. However, when it did not appear fast enough, he fixed his attention to the wants of the people.  "So there they were: the man who would be king and the king of all common men. They were worlds apart but needed each other to claim a just destiny. And between them lay Rome pushing and shoving each man into separate corners." Celtic removes the kerchief himself.  He gestures toward the crystal ball.  "Shall we?" The image they find surrounds their inner eye, they peer back in time at a spacious, villa-like dwelling. The air was crisp. It was an October evening at the home of Julius Caesar. He was with Lucius Catiline.  Caesar, in his gracious manner offered Catiline wine. True to Lucius" rough ways; he refused with a hint of a growl. Julius saluted him with his goblet. "Lucius, my friend, you were unwise to run against Cicero. He has defeated you in the general elections and tomorrow the Senate will follow suit." Catiline appeared too angry to speak. Silently he followed Caesar from a marble walled parlor onto an airy terrace over looking the noisy streets of inner Rome. "The Senate will compare Cicero's victory to Gaius" victory over Spartacus. A bit less bloody perhaps," he added with a trace of  laughter.  Catiline could not accept such a comparison. Even from a friend like Caesar. Spartacus was a rebel slave out to destroy Rome. Catiline was no rebel. He wanted only to elevate Rome. To purge it of decadence. To renew it to its former days of glory. He placed his strong hands to the terrace wall and looked out upon Rome. Its dusty cobbled streets, bright red brick buildings and finely decorated homes all stimulated his soul. This city shook with glory. Burning torches lined the streets; lamps flickered from innumerable windows. The air moved in a breezy fashion filled with the aromas from kitchens with cooks and servants from across Italy, Gaul, Greece, Africa, Judea and as far away as Briton. Its hard working people built not only a city but also a world. They created a hub, a center to the universe where all men of industry and ideas would gather. Here they could exchange and cultivate anything in any fashion. All done under the umbrella of the Roman peace.  Catiline always wondered what made Rome tick so well. For politically, Rome was not without upheaval. Past kings and Consuls, great ones such as Sulla, had done Rome well. But now things were different. A new class of people called the new class - middle class - began to make a presence in politics. They altered the republic by using money to change the face of the hierarchy. This made the Republic lose its grip on reality. One cannot obey the law if the law can be bought.  "Rome is with me," Catiline affirmed into the cool and humid breeze.  "The Mob is with Catiline." Julius sipped at his wine. He glanced at his distraught guest. With a heavily ringed finger he pointed down at Rome. "The aristocracy and business classes are with Cicero."  Catiline looked from the streets to Julius. A hopeful tone ran through his voice, "Not all the aristocracy or businessmen ... You are with me."  With a wry smile from over his goblet Julius shrugged, "I am not a businessman, and only my ancestors were kings." Moving from Catiline, he added, "As it must be, my support remains discreet." He motioned Catiline back in-doors. As the big man stepped past him, Julius, in a pleasing tone, said, "Surely you understand."  Catiline did not care. Only Caesar's silent vote mattered. He knew Julius to be a man of ambition. A man who played husband to every woman and a wife to every man. Catiline did not understand this sort of politics but, if it would help him to re-organize the state he loved, he'd employ his friend Julius, with due respect.  "You have other votes also, Lucius." Julius offered Catiline a comfortable chair. "But not enough to be Consul."  Catiline pondered a moment. As if forgetting the fact he lost the general election, he spoke from his gut. "Rome wants a new beginning. We must begin anew. Sulla was a good ruler but none of his promises were kept after his death. Too many of those who were given land during his rule have lost it through default and now roam with the Mob in the streets. Many once productive farmers are homeless, they salso live in the dirty streets of Rome. Many freed slaves now roam aimlessly as thieves. Chaos reigns the alleys of Rome after dark."  Julius placed his empty goblet atop a finely crafted table. He strolled to Catiline's side. "And so we have the Mob of Rome. The true voice of Rome, maybe." Hugging a pause, perhaps to hear Catiline's thoughts, Julius sat across from his friend. "But that voice is not heard in the Senate. The Senate looks on the Mob as a collection of perverts and those who would live off the hard working tax payers."  Catiline clenched both his rugged fists. Sincerity gripped his voice as he looked hard on his friend, "We must change that! Romans want to be free again. We desire to live like Romans. To have our own homes, families and property!" He fell back into the chair with a sigh known well to all political voices in the wilderness. "Rome rules half the world, Julius. We bring to our city riches from places whose names we can not even pronounce. Yet our own people are homeless. Those with homes are strangled by high interest payments to Roman banks...even foreign banks! The race who rules the world is being driven to poverty through their own devices!'  "Rome is no longer a mere city, my dear friend." Julius finished his wine. "We must help the world cultivate itself. Look how much the Senate appropriated just to Gaul and Judea this year alone. Remember how I, and others, have lowered interest rates worldwide through our conquests. Slowly things are turning in your direction."  "A slow turning, one easily murdered on the Senate floor."  Caesar grew weary of the conversation but acted as if there existed no conclusion. With a shrug he mentioned, "I have given your cause many talents and I pledge you my vote. At this time, I can do nothing more."  Catiline showed appreciation. "Do not think I am ungrateful. My passion runs for my fellow Romans. At times, to see my state having become a brothel makes my blood boil. Excuse my anger."  "Surely I understand." Caesar petted Catiline's knee.  Trying to make light of the topic, he added, "Rome did not hurry to be this brothel you say she is. Must we rush in a surgeon to now make her a virgin again?" "Then pouring more wine Caesar moved closer and bowed to Catiline's right ear. He spoke low as if others were listening; he warned, "You are pushing Cicero to move against you. The Senate's memory is still ringing fresh of your assassination attempts against the consulate two years ago. No less those crazy stories of you killing your own son to find favor with a mistress."  "Flushed with exasperation, tired of spending the last two years trying to calm the nasty rumor, Catiline growled, "I never made such attempts, Julius. You know that to be true, I have no mistress but Rome. And I loved my son. I miss him still. Such lies fuel the senate so full of fools and madmen!"  "I know." Julius sadly smiled. He felt awed by the man's ability to carry such a burden. He knew that men of power needed to carry crimes and rumors of crimes subtitled to their good names. Such is the trek for the powerful. Julius himself wore his fair share but his peers, out of fearful respect, overlooked these rumors in Caesar's case. Not so with Catiline. All his peers save Julius and a small handful of others hated this man. Still Catiline prodded forward always acclaiming his love of Rome and his desire to save it from those who would purchase it. And Julius thought this man could perhaps endure and achieve this end. If only his archenemy could be done away with. If only Cicero would move away from his path or die in his own hatred. However, such a twist of events would not come pleasing to Caesar. In his way, he loved Cicero and the consul's lofty ideas as much as he understood and valued Catiline ground level ambitions. "Cicero invented the entire rumor," Julius pacified him. "But...but the senate believes him. They believe the latest gossip also."  Julius carefully watched Catiline for his reaction. "Have you heard it, I wonder?'  "Enraged, Catiline almost spilled his goblet as he shook. "That I build an army to march on Rome," he roared. "That is a creation of Cicero's sick mind. And this man desires to rule Rome!'  "Calm yourself, Lucius." Julius dashed to his side. Placing a kind, jeweled hand upon Catiline's big shoulders he counseled, "Your fury will be the end of you."  Catiline put his bitterness aside. Sitting back he looked over his long time friend who moved back into his own chair. Julius sat with a mask of total concern for his quest. Catiline tried to read into this disguise, if that was what it was. He wondered what ambitions this mountain of Rome had lurking in his heart. Caesar never schemed or rallied for any goals of his own making. Forever he was a supporter, a man who befriended everyone and verbally or financially supported the goals of others. Kings and consuls flocked to him in this manner because his connections were the best in Rome. In that method he dominated the senate and drew respect from all the voices of Rome. And by that method Rome lived always in the shadow of this very powerful man. Catiline forced lighter conversation and chose it for his departure. "Cicero should create gossip about you, my friend." Julius questioned of what with his eyes. "Of your many amours."  Julius faked insult. "Mine?" He came closer to Catiline and whispered, "What gossip? They're all true, every one of them!" Laughter broke their moods as Catiline moved to leave. Caesar rose and escorted him to the door. Wrapping a sleeveless arm about Catiline, Julius diplomatically closed the evening. "Think on what we spoke of. Withdraw your bid for consul." He looked deep into Catiline's eyes. "One day Rome will be ready for a new start. Then we shall seize the opportunity and re-build her."  But Catiline had no patience for an endless wait. Pushing at the door he replied, "The people are on the edge of revolution, Caesar. I, regardless of what the senate says, long to avoid that event."  Julius stayed him a moment. "Rome has not been settled since Sulla died." Revolution has become a way of life for Romans. Listen to the hearts of our people for they speak plainly. A final revolution is not far off and you are on the correct course in your thinking, my friend. Rome numbered her days when Cicero made his first speech in the senate. Remember? When he sent Pompey to Asia and aligned the poor against the rich. Lucius, just be patient. Rome will endure again to a golden age."  "I pray to Jupiter you are right. Good day, Julius."  As Catiline walked from the house of Caesar, Julius looked past him upon the streets of Rome. He sighed, speaking to himself, said, "If not Jupiter, I will restore the golden age. That I promise you, Rome." The vision seems to pan and brings Celtic and Catherine now into the Roman senate. A vote is being called to the floor. They see a senator they know, from the information jettisoned from the vision, to be Cicero. He quiets the senate from his honored seat in the center of the large, brick hall. He stands and moves into a clearing. Senators hush and give undivided attention as scribes turn their ears to the lean, tall Cicero. As was usual, Caesar was present for the voting, though he could not vote in the senate. But as a sharp politician, Caesar found a home and source of information in the Roman senate.  "You are about to chose who will consul Rome this next year." Cicero's eyes scanned the senate until they fell upon Catiline. Cicero's hard stare forced Catiline's gaze to cower then drift about aimlessly. Cicero thought this a victory. Catiline stood twice his size. He carried himself like a soldier rather than a politician. Everyone knew him to be a man of the dark, damp streets of Rome. A man who lived and rutted with the scum and the poor. Cicero, on the other hand, dragged his feet on humid days and shuffled them when his thin and sometimes feeble body felt energetic. A new man, he sought the finer things in life, the softer amenities. Cicero stood as the best of Roman success. A refined, intelligent Roman of the new class. A man formed by the power of money. And he knew himself to be a better man than Catiline.  Still watching Catiline he spoke in bitter tones, "He is a quilt stained soul at odds with gods and men, who finds no rest in either waking or sleeping!" He lifted a narrow finger; it bent in the direction of Catiline. "Look at the man! His blood shot eyes, his gait now fast now slow, his pallid complexion, his endurance of cold, hunger and thirst; in short, a madman!" Some applause came from the senate but so did many disapproving mumbles; others were hushed. Cicero dramatically spun at the side of the room where most mumbles arose. "This scum has the heart to ask of us to vote him consul? Have we forgotten his attempt upon the lives of our past consulates? We all recall when he was accused of adultery with the Vestal Virgin, Fabia, who is a half-sister to my own wife. Unashamed, He reaches right into the seat of power to murder it.  Is this the method Catiline thinks to gain power in the greatest state in the world, by the knife?'  Where Catiline sat the air grew thin as senators edged away from him. Some even left for less suspicious seating. Two remained close to Catiline, Orcus and Titus. Orcus was a thin, young man who outwardly wore the sub-culture of rebellious youth. He was from a line of light skinned Romans with wide blue eyes below a long brow which led up to very dark hair. He was of the new class but loved Catiline and his ideas. He saw the Mob as a suffering voice reaching out for the sympathy of their fellow Romans. He could not shake Rome to hear these cries, he blamed his youth, but, in Orcus' adoration for Catiline, he believed Catiline was very able to make Rome a new Utopia.  Titus had a decade on Orcus. His dark skin and Grecian features wrinkled and grayed next to the younger men. Titus turned casually to Catiline. "He slings mud only," he shrugged with a whisper.  Orcus thought it more meaningful. "And it hurts." He watched the other senators. Catiline showed only embarrassment in the face of his defeat. That emotions grew steadily at hatred for Cicero.  Cicero continued in a softer tone, a tone that led the senators to wonder as their  elected consul did. "Catiline would have us open our doors to plebes?" Then his voice filled with authority, "No! The entire Mob of Rome would find their seats beside our own. What a perfume this forum would have indeed!" Cicero broke many moods with his jest. Only two emotions colored the air, respect for Cicero and hatred of Catiline. "And why does this man associate with such low life? Why? Because no men with any wit would follow his insane ideas!" This aroused mumbles again. Nervous laughter came from those who outwardly opposed Catiline. Cicero carried on so as not to have anyone dwell on pure insults alone. "He stands on a platform he calls a new record! Who needs a new government? We can't even run the one we have!"  Cicero's remark brought the house down, even for Catiline. Cicero stroking their egos, now sounded as if he pleaded to their intelligence. While holding his wry smile in order to bring sour grapes to his statement, he calls for their attention. "Senators, this man, Catiline, is an ingrate. Sulla gave his fortunes unselfishly to him. Yet he will destroy all that his benefactor worked hard and died for. Catiline is also a pervert! He associates with that element. He stands accused of raping my half-sister, a Vestal Virgin! And had not his plan been known of his assassination attempts, he would have surely murdered our past consul just as he murdered his own son! Believe me, senators, he desires to take control of Rome and murder her too!" This caused much commotion not favorable to Catiline.  Catiline sat stern against the growing applause. Orcus turned angrily toward a nearby bench of cheering senators. "Cicero speaks only of ill gotten myths!" he retorted. But Catiline, with a strong hand, stopped him and pulled Orcus around.  "Go lie about Cicero." Titus motioned for Catiline to take the floor.  Catiline stood. Like a wave moving out from his person, the senate grew silent. Keeping his face high, he walked to the center of the room as Cicero victoriously sat down. All eyes fell on the rebel of Rome. "My fellow senators and Romans," he began. His voice carried no eloquence as with Cicero's. It was his one voice; loud, heavy, but sincere. "Cicero is a clever statesman with a tongue, as we all know to be, as long as the Alpine Way." This, at least, broke the hard, embittered stares of the senate. Catiline, like Cicero, knew to entertain first. "My statesmanship is for the people of Rome and my tongue does not lie!" But after Cicero, Catiline sounded  like a used chariot salesman.  As Catiline spoke, one of Cicero's slaves - Helen - entered the forum unnoticed at first. She held a message from Cicero's wife Terentia.  Anxious to fulfill her mission the young slave girl hurried through the senate. Many eyes followed her path in order to capture, if just for a moment, the exquisite beauty she revealed with each step. Not just a beauty, intrigue filled her history. Fitting for a slave to the new consul of all of Rome, Romans love a good story. Helen was sold to Cicero's wife from a trader of slaves who specialized in Grecians. Greeks made popular slaves for Romans. Not only did their olive skin accentuate the proud beauty of this race but, as a bonus, Greeks often spoke the language of Rome and were well educated. Helen was the best of all worlds. She was a dark, almond beauty who hailed from a good family lineage. However, her family had lost favor with the gods and Rome while Helen was just a youngster. The man once sold Hebrew slaves to the republic. His trade held receipts among the largest slave houses from Judea right across the northern Mediterranean and into Gaul. His company ran four routes and several ships. Then Rome befriended Judea. As an act of good will, the Hebrews were given Helen's family as slaves. Even if her family knew of her whereabouts, they wouldn't ask for her return; she was better off with Cicero and Terentia.  Proudly, under shimmering locks of black, patina hair, she passed the drooling senators and made her way beside Cicero. Cicero did not see her at first. Sitting beside him was Cato. A short fat senator who tried always to be Cicero's shadow so long as personal gain hovered about the relationship. Which it often did. Cato picked up on the sweet perfume from behind him. With a raised brow he turned to see Helen. He half smiled to silently greet her and half frowned knowing she stood off limits to his adulterous heart; at least while Cicero was present. Turning to his consul, Cato leaned close to his master's ear and whispered. Cicero nodded and with a wry finger ordered her to approach in silence.  Helen delivered the paper message and stood back to await further instructions. Shortly, Cicero motioned her to return home. Bowing, she headed toward the exit and would have reached it in moments, had not her ears slowed her pace and, as if demanding her undivided attention, turned her around to face the speaker.  Cicero noticed the girl's reaction. He locked onto the scene. The youngster's lithe form, the cling of her dress, her large almond eyes reminded him of his own hidden lust for the slave girl. He turned his sights back to Catiline but saw only a memory before him. It took place outside her bath two days before the general elections. She was bathing while humming a tune made popular by a recent play, a hedonistic tune filled with the lush passions of the god Pan and spirited by the attraction a maiden would find in the arms of a Hercules. The earthy melody echoed in the consul's ears as he strolled by the bath. Moments before the great senator found himself sitting in his wife's bedroom. He had been sampling the lore found in his wife's ancient manuscripts filled with magical rituals designed to gain money and power. And love.  Just a lot of trash to Cicero but a wonderful distraction from the fury of the elections. The pages had turned cold with the setting sun. Terentia's chamber fire remained unlit and Cicero wrung his long hands as he sought a warmer room. From the darkened hallway he heard Helen sing. It paused him as he turned an ear then advanced to the door of the bath. The closed door cloaked the hall in darkness. It incited bravery from him as he stole an ear to it. It cracked open and he explored the light glittering through the humid air. He saw her naked and toweling herself.  His eyes lowered not being those of a man who took advantage of such an opportunity. He had not beheld the nakedness of a youngster since first he married Terentia. It startled his precept and corrected his imagination.  The scene drew upon reactions within him, so natural when he partook of such joys, now but prangs unrecognizable, humiliating for a man of his advanced age. But she was so beautiful he had to look again. This time around he watched her as she wrapped the towel in her hair, her arms raised high exposing the tenderness of her form. A dry gulp clicked in his throat and his eyes refused the urge to blink.  Cicero was not a man absent of passions nor was he feeble. He took hold of the door and opened it fully. Helen spotted him and drew herself behind another towel. "Master!" she cried and retorted at the same instance.  Cicero anchored himself to what he imaged himself to be and pardoned himself. He moved as if to close the door and leave, however, his fancy for the beauty which stood before him pulled him back. The insistent emotion played havoc with the usually reserved man. It angered him, made him mad. "Never leave the door ajar when you bathe, Helen!" he ranted. "I forbid you to tempt me!'  Helen blushed and hid further into the security of the towel. She apologized but didn't really know what for. "I thought I had closed it, master."  A madness surged, for no reason he balled a fist at her. "Never again will you show your body to me or I will demand to have it! For you raise the crime of adultery in my heart. I will not allow that. I will murder you first!"  The incident left both of them feeling like fools. Cicero desired to talk it out with her but felt it below his station. Helen regarded it as an honest mistake on her part and realized men were easily aroused; she should have known better. That her master longed to seduce her never entered her thoughts before or after. A personal slave girl usually took a position within the family. She saw the manner that he watched her differently after the event. He on the other hand felt his lust for her growing ever more intense. Soon, he knew, he'd have to taste the fruits of adultery or, as he said, destroy her, remove her from his life completely. To adjust the situation so that he could never have her and never will.  Catiline spoke more directly now. His words paced and targeted at the senators. "Cicero! Cicero expects me to waste your time with defense of things he says I did." He paused long. All eyes were on him. Some doubtful, some judging him, some observing a presupposed image. Helen's eyes were swallowing him whole. She never beheld such a man. His dark, animal eyes crowned themselves against the olive color of his strong face. His hair curled wildly around his ears and cheeks in a manner she thought extremely exciting. No less exciting, as she watched him speak, was his firm body standing tall and teeming with life, a living example of Roman virility renowned world wide. This is a Roman, she thought. For all the world saw Romans as they saw the gods of Rome - earthly, rooted in the home yet idealistic. Contrary to all the true gods the rest of the world worshiped.  "That I stand here before you never imprisoned or convicted of any crime is my proof!" Catiline snapped straight at Cicero. Then facing the senate continued, "So I will not waste your time. What I do seek to do as a citizen of Rome and as your consul is to restructure Rome." Again he paused for effect. "Rome and revolution have come to mean the same thing. Why? Because the people are not heard and none are heeded."  "This visibly upset the senate. One senator shouted, "Spartacus!" Another cried, "The Mob is fed!'  "Little scraps of food is not fed!" Catiline bellowed. "And I speak for Romans, not slaves as Spartacus did!" His clamoring hushed the senate. It muscled down each person present into lowering their eyes. All but Helen's. Catiline's confident snap sent tingles through her tender frame and touched something very deep inside her. Something recognizable yet she could not identify it. A man servant tapped at her shoulder. Startled, she looked as he motioned her to leave the forum. Realizing her place she began to exit but stole one last look at the heroic speaker. She knew his features would not expel themselves from her mind and would fill her fancy across many nights. "This man is contrary to all the gods," she said to herself. "Therefore he is unique among all men."  Catiline struggled with strategy. He did not want to plead. That was below his station and senseless with senators. Still his consulship needed to be founded upon what he believed to be the voice of the people. "Senators, ever since the state fell under the sway of a few powerful men all influence, rank and wealth have been in their hands only. The people are left with danger, defeat, prosecutions and poverty. What have they left save but the breath of life? Is it not better to die valiantly than to lose our wretched and dishonored lives after being sport of other men's insolence?" His words only brought a shocked silence. The hall sat momentarily on a crucial edge. Was he hinting at revolution?  Cicero captured the mood and opportunity. He arose, crying, "Rebel!'  Instantly the senators clamored against Catiline for they mistakenly thought he attempted to destroy the manner of life they had come to be comfortable with.  "I am no rebel!" he screamed with fists high. "But unless the rulers of Rome do not heed the cries of its people, rebellion will bloody the streets and lay low everything Rome stands for!'  "This incited anger from the senate as a great majority loudly stood up to Catiline. Caesar remained seated with his assistants and senator friends. He feared for Catiline and knew the man had no chance. Such words served no cause but for alarm. Feeling sorry for Catiline, Caesar shook his head wondering what would come of his liberal friend now.  Catiline did not surrender to the hollering mass. He stared Cicero back down into the consul's privileged seat. Turning back to the senate, Catiline pushed them to silence with a riot of words. "Senators, we can not go on ignoring the masses. We have the Sempronian Law which states that these are fellow Romans. They should and must enjoy the fruits of Rome. Their voices must be heard and their needs attended to."  "We have heard enough!" Cato yelled. "Sit down, Catiline, the people of Rome have elected Cicero as consul. Now we must make the final vote." Catiline saw no other tactic but to yield. Enraged, yet keeping his composure, he returned to his seat aside Orcus and Titus. Cato motioned to the scribes and announced the voting to commence.  The voting proceeded while Catiline and his troop sat in earnest distress. A man servant approached Catiline and handed him a note which Catiline half heartedly opened. It read: "Cicero will win and send assassins for you. It is time to stop playing at the rich man's game. Naturally, it wasn't signed but he knew it came from Caesar.  Catiline refolded the note. Placing it beneath his toga, he turned to Orcus and Titus. "Let us depart before my blood is wasted on this floor by those who betray Rome. It is time we move on to Etruria on the wings of an eagle." Amid stares promising banishment, they left the senate. Without warning, the oracle pulls the kerchief over the crystal. So abruptly is the vision broken that Celtic almost falls flat on his face. "What?" he asks. Catherine draws near to him, her chin inches above the ball. Peering hard into his now groggy eyes, she demands to know, "This phantom applies to you, Magnus?"  In so saying, she has identified the vision not as a dream, or fortune or a set of possible events. It is a ghost of things now dead; it is history. And if it is his history then he plays a role, a reincarnation. "No." But then why would he produce the vision in the first place? "Are you within the phantom then?" Reluctantly he nods yes. She never tells him that she is there too.     12.Two for Lunch    Patty meets Coreen. It doesn't hit  you right off, takes awhile, sometimes a week or more, but it will dawn on you sooner or later; the Everglades is a unique world onto itself. A world traveler might make a comparison or two. Then only in bit portions. "Has the feel of the Lousianna bayou, only with a more open and vast sensation to it."  Or one may think it comparable only to Brazil's Pantanal, which is the world's biggest expanse of wetlands. Everglades National Park is the largest national park east of the Rocky Mountains, covering no less than 1.5 million acres. More than a million people visit its mangrove shorelines, saw grass prairies and cypress forests each year. They often leave as quickly as they arrived. It is a remote area, oppressively hot and far more dangerous than 21st century tourists can imagine. Panthers, wild boar, bears, all spicies of north America's poisonous snakes and spiders, not to mention gators and crocs, live in a mosquito infested envirnoment. Among the most scary of critters are the Cole Brothers. Killers all except on a good day , perhaps after raping some poor child, a Cole brother or two have been known to leave you alive, but mugged just the same. Stories tell that a Cole brother or two served in the military, their Dad was drafted and served in Vietnam - so stories say. No one believes them stories least of all Fella Godfrey who's father did serve in Nam and has pictures to prove it. But, as Fella has always replied to the stories, "Ain't no mailman gonna find no Cole family and live ta talks 'bout it." The Everglades is a grotto stretching from Miami right across the Florida peninsula. Its body and spirit bloom just a short drive from Miami. Then breaks apart into ten thousand islands as it drowns into the Gulf of Mexico. Yet anywhere you stand and meditate from east to extreme west, that spirit comes alive. Might be all those eyes watching you from hiding places among the cat tails and saw grass. Eager eyes above hungry mouths waiting your fatal mistake. Beasts and insects and who knows who? Then it occurs to you while you gaze into the reflection of a perfect blue sky off brown swamp waters, or when the field of saw grass plays the wind like a sad Irish flute, that the one watching you is God. Those eyes are everywhere. Just as God is everywhere. And God is all that is. In total; though you are just you and only here. Collectively those who watch you, as you watch the sky and listen to the flute, are God's eyes and God's song. Within this remote and brutal splendor, just outside Everglades City and a five minute walk from the end of an ancient panther trail sits a two story structure made entirely of bamboo called Mangrove Pete's Bar and Inn. No one knows who built Mangrove Pete's. No one knows who owns it or if  it ever was owned. Pete doesn't own it, he just serves the drinks and runs the generator and cleans the bar's toilets. Guests to the rooms upstairs - most often Hunter, Coreen and an occasional drunk too bent over to leave, are expected to clean up their rooms in the morning. If there's money found in the register, it belongs to Pete. His cell phone is the Inn's number. Tradition has it that some famous person, perhaps Edison or Ford or Flagler or Hemmingway built the inn, then abandoned it. No one knows, no one cares and outside of a couple of restaurants, meant for tourists, over in Everglades City, it's the only spot to get a cold beer within 50 miles.       13.  Catiline, Orcus and Titus escaped the senate unscathed. By evening the news of Cicero's election drew interest from every quarter of Rome. Celebration filled the houses of  nobility; banquets teeming with song, food and adolescence dancers. In the streets and on the door steps of the common folk, people lost all hope for a secure future. Almost everywhere the homeless, members of the Mob, clutched together in miserable groups failing to understand how the state that they helped to build could so easily fling them aside. Through these damp, smoky streets Catiline hurried under a woolen hood toward Caesar's house. With watchful eyes he slipped into groups of men loitering in alleys.  Once he felt safe enough to move on, he sneaked along the easements passed dimly lit homes and beyond. He moved carefully out of fear for his life. He had few friends at that moment. The nobility wanted him dead and the Mob felt he had betrayed them.  He walked quickly breezing through every shadow he could encounter until, from a corner group of street people, an argument caught his attention. A lowly slave with uplifted fists cried out in Catiline's defense. Others ridiculed the slave. Some spat at him. No love did they have for Cicero but, at that moment in time, less for Catiline. "He has betrayed us all, stolen our support and handed it to a new man," a man shouted. "Catiline is a traitor!" For his own safety he ignored the tussle and moved within the shadows the tall brick structures of Rome afforded. The argument had pulled spectators into its commotion.  For awhile he had to hide deeper in the alley. The larger allies and streets swelled with people. He drew back into an archway where woven baskets blocked any glimpse of him. He felt fearful of moving on until the crowds thinned. From a dark corner, submerged further in the alley, wherein marble statues of gods with erect members lined the back of a temple, feminine sighs filled the velvet shadows. The sighs were accompanied by soothing encouragement from a young maiden. The unseen drama was an old one; Catiline observed it once in his youth. Was another night when he dodged shadows and learned their value. On that night, his sister Julia and their cousin Lucia woke him from a deep sleep. They demanded he escape the comfort of his bed to accompany them on a special mission.  Julia declared a dark and sacred mission loomed before him, though he was unimpressed. He battled her with words saying he preferred his dreams to hers while she wrestled him into street clothes. Silently sister and cousin stole out into the moonless Roman streets with Catiline mugwumping behind. Lucia fearlessly led the way as the girls crept from alley to alley which annoyed Catiline. He demanded to know of their sacred mission or be permitted to return to the comfort of his bed. He complained of the late hour, of the long alleyways they scurried through, the hungry eye of the unseen rat, and their mission.  "You must say nothing." Julia turned harshly upon him. The three stopped dead in the pitch darkness of an alley. "You may only watch because the law says I must have two family members at my side. Say nothing to no one ever. Never!'  This frightened the young boy as he followed along more quietly. The night seemed alive. It must have realized the boy's complaining fell on deaf ears as it crept in to thwart its victim. In little sporadic breezes its ghostly hands ran up his spine to encase his head like blinders on a horse. And only the silhouette of cousin and sister rocked before him in the gloom. They were so far away. So very distant from him. Though Julia held his hand tightly, the night pulled them beyond each other's reach. Suddenly a newer feeling of loneliness infiltrated the air and festered the insistent gloom. It was the feeling of solitude. In that alley, running to keep pace with his sister, he tasted it for the first time in his life. He actually savored its sweetness as the emotion conquered all the fear within the night. And that detached him from the gloom. Here was the dark and he had felt its fear but moved through it without harm, blanketed by detachment. The night seemed to him the symbol of his whole life, foreboding as it was but passed by him into complete invisibility. It suddenly had no meaning for he was alone, he felt invincible, and the hand he held was only his sister's. He felt alone and apart, totally untouched by the gods of the night! And that tantalized him while dulling his senses to the rat, the criminal and the looming mission. He walked alone though the gods of the night chased from shadow to shadow along his path.  He felt grown-up. He walked more confidently and unchallenged by the creeping shadows. Darkened doorways and faded passageways reached out to him with the stuff that dreams were made of: the black swatches which lay scattered over velvet walls and the starry lid of the sky dripping upon a primitive landscape which harbored a fiery beacon or two. They were just walls and alleyways along the path to his mission, none did he explode. He thought himself man enough to defy the gods. He choose only to see the walls as they were.  "Eventually they came upon a statue squatting in a bundle of shadows. Its polished surface denied the pitch of darkness within the alley and it appeared illuminated. Catiline knew of the statue. Caesar, Cicero and he often raised fun at its awkward reclining posture with its outstretched arms and its enormous member protruding skyward. Occasionally they marked their presence with a dagger by whacking off the nose from the lifeless creature. The gloom backed into him again as they stepped before the image. The girls lowered their heads, closed their eyes. Catiline's uneasiness returned, the shadows moved in closer.  "Take her robe," Lucia instructed Catiline while his sister let it drop behind her. She seemed spellbound and she stood naked in the soft light exuding from the stone. Slowly she moved toward it with her head lowered, her eyes caressing the statue's primary member. She touched an extended arm, ran her hand into carved fingers of the stone beast. Slowly her hand dropped but hesitated to explore further. Catiline noted her odd behavior; she too relished her own brand of invincible solitude. Their lived a riot of determination in the single sparkle within her eyes.  "She spoke the ritualistic words: "The stone is the reality of the past. It lives not until I give it life. And in doing so will never deny it is but stone."  "The stone is the life of my past," Lucia spoke her part. And Julia replied, "I plunge upon it to begin my future."  "Lucia then aided Julia to mount the statue. Julia bent her elbows low and grabbed the wrists of the statue. With the marble hands engulfing her shoulders she lowered herself at Lucia's physical prodding. Catiline at first gasped not realizing exactly where the spike of marble was being inserted. Then he turned away as both girls shared a moan. He abhorred their strange triumph when blood ran down the facade of the statue. Surely never! never would he confess to such a sight. Even as a man, Catiline thought the pagan ritual of fertility lacked any substance or made any sense. The gods inside the stone were like all gods, silent and stiff. They ignored the passions of those wrapped in their embrace and sat courting nothing but the stretch of time. No element of glamour lay in the memory of that night except his independent notion of solitude. That was his only recourse in the event though the girls panted triumphantly at the threshold of motherhood. Julia swayed passionately in Lucia's arms, both girls lost in the abandon of their sensibilities. Crying above the motionless face of the image of a man with a chipped off nose, his sister claimed her right to flesh and its procreation. "I accept the stone and give it life!'  "Catiline barely remained from getting sick. He saw the stone as if it were his youth so newly done away with and not the symbol of the continuum of life. The statue's eyes did not appear wise to him. Rather they were blank and deceptive, contemptuous of human development.  "Amid such thoughts was when he met Helen.  "Helen had been hurrying back from delivering a message to the house of Cethegus. Pulling the edge of her hood across her face, she found no attraction in the noisy streets of Rome filled with vendors, whores, minstrels and robbers. Seeing the argument involving the slave only heightened her fears. Men with raised fists turned into the heart of the group. Carefully watching the group grow slightly violent, she sped up her walking only to run head on into Catiline who remained tied to a memory. Helen went right down with a cry. Catiline stood shocked only for a moment then hurried to gather the young woman to her feet.  "I am sorry!" He pulled her straight up and held her before him at arms reach.  "It is my fault, sir, I am in..." While collecting herself she recognized the man standing with his hands engulfing her shoulders. "It is you!" Her face rushed from confusion to full moan of admiration.  "Not knowing what the girl spoke of, but thinking the worse, Catiline pulled her deeper into the shadows of nearby buildings as he glanced worriedly around. "You know me?" he asked as he held tightly her arm.  "Helen's eyes filled with glee to be so close to the man who had captured her every thought since first she saw him. "Yes! I heard you in the senate today. It was a great speech you made!" Her voice seemed flowing with love for the stranger.  "Catiline could not see Helen's face at first hidden within the hood. But he figured her a simpleton not to realize the great speech came only to be his undoing. He almost laughed if not for the grimace pulling at his face.  "I am a slave taken from my home in Athens..." she began as Catiline pushed her hood aside to better see this simpleton. "I am maiden to the lady...." But before she could say any more she noticed Catiline's reaction to her exposed face and it thrilled yet embarrassed her.  "Speechless for a moment, Catiline finally remarked, "This is no face of a slave." Instinctively he brought a huge hand to her cheek. It caressed her slowly and with a passion Helen thought she knew but could never have in her life of servitude. "This is the face of a queen!" Catiline looked deeply into her eyes wondering how such a beauty could ever call herself a slave. No man could enslave beauty like this, only be enslaved by it.  "His comments thrilled her but also drew fear to her, from somewhere distant inside her. She pulled away and bowed to him. The glow of surprise and happiness had vanished. "I must return to the house of my master." Catiline nodded as he also had somewhere to be.  "Still, with hesitation, Helen stepped slowly at first from him as he stood watching her like a young lover not wanting to part from his object of desire. She turned and moved on. Catiline wanted to call to her. To ask her name but she quickly left his sight around a corner.  "At Caesar's house a servant escorted Catiline into a waiting room. The servant walked away into a maze of rooms as Catiline sat and thought of many things, mostly the slave girl. He felt that he knew this woman. Knew her name. But he could not place her. Surely she was the most beautiful woman he had ever met so why could he not remember seeing her before?  "It is late, my friend," Julius entered in his night clothes. "I expected you earlier."  "Catiline skipped the explanations and informed Caesar that he would be leaving for Etruria.  "Why?" Caesar appeared annoyed at his friend's decision. "Cicero will not hunt you. He has what he wants. In fact to grace you would be more his brand of cunning statesmanship."  "I go to raise an army, Caesar. Next October I will make certain that the enemy of the people will not have his way. Next October I will be consulate."  "Caesar motioned the servant to leave, who stood by in a doorway. The servant lit two candles for better light in the room then left the two alone. "Lucius, do not do this thing." Caesar came close to Catiline. He placed an arm about the big man's shoulders. Caesar's thin arm felt the strength of Catiline's back through the man's garments. "Rome is beset with worries. Problems which no one man can be blamed for. The aristocracy blames the new middle classes who blame the senate and assembly who blame the Mob who blame men like Cicero who will toss away the old traditions. But no one can take hold of one man and wring his neck until all our fears die with the villain." Caesar moved from Catiline. He stood a long while looking to see how his friend was taking the advice. Seeing just a mere upturned ear, Caesar drew from plainer sources. "The young man in the street looking through the night for a wife would love to find the villain who freed women of their virtues and sent them to seek office, business and visit the abortion centers every time a swollen belly can not name its father. Estranged husbands with children and burdened with impossible mortgages lie awake night after sleepless night wondering who they can slaughter to correct their ill destined lives. The Mob longs to behead authority so they can be free to extend the chaos of their ship wrecked lives. Authority merely wishes the Mob would go away so that public funds could go to hard working Romans. Lucius, all of Rome is looking for the villain. And if you gather an army against us, you will be that villain!'  "Insistent as ever!" Catiline quarreled, "I seek to restore Rome to save her!'  "Caesar called for the servant and ordered wine poured. Catiline refused as he took a seat across from where Caesar deposited himself. Caesar took a goblet from the servant then bid him to retire. Turning to Catiline he asked, "Why do you tell me this; about Etruria?'  "You have always aided me. I truly need you now," Catiline almost begged.  "An army?" Caesar shook. "That is a lot of money, Lucius. Besides, I'm not certain I can support you with this idea."  "I would never impose on you, Julius. We are old friends. We grew up together. I only ask as a fellow Roman."  "Caesar tested that friendship for a moment as he added, "Cicero and I are old friends also. We grew up together. You were in our old crowd also, remember? And now Cicero is consul. Such a friend should not be crossed."  "You would not turn your back on Rome," Catiline knew Caesar too well.  "No, I wouldn't." Caesar nodded in agreement, paused to sip at his drink and think hard on the situation. If the consequences were not so life threatening to Rome and his old friends, Caesar would have thought it all so romantic. Cicero, Catiline and Caesar had grown up together hailing from a poor section of Rome. Cicero was the elder with a wise lawyer for a tutor and a hard working mother who catapulted the family into the middle class. He was the weakling of the crowd with noble ideas. They use to poke fun at him because his name meant chick-pea. Especially when Cicero would begin to preach noble ideas to his young friends. Sometimes, mostly later in life, they lent an ear. But noble ideas are only heard by full bellied noblemen.  "Catiline was ever the roughneck. He was Julius" age and a great diversion from Caesar's more highbrowed friend. Catiline's family had always been wealthy and Catiline well educated. An educated nobleman can not forever remain noble especially once he realizes his nobility was created off the backs of less fortunate men. And Julius was the boy in the middle. He would tell of how the families of Julii were once kings of Rome, which they sometimes were, but the wealth had gone from them. Yet he would restore the family honor one day, that he strove endlessly for. Together these three grew up in the Roman streets. Together they hounded vendors and chased whores. And, now, together they may be destroying the world they have come to love and every thing within it, including themselves. "You are a brave man, Lucius Catiline." Caesar petted his old friend on his thick leg. "But, I fear, you will be called the villain of this state."  "Unless I march upon the elections and bring this chick-pea, Cicero, to his death."  "Surely you wouldn't march on the Senate!" Caesar seemed rattled at the thought.  "Never!" Catiline waved off the remark. "The general elections at the Field of Mars. Do I have your support, Caesar?'  "Caesar rose. He strolled to a spacious terrace under Catiline's watchful eyes. Gazing out at the Roman night he changed the subject to gain more time to consider Catiline's request. "I have heard some gossip today concerning Cicero's other pairs of eyes and ears, Cato." Julius mused. Catiline realized what his old friend was up to. He forced forward the little patience he had and grunted for Caesar to reveal the worthless news. "A thorny rumor indeed." Caesar moved into the Roman evening. "It's said he chained a slave from Gaul to his cellar wall to be used as his perverted passions swayed him. She hung there for twelve days in that damp and rat infested place. Hung there while Cato and nameless others slowly dismembered her." Caesar turned fully to Catiline who already abhorred the tale. With a demented gleam in his eye Caesar finished the gossip, "They cooked and ate her parts. Devouring her flesh right before her horrified and dying eyes!" Catiline displayed no judgment as he turned from Caesar. He stared into the starry sky wondering if Caesar told him the terrible tale to incite more hatred for Cato and his sick leader or to shore-up Caesar's own disgust of the men. At best, the gossip merely supported his already ardent hate for Cicero's form of leadership.  "500 talents, no more," Caesar's voice changed into the seriousness of a businessman. "And a promise to hold our secret dear. Nothing else, my friend."  "I ask nothing more. I must take my leave now.""   11.    Mr. Shaw's story left me doing a lot of thinking between sessions. I began losing intrigue for the act of comparing the first tale to the second - yet incomplete. Time and time again I discovered the same characters playing different roles. What struck me about these roles was the way they evolved from the first tale. Think of it as I did: I saw Catiline and Cicero as friends who went their separate ways due to Cicero wanting to be the "father" of his people and Catiline being drawn away by the insistent call to democracy - a call to arms sort of speaking. Tanu and Karut built the foundation for this plot in Africa.  Shaw's tale was leading to something all on its own. What? I didn't know. I tossed guesses around. Thought that frustrated sexual feelings were seeking a path into the open while describing their history to me. The scene in the alley pointed starkly at that! It pitted Catiline? Tanu? Shaw? against this dark god. But what bothered me about the scene was Catiline's rejection. Yes, as a doctor, I approved of a man untying the knot of emotional entrapment, doing away with his youth. However, was he untying it or suppressing it? And again, was I following him right? Perhaps I judged that stone too subjectively by sighting it as his youth.  So many thoughts went through my mind, so many questions that I began ignoring Dennie. Oh! she made mention of it which lead to one relaxing evening. But I soon pushed leisure aside. Mr. Shaw did have a goal, I felt sure of it. He led to something through characters who were gaining strength; building armies. I feared for him and for society.  Mr. Shaw greeted me kindly then without any loss of time entered right back into his tale. "Catiline left his family in Rome and went to Etruria. With Orcus, Titus and a handful of others he began to build an army. The winter came down hard on his little troops. Food rations were low and only the most dedicated remained while the others returned to Rome with information most interesting to Cicero, Caesar and the powers of Rome. Soon Rome grew divided as the issue of Catiline's rebellion filled the streets with gossip and found its way into every Roman's conversation.  "Occasionally Catiline needed to sneak back to Rome for added funds and to size up the impending battle. On his last trip back to the eternal city during September of the following year, Catiline again encountered Helen.  "Catiline was making his way through a busy street washed over in autumn's waning sunlight. Paths were blocked by horse drawn chariots and vendors selling everything from silk to fish. Store keepers cried of their wares from open doors. While whores clung to the endless facades of stores amid the luster of colorful fabrics and useful artifacts inviting passer-bys into their sinful embrace. Children of nobility and slaves alike ran between their parent's legs and under merchant's counters in merriment. They chased each other, tempted passing horses with spices and some stood aside listlessly. Ignoring the entire spectacle their elders bargained loudly with greedy merchants. The air teemed with life. It was a warm late afternoon even for September so all concerned were busy buying up what they could before cooler weather sent the street merchants to warmer climes. In this bubbling of human affairs Catiline caught sight of Helen, who stood arguing with a fruit vendor.  "You must drive your master to amusement and back again," the vendor was shouting at her with a half-witted, snaggletooth smile.  "I am a very good slave, street merchant!" She rallied back, "And I will not pay for this rotten fruit!" Catiline smiled beside himself. He had not forgotten the slave girl in the least. His heart desired to fling his body through the mass of scurrying people to come straight into her arms. But he strolled toward her. Watched as she pursed her ruby lips and battled with the vendor. Soon he stood directly behind her with his huge arms folded and a smile brightening a face which hadn't worn one in months. The vendor noticed Catiline, and in fact recognized who he was. He pulled back fearing the enemy of Rome and thinking Helen to be his slave. The vendor ignored the fruit he picked for her and quickly replaced it with the finest he had. "Take it. No charge. Just be off with you." He turned away to Helen's wonder.  "She stood a moment in awe then with an amusing pout turned to go. Instead she came face to face with Catiline. Her eyes popped. "You!" She stepped back in surprise. Nature took over as she dropped the fruit, lounged forward and fell into his arms. "You are alive!" She held him, adored him, and clung to him as if they were long separated lovers. Suddenly she realized her brazenness. Pulling away and swiftly gathering up her basket of fruit her face flushed red. Then, as if who they were and where they were meant entirely nothing, she paused. Looking up at him, her eyes glassy, she said in a voice so tender it kissed Catiline's ears, "I am a fool. But I have thought of nothing but of you since first I saw you."  "The scurrying mass all around them vanished and transformed into lush foliage within a garden. The hustle and bustle came only as dear music to their ears. They seemed transported into a world where only the two sensed the impact of its magnificence. Catiline took her softly by her arm. Taking the basket from her, he leaned down close to her sweet face. "I have had many thoughts. Each has been matched with a thought of you, my dear slave girl." Smiling wide, he added, "I do not even know your name!'  "Helen," she proudly answered.  "Helen." He savored the name, drew it in on all his senses. So fair it sounded. So right. But then the outside world returned as suddenly as it had left them. "Come then, Helen." He pulled as well did he motion her into a nearby doorway away from the shoving crowded street. The doorway held many shadows along with a wooden bench where they seated themselves close together like two children hiding away in a lonely grotto. "I am thrilled that you remember me," Catiline smiled handsomely.  "All of Rome talks of you. But some say you have been killed. Others say you will come to kill all of Rome."  "Catiline heard her words but his fancy fell upon her tender skin. The autumn light sought every inch of her woolen garments. Where shadows from the doorway soothed the sight of her course robes, it caressed her. Then exploded as if with joy where the sun discovered her exposed flesh. He put down the basket and took her small hand into his. So soft was it to this rebel who knew lately only the brutal touch of renegade life. "I am the villain of Rome, they say."  "Some say so," she replied. "Others call you a savior. I only know that you left a deep impression on me." Bowing her head, she appeared on the verge of weeping. "I suppose you attract all women in this manner."  "This amused Catiline. "On the contrary, I have often thought you must draw men in such a fashion."  "Not I!" She recognized a mutual ground between them. "I am still unblessed by the gods." Meaning that she retained her virginity.  "You are not unblessed, Helen." He caressed her hand. She felt the stern life in his hands. She wondered how she would tell him that she was his arch enemy's slave. Helen thought this over numerous times when fantasizing about the rebel Catiline. So often she tried to forget him. To turn her back on the boiling feelings tearing at her. Now he sat beside her. His muscular thigh sending waves of desire through her. His hands engulfing hers. His eyes leaped into her wanting eyes.  "You wear perfume." Catiline reveled in the sweet air although he did wonder why a slave perfumed herself.  "I am a slave to a powerful man," she explained. "I have rights other slaves do not." She feared he would ask which powerful man. It came as the obvious question.  "No man should enslave you. I can't see how any man could." What a welcomed turn, she thought. His words, his deeply kind voice, his very presence moved her to feel passion. She did not reply. With eyes down she forced a smile but wrestled with the numerous emotions swirling around her heart.  "Catiline, on the other hand, readily noticed Helen's effect on his heart. He never truly knew love. It was a luxury of the poor. He married by betrothal and allowed any manifestation of affection to find its source in the Roman state. Now he sat beside a living, breathing woman. A creature so tender and wonderful that, just by her asking, he would turn tail on Rome to become domesticated. He knew for certain what his heart felt, for it felt that way for Rome all his life. Catiline squeezed her hand to bring her eyes to his. In the damp shadows of the hallway he kissed her lips. "To whom must you buy back your freedom?'  "Helen did not know how to answer nor react to his question. Such words could be a proposal of marriage or - just as good to a common slave - an offer of transferal from one master to another. Happily her heart leaped. She whole-heartedly desired to stand beside this mountain of a man whether as a slave or wife. But how could she come to tell him that her master was the one man in Rome bent on destroying him? Catiline noticed a struggle within her. He retained her hand but moved an inch from her. "I am too bold."  "No!" She returned him nearer. "I just need sometime."  "That I have little of, Helen." His heart sank a bit. "I must leave the city. I will not return until October."  "Falling into his arms she cried, "Then make love to me now, here." Passion gripped her soul, it spoke above her solid upbringing and commitment to the house of Cicero. A passion which boiled her blood with a one mindedness: to have him, to share themselves. "Please, take me now. Take me for my master also has eyes for me. Take me to Etruria with you. I belong with you, I feel it. I know I belong at your side! Make me your slave and I will give you such pleasures that you will forget about Rome and undo the schemes of its consul!'  "Catiline's arms held her. His heart desired nothing but her. Yet his mind wondered at many things. Was this beauty a spy? Was she right in the head? Could she really be feeling the burning emotions which sped through his veins? What exactly was happening? Making love in a doorway was not strange to the minds of Romans, however, people would take notice if only for sport. And such a sight it would make to see the villain of Rome taking his pleasures before battle! "What a sight to see the villain of Rome taking his pleasure on Cicero's slave girl!  "He kissed her deeply then pulled her from him. Standing, Catiline looked long as her eyes rushed up at his, begged to his, cried out for his affections. "I feel love for you, Helen, I do. However, I have things to do in Rome." Taking in a great breath he turned toward the street and dropped her hand. His hand only wanted to return to hers. It did not. Bowing to her he said, "Tell me from whom I can purchase your freedom. I will do it this day. Then we can continue as one."  "I will get word to you, Lucius." She broke his heart. "I know how to send word to you. Please, give me time." Helen then tossed a lovely half smile at him. Her posture ignored the bench and reached out for his hand. She held it, rolled her fingers over his as though they were made of delicate feathers. But the creature within she knew was made of iron. "You are so contrary to the gods."  "Catiline forced a smile and left.  "The episode rattled Catiline to no end. He knew since their first meeting that once they stood face to face again he would fall hopelessly in love with her. He found it difficult to believe she also felt the same for him. He cautioned himself. But his heart laughed aside the advice.  "Catiline needed to find Caesar before returning to Etruria. Caesar was, at that moment, in the senate. A place Catiline cared little to be at. However, he did not intend to remain in Rome much longer so chanced the visit anyway. Pulling up his hood and hiding within his locks of dark hair, he entered the senate and stayed out of sight. Waving to a young scribe, Catiline handed him a note and paid the boy to deliver it to Caesar.  "Cicero had visited the assembly as was customary before the senate sat in attendance. He dismissed his body guards and closed his heavy robe against an unkind breeze while he journeyed up the stairs to the senate. A group of admirers hailed him from the street and he turned to acknowledge them. He was a wise gatherer of votes indeed. However, as he turned back he spotted Catiline racing from the senate hall - directly at Cicero.  "Anger curdled with diplomacy when he watched the rebel lift his eyes to the consul. They froze, both men looking at the other. All emotions dashed away as only one lay between them. Cicero was looking at the man whom once he called a friend, and so was Catiline. Yes the hair was grayer, the eyes smaller and more defined with the lines of time but here they were in each other's view no differently then in their youth.  "Yet the friends in youth did go separate ways. Cicero held to the belief that the wealthy guide the fates of men best. Catiline upheld a democratic ideal, and their pal Caesar who seldom spoke his mind clung to the idea that kings were ordained by divine proclamation. Three men walking the same path into history and each with his back to the other.  "Catiline stepped up to Cicero. A sigh stuck firmly in the throats of each man. Salutations came hard for both men desired to grab hold of the other and shake hard. Shake the other until one confessed where he had gone wrong, when he made the fatal decision to turn his back on Rome.  "Good day, Consul." Catiline broke their mood. At the onset of the words a hatred slowly surfaced from the men. It moved aside their perspectives until only two men stood facing each other. Neither thinking of the future, both forgetting the past.  "A man from the street recognized Catiline. Taking hold of another's arm and motioning to those who hailed Cicero he shouted, "Look! There is the rebel!" Many stood amazed to see hero and rebel standing high on the steps before them while others climbed with their curiosity within earshot.  "What business have you in Rome, Rebel?" Cicero asked as if it were a statement.  "Below them more people gathered. "Catiline! It is Catiline!" An unkempt woman ran from a nearby building, her arms outstretched in a matronly fashion. Those who supported Cicero turned on the woman whose cry drew more of the rebel's followers into the street. Roman stood against Roman in angry groups beneath the austere facade of the senate. The homeless guarded their territory of the street against fashionably dressed lawyers and businessman. The poor were the greater numbers and demanded to pass in order to touch their hero. While the wealthy stood firm to their right of position. Emotions ran high and vapid causing a visible landscape of turmoil in the street. Slaves cursed at noblemen, children at elders, businessmen at clients. A brawl arose from within the crowd though many avoided the scene and caused human boundaries between the differing points of views.  "This is my home." Catiline glowered at Cicero's question of why he came back to the city. Then without the slightest hesitation he began to walk away.  "Cicero's eyes followed him and he shouted, drawing attention to the scene, "I will destroy you, hateful criminal! I will bury you and your kind! Cut you from the sight of Rome and burn your very ashes!'  "A stillness overcame the scene as Catiline halted his steps and turned again to face Cicero. Moving slowly back to the consul he spoke from a heart which drew from life long memories, from comparisons between the old friends, from the landscape of where the two built the enigma of their lives. "Jealousy will be your undoing, my friend."  "I of you? Nonsense!" he reported briskly. "What have you, Catiline? You have the mob. You have powerful enemies. You have a life that seethes with danger. You have nothing but yourself!'  "Catiline smiled proudly saying, "All it takes to kill that jealousy of yours is to admit you will never have what I hold here." He balled his fist at his chest. "You do not hate me, Cicero. You admire me!'  "People began voicing their separate sides. Hands longing to touch Catiline's robe engulfed him as he stepped from the senate stairs onto the street. The rich stood aside in bitter silence though Catiline paid them no mind. He continued walking away in awe over the emotions which burned at his soul, stopping only to acknowledge his supporters. A woman carrying an infant rushed to his side. "Cicero denounces the voice of the assembly!" she cried. "He offers Rome a law forcing the poor out of the city! What manner of beast is this Cicero?'  "He took the hand of the woman who wept within her child's embrace and looking back up at Cicero he sadly commented, "Here was my friend, my enemy."  "Inside the senate Caesar sat among many senators listening to a fellow senator refuting a law presently on the floor of the assembly. Those senators around him half listened and half gossiped about what was to be in October. They spoke not to Caesar because he knew all too well what October would bring and if asked, only gave a wry smile and shrugged. The scribe delivered the note, bowed then left. Caesar read it, looked toward the senate entrance then buried the note deep in his toga. Sitting back with an ear to those speaking he watched Cicero storm into the senate. The manner of which the consul hugged his outer robes tightly to his body amused Julius. He read Cicero well all his life. The consul had angry thoughts annoying his mind. It showed even more when he dropped into his seat and froze his eyes at the entrance doors. Then Cicero turned to Cato who sat loyally at the consul's side. Pitching his body at the senator, Cicero hides a whisper behind a bony hand. They feel into a discussion. Cato flushed and looked up - looked squarely at Caesar!  "Suddenly from across the hall Cato cried out, "Caesar! You are a traitor!" Caesar and those around him looked up. The others appeared shocked by Cato's accusation but Julius Caesar, cleverer than the lot of them, merely watched Cato with dull surprise.  "Cato rose from Cicero's side and walked briskly across the senate floor to stand eventually before Caesar. "There is an army forming against Rome in Etruria. Roman law strictly forbids armed troops on the peninsula of Italy." All the senate drew their attention to Cato. He spoke from an open wound in Rome at the time. Everyone watched and waited to see what this rebel army was up to. They wanted to know who, besides Catiline stood behind it. So Cato's words had caused all ears to fall on his bellowing words. "Its general is that villain, Catiline! You, Gaius Julius Caesar, financed this venture of treason! Did you not?" Caesar answered not. He thought silence the better weapon at the moment. It served him well just the same. Some senators began thinking about how powerful this senator really was while others wondered of his possible wealth to finance an entire army. "Are you not Catiline's co-conspirator or is he your general doing the dirty work for you?'  "From beside Caesar a senator named Silanus, who hated Cato, spoke loudly, "Cato, if you have proof of this, present it to us. Treason is a heavy charge."  "Cato swung his fat little body right up to Caesar. Pointing to Caesar's toga he cried, "That note, gentlemen. The note he now holds in his garments will convict this senator of the people of his alliance with Catiline. Show us that note!'  "Caesar reached into his toga and pulled out a note. He held it so all could see it. With a slight smile he said, "This note?" Then he pretended hesitation. Cato rushed for it but Caesar waved it from him.  "Give me that note just handed to you!" Cato tried for it again.  "Caesar popped his eyes and shook his handsome head. "Cato, you do not want to read this note I assure you, Senator."  "Cato tasted early victory. He turned to Cicero. "You see! What I say is true! This man is an enemy of Rome!'  "Cicero, from his throne dryly announced, "Cato should read it. Caesar, give it to Cato or action will be taken against you."  "Caesar stood up directly in front of Cato. Looking him squarely in the face he remarked so all could hear, "Cato should not be so curious. But if it favors the senate..." He handed over the note.  "Cato eagerly opened it as he headed back toward Cicero. Suddenly, upon reading it, he stopped dead in the center of the floor of the senate. Cato's face burned red as he felt a hundred eyes studying his every motion and guessing his thoughts. Angrily he looked back at Caesar who stood casually with a wide smile.  "Silanus called out, "Read it aloud, Cato. Read it before you return to your seat. Read it to us from the floor of this noble assembly; least we suspect you switch it for a false one. Not that you would." His last comment brought whispered laughs across the senate.  "Cato turned from Caesar. "I was wrong." His voice cracked in the admittance. "It is nothing at all."  "Cicero rose from his chair. He knew the note was handed to Caesar by Cato's testimony and agreed with Cato that it was from Catiline. Why else would a scribe deliver it? Why else was Catiline at the senate?  'Cato?" Cicero called. But Cato merely shook his head in warning. This did not satisfy the consul. "Caesar, what does the message read?'  "Caesar shrugged, "Nothing, consul. Nothing at all."  "Rising and moving swiftly to Cato, Silanus grabbed the note from his chubby fingers. Quietly Silanus read it as Cato rushed to Cicero's side begging him not to have it read aloud. But too late. With a wild smile, Silanus announced to the senate, "Dear senators, I can not dare to read this for it is a love letter from Cato's married sister to our amorous senator Julius Caesar."  "Caesar sat back down while all but Cicero and Cato enjoyed a belly laugh.  "Late that same afternoon Catiline and Caesar met at the house of Cethegus. Cethegus played as a lame duck consulate in Rome at the time. He supported Catiline's rebellion because he figured once Catiline took the reigns Cethegus would be needed to singularly run the state because Catiline did not truly come across as a king. His only opponent would be Caesar but Cethegus believed Caesar desired behind the scene activity rather than the chancy visible position as ruler.  "This is a dangerous meet," Julius said as he entered and glanced for signs of spies. "You are too risky, Catiline!" Caesar pretended more anger than he felt. An admiration actually played on his own mischievous soul. "What if your note came to light today?'  "Catiline's mind took seriously his old friend's comment yet his affections for Helen painted all other things as mere routine. "I heard of Cato's accusation. Did I worry? I knew you'd have many such notes on you at the time. Tell me, Julius, do the senators hand deliver love notes from their wives to you?" This broke everyone's mood with laughter before heavier talk insisted them onward.  "Cethegus offered wine and fruit as they settled into large couches in his parlor. Catiline held a large piece of fruit and requested wine while his memory jogged to Helen. "I met the most exciting of women today at a fruit stand," he remarked as the others looked oddly at Catiline. The rebel seldom spoke of women. Never in such an exciting tone.  "A great discovery!" Caesar popped his brow. "Women are enchanting things."  "Leave the topic alone." Cethegus pursed his lips and pushed the issues at hand. "What are we to do with Catiline's army?'  "Caesar shrugged. "What? All Rome knows he is in Etruria. They have their spies. Catiline has his. We all have to wait for October. Then?'  "Catiline took his clue. "I care little for violence against Rome. My army will escort me to the polls as a show of force only. Once the people see they have a clear choice; that the powers in Rome can not command their vote, they will vote freely. They will vote for me!'  "The two thought on this. Cethegus replied, "And if the vote does not go with you?'  "It will. The people long for a change. Who can suffer this Cicero and his kind any longer?'  "I think Cethegus has a point, Lucius. What if, by chance, you fail?' Caesar asked.  "I can not fail." He insisted. "But if I do.." he hesitated, "I will challenge Rome."  "Neither Cethegus or Caesar cared for his answer. The sole purpose of Catiline's army was to encourage the people to vote as they wished. Rome needed no blood shed, especially drawn from fellow Romans! If blood had to flow, let it happen on the Fields of Mars or in Etruria. If the Roman consulship had to be decided by arms then let it occur outside the city away from all that the people had labored to build.  These thoughts filled their heads when Catiline changed the subject to what his mind toyed with. "Which nobleman allows his slave to wear perfume?'  "The two looked from Catiline to each other then back again. They were awe struck to think he could bring in such a topic. Caesar found it a bit amusing, however, and replied, "Few."  "A lovely slave girl named Helen."  "Both Caesar and Cethegus remarked together, "Helen!'  "Yes, do you know her?'  "Lucius," Caesar groaned and moved forward from his seat. "That is Terentia's slave. She is of the house of Cicero!'  "Catiline dropped his wine without the slightest acknowledgement to the act. He felt stabbed through the heart. He felt spied upon."      "It's out of the question," Cicero roared as he turned from Helen's blushing face. Terentia ran to Helen's side. She embraced the saddened and worried creature. "You are unkind," she bawled at her husband. "The girl has a right to purchase her freedom!'  "Cicero, though head administrator of Rome, was no battle for Terentia. Yet he fought gallantly. "She is too valuable to let go!" He pleaded and demanded at the same time. "She is also too young for marriage'.  "Marcus, she is seventeen. Let her go."  "I will not!'  "Then I will." Terentia turned and headed straight for her desk. "I purchased her, I will sell her."  "Cicero's face corded and an angry fire burned inside his skull. He rushed to his wife's side. Taking her arm from the desk draw he pulled her away. "How dare you!" She slapped him square on the jaw while Helen turned from the scene. "Consider her sold," Terentia panted, hesitated then rattled on as she withdrew the family inventory book, "Touch me, will you! Perhaps you do not want her to go because you..." She held her words for a moment but only out of respect for Helen. Then suddenly she didn't care as her voice fell into a harsh whisper. "You lust for this maiden and you shall pay dearly for this weakness, my husband. Your love belongs to me. I will take what is mine. If not now, when you set her free! You may be a great lawyer and politician but I have resources more powerful than those of a mere man!" She was thumbing through her inventory book seeking out Helen's name. Still she raged with tears the likeness of gossamer webbing across her eyes, "You have always wanted that which is not yours! Always pressured the innocent into submission to your undeserving appetites! But not forever, Marcus! My day will come!'  "Finding Helen's name in her book she looked angrily up at Cicero who cowered from her sharp gaze. "How much?'  "You decide." Cicero meekly waved the question off. Then making a quick turn around he added, "No. It depends on the wealth of her new owner." They turned to have Helen draw nearer.  "Who are we losing the best maiden we ever had to, dear," Terentia asked sweetly, victoriously.  "Helen did not know how to answer. Lowering her head she mumbled his name. Cicero swore he heard it correctly but would not believe it as Terentia asked for her to speak up. Uncertainty wrapped its comforting arms around him and he refused to believe his ears. He ordered the fire of his fury to lodge itself in his skin and not erupt. It thickened his exterior against such an insult but he heard her say again, "Lucius Sergius Catiline."  "Cicero stood stricken and dismayed. Terentia mentally hurried secret schemes weaved to protect Helen from a wrath sure to engulf her. Cicero's face cringed and began to explode when Terentia grabbed Helen and pulled her into an adjoining room. Looking back at her husband, she drew up her hand to keep him away. "I will find out what this is all about."  "His eyes fired back at her, his fists balled. "Do as you say, woman!" he warned. Anger marked his eyes red. He bared his teeth. "You who have touched the dark robe of magic had better tug at it now, woman! For I will not tolerate treason under my roof!"  "In the privacy of Helen's bedroom she told Terentia everything. How she first saw Catiline then met him twice. How she felt and how his image filled her every thought and dream. Terentia was no fool. She had a loving heart which understood, but which also understood the deceiving lies of a villain. Without saying so she wondered if Catiline was using Helen to gain information about his deadly enemy - Cicero.  "We must give this matter time, Helen." Terentia tried to console the girl. "Your master can not allow you to go to a man who may shortly be a criminal of the state."  "I know nothing of politics. I only know that I love the man." ""You know nothing of men, either, little one." The consulate's wife lectured. "Men are but animals which talk. They are dogs with hands and clever words. They are rats writ large." "I know nothing of men. I only know that I love this man."  "Granted." Terentia proposed, "For now, sit it out. I'm sure something will happen. The gods are on the side of true love. I'm pretty sure of that."  "In her bedroom that same evening Helen discounted Terentia's advice and came to grips with her dilemma. She had done enough weeping into the cool, stale Roman air and decided on a course of action for herself. Dressed in woolen night clothes she leaned close to the singular window of her room. A night patrol marched by under her window as a cat cried stirring a young centurion. He jumped away from the house of Cicero. Down a dirty brick street she could hear the exciting and musical sounds of an orgy. People having fun in the distance. A tan colored dog ran out from the narrow street. It tossed its head about then looked surprisingly up at her. Swiftly the critter dashed away into the night. As if the solution to her problem needed no formulation in her mind, she casually dressed into street clothes and left the house of Cicero forever.  "Orcus stepped into the tent in order to wake Catiline from a deep sleep. Without candle light Catiline's tent seemed like an endless vault covered over with a shroud. "Lucius, I need to speak with you." Orcus roused his general and friend.  "Orcus?" Catiline asked into the dark face before him.  "It is I. Would your night guard allow anyone besides Titus or me?'  "What is it, my friend?" Catiline wrung the sleep from his eyes as he gathered up a lantern.  "We have a visitor."  "Who? From Rome?" He was half hopeful it would be a messenger with good news. A messenger he prayed for since first he took up his stand in Etruria. One who would come in the night and bring news of compromise or understanding from a misunderstanding Senate.  "A slave girl," Orcus replied drawing interest from Catiline. "She calls herself Helen. She claims you know her."  "That is true." Catiline instantly fell into remorse. He refused the lantern of its light. "Send her away, Orcus." He dashed the lantern and returned to his bunk with no other comment.  "Orcus thought this odd. "Is she a whore?" But Catiline did not reply. He could not bare to perceive Helen as a whore. It struck him beyond reason to discover her as a spy. Orcus mused a second, "May I give her to the men?'  "Instantly Catiline was upon his friend. He balled his large fist within the younger man's clothing. Heaving Orcus across the tent he stammered, "No! She is no whore! Send her away!" Orcus did as he was told.  "Orcus thought over the situation carefully before notifying Catiline that his orders were carried out. Helen did not leave without force. The slave wept, struggled and needed an escort to return to Rome. Orcus desired to know more about the beautiful slave and her connection with his general. But he wondered just how tender the subject was. Entering Catiline's tent, he discovered the fierce and mighty rebel sobbing upon his bunk. Catiline did not see Orcus at first. His hands covered his toiled face as tears ran through his fingers.  "Lucius," Orcus softly alerted him. Catiline looked up. Full of disappointment and embarrassment, the bigger man waved Orcus off. Yet the young man came to his friend's side. "What pains you, my dearest friend?'  "Catiline merely shook his head but Orcus pried further with no results. Changing his attack, Orcus slid to the floor beside Catiline. Purposely he leaned against Catiline's leg. "The elections are but eight days off," he whispered. "I've often wondered if these will be my last days."  "Nonsense!" Catiline peered down at him.  "Orcus went on as if Catiline made no comment. "I think mostly of my father. If I die without honor would he cherish the honor I believe I carry in my heart. Or will he unearth my body and leave it for vultures to feast upon? I think of Rome also." He glanced to see that he had Catiline's undivided attention. "I wonder if we fail will another come to her rescue. Gaius Julius Caesar perhaps." Catiline appeared to agree with the thought. "I wonder sometimes why you are the people's champion now and not Caesar. I conclude that you must be more the man. The one the gods appointed for this dreadful task. You are not alone in this struggle. You are simply the only man big enough to wrestle with this demon." Orcus again checked his general's reaction. He saw none and decided to be coy. "Mostly though I think I will miss not having a wife. Of dying before I can contribute children to the most glorious city mankind ever created. Dying before I could realize the intimate and profound beauty of being in love. For I've heard it said that life has no meaning without love and death can not rob it from a man's heart."  "She is a spy," Catiline flatly stated. "Yes, Orcus, I love her with a love that tears at my very being. It reaches in and rips out my heart. The emotion attacks me. I fear it could defeat me; the only enemy which could. Still, she is a spy." "Four guards and two slaves dragged Helen from the encampment. They needed to tie her to an ox cart to prevent her return. Only after she passed out in a pool of tears did the party gain any peace.  For several miles and into day break only the whinny of the horses, the breathing of an ox and the struggle of wooden wheels along muddy roads disturbed the peace. "She awoke from the wobble of the cart. Before her, lying asleep in a bed of straw were the two slaves. Bundled within woolen garments, they seemed unaffected by the jarring of the cart over a rocky path. There rode a formal looking guard atop gray horses on either side of the cart and one ahead, one to their rear. It all came back to her as she recognized their uniform as that of Catiline's army.  Without pause or warning she began to bellow again.  It woke the slaves in a fit and turned all heads.  The guard to her left, who had been dozing just a bit cried out for her to be silent.  One of the slaves also barked at her. "Take me back to Catiline, I beg of you.  Please." She pleaded but only to the thin autumn air. Her hands were numb from the ropes, still she begged. Endlessly for three days and two nights.  Finally, they unloaded their cargo before a house made of wood and round stone. Rome lied only an hour away along the road they dropped her. "Here?" one of the guards questioned the choice of their leader. "Yes," he instructed. "Something tells me this is a kind act on our part.  Besides, none of us desires to show our faces in Rome &ldots; yet." "The two slaves undid her bondage.  They needed to wrestle her from the cart as she fought and pleaded with them. The slaves remained on top of the cart while a guard placed himself and his horse between Helen and the cart. "Be gone with you, slave girl."  He hollered and drove his steed into her.  She fell hard. "Rome is just ahead. Go back home." "They left her there in the muddy road toward Rome. "She cried with what strength remained. She did not even notice the hands which gathered her up and escorted her into the house. Still sobbing, filled with utter despair, she was placed before a fire.  A girl about her age in colorful grab began to bandage and oil her wrists. "You have a name, slave girl?" the girl investigated both her and the damage to her wrists. "You're very cold, slave girl." "Helen." "The girl tossed blankets around Helen's shoulders then returned to fixing the bandages. "Good name, Helen. That's Grecian, you know, slave girl. Very ancient and honorable name for a slave girl. Who is your master? She tried to distract her patient from her wounds, from her fatigue.  But Helen did not want to answer that question. She only wanted to absorb the heat and then figure a way back to Catiline. "Madam Oracle is Grecian too. Perhaps you know her?  She once lived in Delphi. High on a mountain top over looking a blue sea." "I never heard of her."  Helen replied weakly and with very little interest. The girl began rubbing Helen's hands to get back circulation. "You a gypsy?" Helen asked but their conversation ended there. "Amorette, go fetch warm milk for her," another, older woman's voice entered the room.  The girl moved so quickly she seemed to have vanished from Helen's side. The older woman came right upon Helen. She embraced her, studied her bandages, adjusted them and tucked her blanket. "You are from Athens, are you not?"  Helen had only the strength to nod. "Humm," the woman who dressed much like Amorette appeared to approve. "Athenians have such lovely faces and a tone of skin not seen anywhere else." "Where am I?"  Helen finally said.  She leaned into the woman and started again to weep. "I am Clehorrah," the woman stated flatly. "This is my home. You are outside Roma along the northern passage.  You are safe, for a time, here." "Gypsy?" Helen again suspected their race from their clothing.  "I am a Sibylline oracle," Clehorrah made it clear. "My kin descend from a lost tribe of Israel. I am a priestess."  She turned Helen so the fire's heat reached her right side. "You are here for a reason, child. Maybe several reasons. And the first is to gain back your strength."  With these words Helen fell asleep in Chehorrah's arms. "When she awoke her body felt strong. She sat right up and remembered she had been in the house of a Sibylline Oracle. It was night, perhaps very early morning. She rose from a straw bed and looked around. Right off she realized she was in a wildly colored and short, but sprouting dress. She felt her garments and a hair scarf as well. She must have looked like a gypsy! With only the light from a few glowing embers, she stepped about the fireplace to look at herself. Yes, she looked like Amorette.  They were probably the girl's clothes. Beyond herself, she found she stood in a different room of the wooden and stone house.  Clehorrah's house.  A room made just for a bed, a cabinet and a chair. Like a servant's quarters.  Then she heard Amorette snore from under the bed.  She peered into the dark shadows and made out the girl's outline.  Helen smiled then left the room. "Her intention was plain: to return to Catiline. By now it would be likely that Catiline was already marching south. That would make her journey shorter. Helen stumbled, though quietly, through the house until she came to the room which led to a foyer of sorts and to the night pitched outside.  Then she heard a voice.  It was Chehorrah's coming from a room off to her right. Helen cocked an ear and spied in the direction of the oracle's voice. She could not understand what was being said and moved toward the doorway. "Inside the room Clehorrah sat before a glass perched atop a tripod.  Below that was a small flame.  The oracle appeared captured by the reflections the flame spun within the glass. Helen peered into the glass as well from where she hid at the doorway.  She had heard of these things.  Romans, fact is all people were very superstitious. The rich and powerful would appoint and make appointments with seers, oracles, magicians and priests with ancient talents to foretell the future and resolve the problems of the past.  The poor had their bone and palm readers. Some people even looked to the night sky for answers. Cicero and Terentia also consulted such people and Helen sometimes accompanied them. But she had never seen this form of magic.  Cards, stars, bones, hand holding, leaves, but never a glass sparkling like mad and floating like a sunburst in the middle of a table. Clehorrah whispered a term or two in a language Helen did not understand. Then the oracle leaned close to the glass.  She stared into it as did Helen. "Suddenly Helen gasped, which alerted Clehorrah and made her sit up and take notice of her spy. "I see myself!"  Helen jolted back but kept her eyes glued to the glass. She was awe stricken and moved right up to the images she saw in the glass. "Clehorrah placed her hand over the glass, blocking the view.  Helen gently removed the woman's hand. "Please, let me see."  "You should not, Helen."  The oracle also did not return her hand. She paused to observe the girl who knelt aside the table and watched her image on the glass. She watched the amazement in Helen's face, she saw the drama reflected off her eyes. Finally, she spoke, "Who is that man?" she asked. "My love," Helen stated without looking away. "He is so hurt.  I must go to him." "The oracle knew better.  She had been at the glass much longer. She had seen the riders approaching.  They were only minutes away now. "Touch the glass," the oracle finally instructed. Helen went for it as if it would magically send her to her man. It did not, yet it did change the scene.  They watched as Catiline, who was just standing within the flap of  a tent now turned and looked up and out from the glass. His eyes blinked and his body shifted as if he could actually see Helen. She moved closer and called to him.  He turned as if he heard. "Call to him again, Helen," she did as told. "Again." She cried out to him. "Then the house rattled with the forced entry of guards with torches, swords drawn and shields high. Amorette had dashed upon the scene with a weapon of her own. She was quickly disarmed and one of the men ordered, "Remove these two."  They were carried deeper into the house.  Amorette struggling and screaming; Clehorrah knew exactly what was taking place. "Helen was held upright against the door jamb where she first looked into the  room with the magical glass. Two men braced her against the wall as others entered followed by none other than Cicero himself. Helen was shocked, dismayed and terrified. Then without any fanfare, without indication, Cicero drew a blade and repeatedly struck at Helen.  He bellowed over and over about the insult she had leveled upon him. Then, as she fell dead, he threw the knife into her torn carcass and hung his head. He stated bluntly, "If I can not have you, you can not be had."  "So, doctor," Mr. Shaw drew away from the horrible scene. "Do you recall how this story ends?"  "According to history, Catiline lost the election," I replied. "Soon after, Cicero arrested Cethegus and others. He had them put to death for treason, as I remember my history. And eventually defeated Catiline's army. Killing Catiline in battle."  Shaw moved to the edge of his chair, his eyes locked on mine. "And not one of the 20,000 rebels deserted," Mr. Shaw remarked as he stood to leave. "No one deserted Catiline's cause. Not Cethegus or Caesar, and Helen went to her grave loving him totally."             Coreen meets her doom. "He's quite a story-teller, that Hunter, man of mine." "A liar?" "Might be too, but I mean&ldots; well, a favorite 'round these parts is his 'Two Brothers and a Sister' story. The wind had settled down and the girls knew they were in for long wait, perhaps all in vain, so Coreen told the tale. A queen once gave birth to a princess and 2 brothers who could never die. When the time came for her life to end, the brothers came together with their sister and said, "Let us eat our mother so that she may become one with us and live forever." But the sister did not want to devour her mother. "I will not partake of this feast so that, as the new queen, I will be fully myself and, as such, I will have reign over all of you." The brothers thought this right, that a queen should have sway over all she rules. They agreed and devoured their mother the queen. When they digested their mother her royal power had been divided equally among the two brothers. Thus the sister had single domain over two brothers and two parts of her mother. Then a day came when the voice of the queen mother instructed her sons to rise up in rebellion of their sister. Each brother feared such a battle against their powerful sister, but together they felt strong and moved against her. The sister, seeing the rebellion, ran into the swamps and there she had to face a big, hungry gator. It came at her to eat her when she stalled their attack by saying, "Gator, if you make me part of you, you will have all of my power, the power of one small woman. My bothers have devoured my mother the queen and now have her power added twofold between them. They now possess enough power to attack and upsurge their sister, the new queen. Would it not be far better to devour my brothers and my mother and gain the power of two brothers and two parts of the queen?" The gator thought this a super idea and laid in waiting for the rebellious brothers to arrive and attack their sister. When the brothers arrived, the gator attacked and devoured the brothers. Just as the animal had finished, the sister caught and bound it. Placing a snarl around its neck, the sister, commanded the gator's obedience or its death. Having now the power of two brothers and the queen all inside the single belly of the giant gator, the sister then controlled all of them. "And that's the Two Brothers and a Sister story," Coreen finishes. Patty shrugs and appears perplexed. "Is that a 'gator' story or does it have a moral to it?" Coreen smiles back and offers Patty a giggle. Apparently Hunter had been in that position with others before when telling his story, Coreen simply imitates her lover and says, "To satisfy your own appetites, keep everyone else even hungrier." This takes Patty aback. "Horrible little tale, that's a story for Celtic and John," she comments. "Not something you'd think you'd hear from simply folk - no offense. That's a tale of cunning, if I ever heard one." "Really?" "Really." "Might be," Coreen replies. "But sure comes in handy when a gator is coming at you and your pistol's jammed. Distract it with bigger, better food." Patty suddenly gets it. The laws of Wall Street are nothing less than those mankind has brought along since the beginning of time. The best creative accounting can be found right here in the swamps, if you know where to look. Patty and Coreen both are taken by a change in scenery, the movement of water parting. The boat softly lunges as a wave crests below it. Without even looking, they realize a drama taking place. What is beginning to take place is silently happening behind them, out of sight, several yards from the boat yet they are captured by it. It draws their attention and turns them around. Suddenly everything stands still, a pause in the song of life. Everything goes quiet. The ladies are locked into a spectacle rising from the swamp water, a white alligator's head. Sinister and with clear determination, slowly a monster emerges as muddy water cascades veil-like from its immense jaws. The size of it no smaller than the boat. It shocks the women, especially a seasoned hunter like Coreen. They glance at each other, confirming their amazement. Then everything drops into silence and slow motion. A change in tempo.  There comes a dreadful and striking creek from the boat as it pitches against the waves formed by the white alligator. One creek then the moment is gone in less time than you can shout, "boo!" Coreen falls prey to the spell. She is mesmerized by the head as it breaks water with a prolonged brassy sound. A dragon fly passes by her ear, it whispers long and fading violin strokes which die when the white head rises above the swamp. A thousand droplets strike hard the water's surface like a beaten parlor grand piano as they fall from its jaws. Coreen realizes her fate, she succumbs to its demanding pull. Beast or deliverance, it doesn't matter; she's going home. To him. Finally. The jaws open. Here is her destiny. Now she will be healed! Patty screamed but Coreen heard only a choir, a crescendo of human song. A song of glorification, of benediction. Coreen steps to the airboat's side. She kneels to the widening jaws. Peering into the belly of the beast; she is going home. Joining the choir, the boat's prop rips at the thick air. Lost in the warped and sluggish drag of time it turns ever so slowly, it adds the base drum and the rhythm to the happening. It brought an image to the scene just as Coreen brings her feet to the fully opened mouth. The drum, drum, drum of her mom's heartbeat. The choir is her mother crying out loud and begging Corie to kill her. End her misery! But that ghost does not matter anymore. Now she is going home to face her mom. To say her piece and show her pride. The choir rises to a wild pitch as bone crushing teeth decide her impending doom. The monster pulls its head straight up with Coreen buried chest deep in its mouth. She is upright and looks for the last time upon Patty who is terrified. Coreen wants to rush to her, ease her fright. There's nothing to be concerned about. This is what I am all about, this is who I am. Hunter has her in his arms, he holds the mirror to her breast. She is filled with him. "The mirror is your fate," she hears his words as lyrics. "Forever is your name." He takes her in his hands, a bouquet of wild and colorful flowers. Bringing her tightly to his mouth, he pours his soul into her. She opens her heart, her spirit, her life and pulls him in. He is the healer of crushed bone and torn flesh. And he is everywhere! The turning prop speeds up quickening the drum's tempo, the crushing jaws squeeze all her blood into her head. Jaws crush bone with over a thousand pounds per square inch; no other reptile can match that bit. Her ears loudly screech the sound of a dozen lead guitars. Her eyes miss nothing. Everything is twisting, turning, dashing from side to side. She stretches out her arms, tosses back her head. She is the monster's partner in a dance to the death. It opens wide and swallows her enough to close its jaws. In time for Coreen to watch water fill the cavity she is imprisoned within. In enough time for her to cry aloud, "Forever is my name!" Blood pours from the animal's broken smile. Its eyes capture Patty's, The green gaze reports the finality of a decision, a reward given away not by nature or hunger, but by a lover; Hunter's lover. The monster vanishes beneath the brown swamp water. Time resumes its pace, nothing can be heard but frogs and Patty's terrible heart beat. Patty is frozen. Now hiding childlike under the pilot chair, she is shivering. When the animal vanishes into the brown water its tail turns large waves which wildly toss the boat to and fro. She clings for life but fears the boat will capsize. Her single thought is escape. Judging the jumping distance to reach Tripod key, she wastes no time. If the creature reappears she doesn't want to be on the boat. Springing up, she makes a lurch for the sand and mangrove roots. The boat betrays her efforts as it absorbs most of her jump and she lands feet first in quicksand. Grabbing for anything that will hold her, she pulls hard to stop her sinking. She cannot hoist herself up any farther; her body is weak from fright. A crashing sound makes her start and turn. The gator has set itself on the boat.  Its paws slamming at the deck, its head yanking back while it has the pilot chair firmly locked in its teeth. Coreen's blood paints the brown waters red. It splashes all over and onto Patty. She wrecklessly twists and turns to get to solid ground, it does no good. Her eyes never leave the scene of the giant gator pulling the boat under water. Still she struggles and struggles. The boat goes under and the gator again is out of sight, still she suspects the worse and struggles more. She is not going anywhere. Then it surfaced again. Just its head, big as the boat it just conquered. It swims toward her. Patty began to scream again, her throat blistered and in pain yet working double duty. She fights fatigue and pulls for dear life. The thing does not hesitate. It comes straight at her. Time does not slow, Patty does not go off into a vision of her past life or see any white light at the end of a tunnel. All she sees is a gator coming right at her. It is upon her in an instant. She prepares to fight it head on, as feeble a thought that is, she will not die easy like Coreen did. When she could feel its breath and clearly see the endless wrinkles across its snout, she let go of the roots around her. She could not escape, so she would fall into the sand or the mouth while punching any flesh within reach. In complete awe, and confusion, she is lifted out of the quicksand. The gator dives at her side and places its snout firmly to her rump then throws her from the sand. She sails right onto firm property. Not one to question its motive, Patty scurries further from the shore line. But the demon again submerges into the swamp water. It is finished with her. She screams involuntarily when a voice comes out of nowhere. "Fate can be so ugly for such a beautiful designer of destinies." She pitches hard away from the voice, scared stiff. "Who are you?" A women is grouched right beside her. A women odd and never before seen by Patty. Draped in layers of clothing, she wears the warmest of smiles. A startling  and out of place sight! "My name's Catherine, my dear," she says. She places gloved hands to Patty's brow. Extracting a handkerchief, she works it across Patty's face. "You will not remember when last we met. You knew me as Amorette then." Patty is too stunned and falling quickly into shock to retain anything the Oracle is telling her, or to fully realize if the strange woman is even there talking and comforting her. "Amorette," is all Patty says. Catherine steadies the woman. She reclines her amid a patch of over grown mangrove leaves and some cattails. "Julius &ldots; Fuller &ldots; Tammer has completed his role here, today. Time to get on with your destiny." She speaks quietly, perhaps only to herself. "Mighty souls always meet fate with resolution. And fate just gobbles that up." Patty is not exactly coherent, but Catherine's words strike a chord of fear. "God, no!" She gasps, "It ate her. It swallowed her like it did Mr. Ferris!" She began to fight against Catherine. To move her aside and run from Tripod Key. "Now, child, sit back, you're safe here." Patty can not fight any longer. She collapses, begins to drift into unconsciousness. "Just do yourself and Tanu a favor, end your role in this Love Chase." Patty is not grasping the meaning of the words she thinks she hears. Catherine pulls off a wrap. She folds it and places it behind Patty's head. "You must promise me you will forgive John. The Chase ends when you forgive John." Loosening Patty's blood soaked and sand covered clothes, she adds, "Forgive your brother Karut. Then Hunter is all yours. Promise me, child?" Patty hears her, is staring right into her eyes, still she is not sure what is being said. She nods her head. When, from out of nowhere something large slams into her face, blinds her and knocks her into the roots. She is only semi-conscious and what she sees makes no sense. A lion has a large snake in its mouth. The animal is facing away from Patty. One paw holds the snake's tail to the ground, the other crushing its head. The lion then draws up its own head and chews down hard, ripping the snake in half. Patty just passes out cold. Joe Pegasus ART Return To Love Chase copyright, 2005, Joe Auricchio