Three thirteen and eleven seconds. The door behind him opens and people come in. Yes, certainly more than one, probably more than five. He thought about how blind people could tell a lot about what’s going on from the sound. The click of a switch started a buzz and a flickering light came from behind him. Then the sound of... kind of a wahffing and tiny rumble... like an x-ray being put on one of those light back things, that was it. Then voices, young, male and female, some nervous. "My God" "Whoa" "incredible" and other interjections.
Then a steady voice. "We have here a victim of hanging," it said to the others, "notice the displacement of cee four five and six. The patient manifests quad lateral paralysis while respiration and circulation seem to be functioning normally."
"The patient would like something to eat." William blurted out.
The other voice answered while moving around the bed into his field of vision. "It seems that your gastric system is not fully functional."
William could now see that the speaker was a doctor. "Can you repeat that in English Doc." He complained.
A voice behind him questioned. "Not fully, is there partial digestion?"
The doctor continued teaching as if the patient wasn’t there. "From the MRI it appears that the stomach is working but the intestine is not functioning. What problems can we expect?" He paused glancing around then selected his victim, "Lewis."
Lewis, came back with a quick question. "Is there food in the system?"
Smiling the doctor responded. "The proverbial last meal."
Lewis said. "Then first the remnants of that meal must be evacuated, then the stomach should be disabled or the acid will be dangerous."
"And how will this evacuation be accomplished?" The doctor continued.
"Gravity?" Lewis guessed.
The doctor chuckled. "Lewis, you are always so entertaining. I guess we could hang him by his legs until it drained out. Which brings us to the immediate problem. We have here a man that is strapped to a back board. Keeping the neck immobile may be keeping him alive. Notice on the X-ray, if the vertebra move it could complete the execution."
Another voice from behind asked. "Will the vertebra fuse in this position? In which case the backboard may be removed in nine to twelve weeks."
"Yes," the doctor responded, "or we could surgically adjust the spine to stabilize the patient."
"With what prognosis?" asked yet another voice.
"We can almost certainly maintain the patient's current condition." responded the doctor.
Three sixteen and twenty six seconds, William was amazed how easily he had began to ignore the conversation and focus on the clock. These words were not intended for him so he just forgot about them. Very uncharacteristic for him to let that slide. Again out of nowhere, a rancid burp arrived in his mouth. He cleared his throat and asked. "How ‘bout some Tums?"
The doctor feigned a little clapping of his hands. "The patient has discovered the digestive dilemma on his own." He glanced around again. "Martin, what is the answer to the patient's question?"
Another voice, a girl, said. "Wouldn’t hurt, won’t help, best to pump the stomach and let it shut down on its own."
"Good," the doctor replied lifting a clipboard and writing rapidly across the page. "Lets order a stomach pump and prep him for surgery first thing tomorrow. You will all be expected in the gallery in the morning."
William spoke again. "Can someone contact my next of kin?" he asked.
"I’ll have a clergyman stop by." The doctor replied sweeping out of the room with his flock of students in his wake.
William hadn’t thought about what becomes of a last meal, he guessed most people hadn’t. Now that he was still alive he figured that it wasn’t his last, he guessed now that is was. Time crawled along at its usual pace till at six forty one and twenty three seconds the door opened again and a woman walked around into his field of vision. She was well dressed and carried what could have easily been the worlds largest bible under her arm.
"I’m sister Goldstein from the First Apostolic Pentecostal Church of Christ. I was visiting with one of our parishioners this evening and they asked if I could stop in to see you." The lady said.
"Can I pray for you?" she asked.
William was so bored he considered her offer for a minute then replied. "I don’t pray, but could you contact my sister and tell her that I’m here?"
"Of course." The lady replied. "I can call her from this phone right here."
"I don’t know her number, I’m not even sure of her name." William responded. "I only know that when she got out of Bedford Hills Correctional Facility for Women last month she went by the name Judy Jones. I saw it on the news."
"I see," she said, "going to be a little more to this than a phone call."
"She’ll have a probation officer that should know where she is. The hard part will be talking her into seeing me." William responded.
The lady jotted a note on a paper she kept in her bible pages. "I will plead your cause for you, she said, "is there anything I might say to convince her."
William thought, "Tell her I changed my mind. It’s not her fault."
"I’ll see what I can do." the church lady said as she left.
Time ticked on. In the morning, at seven twenty three and forty nine seconds, an orderly came in and rolled him out of the room and down the hall to surgery. He was happy to see the anesthesiologist and he counted backwards to the best rest he’d had since he woke up with a bag over his head.
When the anesthesia wore off he found himself sitting slightly elevated in the recovery room. He could look around a little and there was no clock. A nurse came over and checked his pulse.
"You’ll be back in your room in twenty minutes." she offered.
He only thought, that’s a long time.
Back in his room, facing forward on his bed, he found someone waiting. "Judy," he said, "you came to see me."
"I heard they tried to hang you and screwed it up." Judy responded. "Figure you got some real money coming to ya, I’ll help for a share."
"That’s what I’m talking about. Can you find a good lawyer?" he asked.
"I already got a guy. He figures your good for a couple million," she said, "I want half."
"Lord knows I owe you that." William admitted. "I didn’t know they’d lock you up so long."
"Twenty five years, and not a day off for good behavior." Judy complained. "I was seventeen when I went in, a sniveling kid. Don’t mistake me for a sucker now, I’m tough as nails and twice as hard. You can’t suck me into feeling sorry for you again, and you ain’t gonna get a lick of concern from me."
"I was only twelve when you went away, you didn’t care what happened to me then, I wouldn’t imagine you could care now." William said.
"Maybe I cared more than you remember." Judy corrected. "You killed the old pervert and I took the blame cause you were so young. I knew what ever happened to you couldn’t be as bad as what they did to me."
"You thought," corrected William, "That they’d let you off because he was screwing you."
"Well they didn’t, now here we are twenty five years later, you’re still helpless and I’m still screwed." Judy carried on. "I want a guarantee that I get half, or no lawyer."
"In case you hadn’t noticed, I can’t sign anything." William taunted. "So you’ll need witnesses. and I might buy them off.
Judy grabbed her purse from the window seat and headed for the door.
"Wait," William called after her. "I think we need to work on some new family dynamics. You can have as much as you want. I’ll leave you everything in my will. You see, I don’t intend to live long after I get them back for what they did. There ain’t much to live for."
"Poor baby," Judy taunted, "Just get me some serious money and I’ll kill you myself."
"Would you?" William pleaded.
The Slowest Thing Ever
So here he was, a head on a gurney attached to a body that was of little use. He wondered what he could move. He shifted his glance around, up down and side to side. He closed and reopened his eyes. He licked his lips, puckered his lips, smiled and frowned. He tried to wrinkle his forehead and nose respectively. At once he remembered that this was important. That guy Hawkings, did all kinds of stuff by moving his face.
The doctor returned followed by a medical transport team. They started out trying to put a collar on his neck, but because of the strange angle that his head made to his body they couldn’t make it work. He protested, who did these lunk-heads think they where jerking him around like a hunk of meat.
"Just exactly what do you clowns think your doing?" he asked.
"We have to keep you immobile while we move you to a back board." One of the medics responded.
His indignation unsatisfied, he threatened. "Well get a clue and get me outta here or I’ll add you to the list of people I’m suing."
The other medic offered, "Careful Jim, the big scary killer might drool on you if you don’t treat him nice"
"Good point Phil, lets make sure he’s not HIV positive before we get our hands too close to his mouth." Jim responded.
"I’m not someone you guys want to mess with." The hanged man challenged.
Phil observed. "Must be weird for a lifelong tough guy and bully to be reduced to a helpless lump.
Pulling back into his own thoughts, knowing that these jerk-off corpsman didn’t have a clue, He again sought comfort in thinking about that Hawkings guy. He could run mental rings around these medics and he’d make them pay. First thing, find a greedy lawyer. Non of those public defender types that he’d been working with for the last fifteen years, but a real slickster. Then get the best specialists money can buy, next get him an army of henchmen and handmaids and housekeepers. A burp found itself in his mouth without warning and it tasted nasty. Maybe he should get the medical attention first. Damn, he always liked making lists of what he had to get done and cross things off and add things as he went.
The ambulance team finally got him moved onto the backboard and transferred over to their own stretcher. They where getting ready to roll him out when the doctor came over with a clipboard for them to sign. "He’s all yours," he said, "and may you never have a moments luck with him."
Jim looked over the form on the clipboard and scribbled across the bottom. "Hey Phil!" he joked, "we got us a celebrity here. This is William Groen."
"Never heard of him." Phil admitted.
"Oh, he’s a real prince of a guy. He spent four months raping a seven year old kid to death." Jim informed.
Phil puzzled. "I think I would’ve heard of that."
Jim pointed out. "It was along time ago. The only reason I remember is because when it was in the news, my wife didn’t want to name our kid after my dad because his name was William."
"Billy?" Phil questioned, "Isn’t he like fifteen by now?"
"Yeah, fifteen years ago. What a piece of shit." Jim referred to the man they were rolling out to their ambulance.
William almost said something, then remembered that these jokers weren’t worth the sweat off his... upper lip. Again he remembered that he wouldn’t know if he was sweating anywhere below his chin. God, they hadn’t covered any distance at all. They were still in the corridor outside the infirmary. He wondered if he could sleep. He closed his eyes, but thoughts just bounced around inside his head. Mostly emotional stuff. He was mad, then he felt sorry for himself. Then he worried what the medical tests would find out, and then he was mad at everything he could think of again. He found comfort in hating everyone, he’d felt that way most of his life.
Thinking about people he hated reminded him of his old man. Fredrick Groen, what a son of-o-bitch. Dragging him to church three times a week, serving as a deacon and a Sunday School teacher. Screwing his daughter every night and when he was up to it, coming into his son’s room and raping him as well. Pillar of the community his dear old dad.
He opened his eyes, he’d been rolled a whole six feet down the hall since he had closed them. He wondered if he could sleep, he closed his eye. His sister, he’d have someone get a hold of his sister, she might be able to get him a good lawyer. Man, he was going to make the world pay.
He continued thinking about his revenge and remembering things thoughout the hours it took to get into the ambulance. It took days to get to the hospital. Weeks before they got the x-rays and blood drawn. Years later he was alone in a hospital room, he hadn’t spoke a single word. Why bother, all these people were on the opposite side of his legal battle.
As the sun came up he was staring at the wall. He had been hung at midnight and morning only took six years to get here. He might have slept awhile, he wasn’t sure, he couldn’t roll over, stretch, scratch, or lift his head for that matter.
In a few weeks a nurse came in and gave him a shot. Well, there was a plus, he didn’t feel a thing. He asked, "what time is it?"
"Oh!" she started, "I didn’t know you were awake. It’s five fifteen, here let me move the clock so you can see it." She propped a twelve inch wall clock up on the table directly in the middle of his field of vision and left the room.
Five fifteen and forty one seconds. Five fifteen and forty two seconds. Five fifteen and forty three seconds. Five fifteen and forty four seconds. It was like he couldn’t look away. What a kind gesture on the part of that sweet nurse, the bitch probably did it on purpose.
No one else came in till eight thirty three and sixteen seconds, some orderly carrying on about something to do with a MRI. The orderly rolled him out of his room and down the hall, and he actually almost enjoyed the view of a wall without a clock in the way.
After the MRI, he was brought back to his room by a different dude. He asked the guy to move the clock, The shit-head just said "Not my job man, tell the nurse," and zipped out of the room.
The doctor returned followed by a medical transport team. They started out trying to put a collar on his neck, but because of the strange angle that his head made to his body they couldn’t make it work. He protested, who did these lunk-heads think they where jerking him around like a hunk of meat.
"Just exactly what do you clowns think your doing?" he asked.
"We have to keep you immobile while we move you to a back board." One of the medics responded.
His indignation unsatisfied, he threatened. "Well get a clue and get me outta here or I’ll add you to the list of people I’m suing."
The other medic offered, "Careful Jim, the big scary killer might drool on you if you don’t treat him nice"
"Good point Phil, lets make sure he’s not HIV positive before we get our hands too close to his mouth." Jim responded.
"I’m not someone you guys want to mess with." The hanged man challenged.
Phil observed. "Must be weird for a lifelong tough guy and bully to be reduced to a helpless lump.
Pulling back into his own thoughts, knowing that these jerk-off corpsman didn’t have a clue, He again sought comfort in thinking about that Hawkings guy. He could run mental rings around these medics and he’d make them pay. First thing, find a greedy lawyer. Non of those public defender types that he’d been working with for the last fifteen years, but a real slickster. Then get the best specialists money can buy, next get him an army of henchmen and handmaids and housekeepers. A burp found itself in his mouth without warning and it tasted nasty. Maybe he should get the medical attention first. Damn, he always liked making lists of what he had to get done and cross things off and add things as he went.
The ambulance team finally got him moved onto the backboard and transferred over to their own stretcher. They where getting ready to roll him out when the doctor came over with a clipboard for them to sign. "He’s all yours," he said, "and may you never have a moments luck with him."
Jim looked over the form on the clipboard and scribbled across the bottom. "Hey Phil!" he joked, "we got us a celebrity here. This is William Groen."
"Never heard of him." Phil admitted.
"Oh, he’s a real prince of a guy. He spent four months raping a seven year old kid to death." Jim informed.
Phil puzzled. "I think I would’ve heard of that."
Jim pointed out. "It was along time ago. The only reason I remember is because when it was in the news, my wife didn’t want to name our kid after my dad because his name was William."
"Billy?" Phil questioned, "Isn’t he like fifteen by now?"
"Yeah, fifteen years ago. What a piece of shit." Jim referred to the man they were rolling out to their ambulance.
William almost said something, then remembered that these jokers weren’t worth the sweat off his... upper lip. Again he remembered that he wouldn’t know if he was sweating anywhere below his chin. God, they hadn’t covered any distance at all. They were still in the corridor outside the infirmary. He wondered if he could sleep. He closed his eyes, but thoughts just bounced around inside his head. Mostly emotional stuff. He was mad, then he felt sorry for himself. Then he worried what the medical tests would find out, and then he was mad at everything he could think of again. He found comfort in hating everyone, he’d felt that way most of his life.
Thinking about people he hated reminded him of his old man. Fredrick Groen, what a son of-o-bitch. Dragging him to church three times a week, serving as a deacon and a Sunday School teacher. Screwing his daughter every night and when he was up to it, coming into his son’s room and raping him as well. Pillar of the community his dear old dad.
He opened his eyes, he’d been rolled a whole six feet down the hall since he had closed them. He wondered if he could sleep, he closed his eye. His sister, he’d have someone get a hold of his sister, she might be able to get him a good lawyer. Man, he was going to make the world pay.
He continued thinking about his revenge and remembering things thoughout the hours it took to get into the ambulance. It took days to get to the hospital. Weeks before they got the x-rays and blood drawn. Years later he was alone in a hospital room, he hadn’t spoke a single word. Why bother, all these people were on the opposite side of his legal battle.
As the sun came up he was staring at the wall. He had been hung at midnight and morning only took six years to get here. He might have slept awhile, he wasn’t sure, he couldn’t roll over, stretch, scratch, or lift his head for that matter.
In a few weeks a nurse came in and gave him a shot. Well, there was a plus, he didn’t feel a thing. He asked, "what time is it?"
"Oh!" she started, "I didn’t know you were awake. It’s five fifteen, here let me move the clock so you can see it." She propped a twelve inch wall clock up on the table directly in the middle of his field of vision and left the room.
Five fifteen and forty one seconds. Five fifteen and forty two seconds. Five fifteen and forty three seconds. Five fifteen and forty four seconds. It was like he couldn’t look away. What a kind gesture on the part of that sweet nurse, the bitch probably did it on purpose.
No one else came in till eight thirty three and sixteen seconds, some orderly carrying on about something to do with a MRI. The orderly rolled him out of his room and down the hall, and he actually almost enjoyed the view of a wall without a clock in the way.
After the MRI, he was brought back to his room by a different dude. He asked the guy to move the clock, The shit-head just said "Not my job man, tell the nurse," and zipped out of the room.
Where Am I
His consciousness faded back into his head like a mist rising from a lake. His mind focused on his eyes. What was he seeing? Nothing, blackness, was he blind? No, he was surely dead. That’s right, his most recent memory was his execution. He had exhausted his appeals and pleaded to the Governor and every deity for mercy. But he remembered standing on the platform with a bag over his head, the hangman checking and rechecking the placement of the noose, he even remembered the sudden drop.
And now he was in blackness, he couldn’t feel anything, is this the afterlife? His first impulse was to look around for the proverbial bright light. First problem, it seemed as though he couldn’t move, or if he was moving he couldn’t tell. No feeling, no vision, no sound, no taste but his mouth was dry. Oh, wait a minute he could smell that bag on his head, as the matter of fact he could feel the bag was still on his head.
Then sounds, a blast of sounds, a door opening some beings walking in, the door closing behind them, hard shoes on a bare floor. They didn’t speak, they approached, they stopped right below him, he floated down till his head rested on something hard and smooth. They slipped the noose off over his head, he realized he had not been breathing since they came in. He gasped a great breath, and almost instantly voices rang out.
The first voice exclaimed, "Shit!" it seemed to be moving away and down.
The second voice laughed. "Man, you just jumped out of your skin, scared you silly.
"I noticed you backed up pretty quick." The other replied.
"Well shit, he breathed in," the second voice defended. "I heard them blow out before, but he breathed in."
He wondered if he should say something, if he could say something. As the laughter subsided, he ventured a question, "Am I dead?" More 'oh shiting' and moving around at a safe distance followed. He tried again, "Is this Heaven or Hell?"
"Man we better tell somebody about this." The second man said.
The beeping of a phone being dialed followed, three digits. Then the first man spoke. "I think we might have a problem, I don’t think the prisoner’s dead. Yes, it looks like his neck’s broke, his head’s laid over like it ain’t connected right. Okay, we won’t touch him till the doc gets here.
It seemed like hours, maybe days. Nobody dared speak, he because he was still in the dark, they because they didn’t care to strike up a conversation with a corpse. Finally the door opened again and footsteps once again approached. A new voice stated flatly, "he has a pulse and he’s breathing, let’s get this hood off.
The light in the room made him blink and finally settle on a squint. He saw the white coat of the doctor first, then moving his eyes up saw the face, wouldn’t you know he’d be an Indian. Then it came to him, he blurted out. "I can’t move."
"I shouldn’t wonder, your neck is badly broken." The doctor responded.
"But I’m not dead?" he asked.
The doctor got a puzzled look on his face saying. "Apparently not. Quite unusual."
As was his habit, he sought immediate gratification for his slightest needs. "My mouth is really dry, is there anything to drink around here?"
"Let’s get you immobilized first, then we can move you up to the infirmary." The doctor said.
The first man asked. "Why would you want to tie him down?"
"If his head moves it could kill him." warned the doctor.
The second man, obviously thinking along the same lines as the other guy asked. "And that would be bad because he’s not supposed to be dead?"
"He’s already been hung, we’re not allowed to kill him." The words left the doctor’s mouth and struck like a knife into the hanged man’s consciousness. He couldn’t be executed twice for the same crime.
Straps were placed around his forehead and the doctor spent a lot of time working on straps around his arms and chest although he could only see the process, he didn’t feel a thing. When the strapping was completed they rolled him out the door down the hall and into an elevator. He had time to think. Thinking about it he realized he had lots of time to think. Pretty much all he could do is think, for the rest of his life. Then he remembered the father of his victim at the sentencing hearing. How he bawled and complained that death was to good for him. That he should suffer the way he made that father’s young son suffer. Then he prayed that God would send him to an especially hot corner of Hell. Of course that was fifteen years ago, right now it seemed like yesterday.
They got off the elevator and rolled down the hall to the infirmary. Inside, the doctor slipped on a glove and stuck an ice cube into the paralyzed mans mouth. "Try not to choke on that," he said, "until we can determine weather your digestive system is functioning, that’s all you get."
He hadn’t realized that he might not be able to eat.
He had never wished he was dead in his life. Before the hanging, the lousy priest that they sent to talk to him told him to accept his fate, and embrace death. He never believed in God, at least not since he was 'like' nine. His mother believed in God big time and she died believing that he would heal her. No he wouldn’t listen to that lousy priest then and by God they better not bring that stinking bible merchant in to see him now.
The doctor was on the phone, he woke up the warden. Evidently the warden told the doctor that the law was clear, he’s a free man. The doctor came over and asked him what he wanted to do.
"Check me out and see if I can eat," was his immediate response.
"I’m afraid that you are no longer under our jurisdiction, so I’m not authorized to treat you." the doctor avoided liability. "I can call for an ambulance to transport you wherever you want to go."
"Where the hell can I go? I got no money and I don’t know anybody I can ask for help." He growled.
"County General it is then," the doctor said and left the room.
Alone again, the man was once more forced to review his helplessness. That sappy father from fifteen years ago could just find him and kill him and there was nothing he could do about it. Hell, that might be better than the life he had to look forward to. First thing tomorrow he was going to get him a lawyer and get the legal ball rolling over them prison people for botching his execution. If he was going to veg’ in some whole, he may as well have enough coin to get him a nice whole. Maybe a hot private nurse, or would that be more frustration then it’s worth. Damn, this was sucking more at every turn, and as much as it started out sucking that was hard to believe.
Alonso was here
"Sarah Smith," she said to the lady at the Delta counter in Spokane. Her dad had just dropped her off, the $7,000 air fare was a bit more than he had expected.
He protested, "Isn’t Dr. Cuckoo in Chile?" He was pacing a groove in his kitchen floor.
"He spends a lot of time on Easter and he works out of the university in Santiago, but he’s not there right now. Besides, I’ll be in and out of the capitol so fast I’ll pass beneath the radar." Then she offered. "You know, a one way ticket would be so much cheaper than a flight with an open ended return."
"Not a chance in hell am I gonna risk it." Her dad returned, "if anything happens to me, you can just show up at an airport and come home."
"You’ll be fine dad," she assured, "and so will I."
Now as the ticket agent starred at the monitor in front of her, Sarah wished her dad had seen her off. She told him not to wait, but if that little hug at the curb was the last time she sees him alive she’ll never forgive herself. "He’ll be fine," she told herself again. After all, her mom has been gone for nine years now and he took it hard at first, but he’s fine now.
The Delta agent exclaimed. "Your flight is delayed, but you should make your connection in Salt Lake. Gate 15." She handed over the boarding pass and went back to starring at he monitor.
A lifetime at gate 15, or at least an hour and a half. Then forever on the tarmac, then Salt Lake, Atlanta, Santiago and finally Copiapo. As she stepped out of the terminal a cab driver smiled and offered in his best English, "hotel lady?"
Now it might of been because she was exhausted, or maybe she was a bit mischievous that day, but she didn’t like the assumption that she was American. She asked him in broken Farsi if he understood Farsi or German.
He was taken aback and she giggled to herself then she told him in perfect continental Spanish that she would like to go to the "Hosteria Las Pircas."
His grin was so endearing that she felt a bit embarrassed that she had picked on him, but he was chattering away as he threw her back pack into the back seat of his cab and held the passenger door open for her. He told her about all the local attractions and asked about a thousand questions. It all boiled down to what was she up to in Copiapo.
She started to answer, no she wasn’t going to the "day of the woman" convention, yes she would like to have him pick her up in the morning, no she wasn’t wanting to catch the train to Caldera.
Finally she gave up trying to satisfy his curiosity and told him to pick her up at noon tomorrow, than remained silent for the rest of trip to the hostel. She got a bed and passed out.
When her cab picked her up the next day she had him take her to the Alameda Manuel Antonio Matta. There at the historical center of Copiapo, she crossed over to the old church San Francisco. The priest wasn’t anxious to let Sarah riffle through the church archives. He assured her that the university had copies of all the relevant records. She shifted the conversation over to Latin, telling him that she was looking for manuscripts in languages other than Latin. He tried to maintain a poker face but she immediately realized that she was onto something here. He knew he had tipped his hand, finally after more debate, he accepted that she may know more about unique languages than the local scholars.
He led her into a reading room and asked her to wait. He returned in eight minutes with a laptop that he set up for her. He kept explaining that he intended for her to answer questions for him, and that he could in no wise open his library for her curiosity. When the computer had booted she could see that the contents of a vast library had been painstakingly copied into text files. He leaned in behind her and took hold the mouse. He navigated quickly to the text he wanted to show her, had she not been fluent in Latin she might have missed the name on the journal he landed on. She wasn’t sure if it seemed familiar or if she just hoped it had, Alonso de Barcena. Barcena at least hinted what she could expect. She had heard that an classmate from UW had gone to Barcena Spain to study the Basque Language. What a shock when she scanned down the page of text that the young priest stopped on. It was mostly Latin, about escaping a native uprising, and then a few lines of... Sort of a Sanskrit....Yes, it was Romaní language, "Gypsy." she voiced in English. The padre’s English was obviously not good enough to recognize the word, and her first thought was to play it close to her belly. He was insistent, if she knew something she must tell or he would take his ball and go home.
"Gitanos!" she offered as if the answer was simple.
"Gitanos?" The priest was puzzled.
Evidentially, our Alonso de Barcena learned to speak the Romaní language.
The priest offered that Alonso was a linguist, then he included the rest of the story, about the Spanish evacuation of Bolivia and Peru. Diego de Almargo was the Spanish Captain that led the Jesuits over the Andes through the Gorge of Paipate. They waited here in Copiapo until reinforcements arrived, then went back and put down the Incas. Some of the Jesuits stayed here, and this journal was left with those first missionaries.
How many lines of Romaní are there. Sarah asked
Answering her question with a question, he needed to know if she could read it.
Yes, I have some notes in my laptop that will refresh my memory. Sarah told him she would be back the next day, he promised that he would have all the text set up for her, so she headed for the hostel.
Arriving back at the church the next day, she found that the padre had separated all the Romaní into a single file. She finally convinced him that she needed the context to best translate the journal. He agreed, with reservations, to let her read the entries in their original form.
They where logs of the journey over the Andes. They had traveled fast and light with the natives on their heels. At one point the captain cut the pack animals loose so they could move faster. Alonso then switched over to a more secure mode of communication, because he was describing where he hid some things.
The priest was more excited about the prospect of a hidden treasure than Sarah was. She got a sinking feeling, like she was once again going to be left out of the loop. He wondered out loud if there might be a need for a translator.
Sarah answered, perhaps. He then confessed that he had called a friend at the university to inquire about her qualifications. He had discovered that there were people in Santiago who were anxious to know what she was looking at. Fortunately, his friend got around them and discovered that there was some question of intellectual property. Before Sarah could defend herself, he assured her that his friend seemed to believe the folks in Santiago had stolen from her.
Barriers broke down and Sarah realized she didn’t even know this young priest’s name. When she asked he replied "Juan de Copiapo."
She wanted to know if he was a native. and he told her he was "Diaguita."
An expedition to the "Gorge of Paipate" was in the planning stages by that afternoon. Father Juan allowed Sarah to read as much about the flight of Alonso de Barcena to Copiapo, as she could digest. That turned out to be a sizable amount.
In the days that followed, Sarah met the padres cousins, uncles, aunts and father. She wondered to herself, what do you call a father’s father? Grandpa. That was sadder then she had thought at first. Father Juan was an only child, and not likely to give his widower father any grandchildren.
All of the people the priest brought by to have a look at the American girl with the red-brown hair and green eyes, seemed to approve. She found out later, that the Diaguital people never trust Europeans, including their descendants, and she certainly didn’t look like a native. Their hair was thick and black, strait and the women wore it in a long braid down their backs. They had very dark eyes that shined with ready laughter. They were slender with thin noses and full lips, and the men had very fine facial hair if they had any at all. Sarah got used to being inspected and soon settled into a routine of studying the description of the place Alonso stashed his cache.
The journey up the Copiapo river valley, was no great task, there was a good road up as far as there was cultivable land. As the mountains loomed nearer, Sarah realized that her failure to trust anyone, might have caused a big problem. She mentioned to Juan that she might not be fully qualified to catalogue an archeological dig. He laughed and pointed to one of his cousins wondering, didn’t I introduce you to Professor Tayci, head of the archeology department at the university.
The detail of the trip and trail; rugged, steep and hard, went by in a blur. Sarah’s major contribution was again finding the spot. The picture of the location in her mind wasn’t complete ‘till she saw the place. Than, when she saw it, pow there it was. The digging part went along entirely too slowly. But, unlike the last expedition she had been on, apparently she was to receive the credit for the entire discovery. Professor Tayci kept asking her if she had figured out a title for her paper on the dig. Or, sometimes he’d suggest a name of someone who might review a doctoral dissertation by her.
One day Sarah Jane got to wondering if her dad would feel like he got his moneys worth. She said to Pedro, Professor Tayci’s sir name, "I need to go home for a while, can you let me know if you find anything."
"Before you go, are you sure this is the place." He queried.
"I am 98% certain this is it," Sarah replied. "It’s right here."
"Okay then, go on home and we’ll call you from Copiapo when we get the loot back to town".
Loot, what an interesting choice of words. It was months before he called. She had spent a lot of time with her dad, who was sure she should’ve stayed there to claim her prize. Then they called and her faith in these good friends was justified. Juan and Pedro were together on a speaker phone. They were super excited, but Pedro spoke in English in case her dad was listening.
"Sarah Smith?" Pedro verified. "The Diaguital people are indebted to you for discovering the lost translation of our native language. Alonso De Barcena had complete lexicons, catechisms and prayer books in the Cacan Language. Some of our people are trying to learn the language as we speak, we could sure use your expertise down here."
"I can come down right away." She responded.
Pedro assured. "Sarah, everyone who knows anything about this knows you did it."
Her dad did overhear, not hard to do, the Chilean cousins were shouting. A big grin came across his face and Sarah couldn’t want for a greater reward.
He protested, "Isn’t Dr. Cuckoo in Chile?" He was pacing a groove in his kitchen floor.
"He spends a lot of time on Easter and he works out of the university in Santiago, but he’s not there right now. Besides, I’ll be in and out of the capitol so fast I’ll pass beneath the radar." Then she offered. "You know, a one way ticket would be so much cheaper than a flight with an open ended return."
"Not a chance in hell am I gonna risk it." Her dad returned, "if anything happens to me, you can just show up at an airport and come home."
"You’ll be fine dad," she assured, "and so will I."
Now as the ticket agent starred at the monitor in front of her, Sarah wished her dad had seen her off. She told him not to wait, but if that little hug at the curb was the last time she sees him alive she’ll never forgive herself. "He’ll be fine," she told herself again. After all, her mom has been gone for nine years now and he took it hard at first, but he’s fine now.
The Delta agent exclaimed. "Your flight is delayed, but you should make your connection in Salt Lake. Gate 15." She handed over the boarding pass and went back to starring at he monitor.
A lifetime at gate 15, or at least an hour and a half. Then forever on the tarmac, then Salt Lake, Atlanta, Santiago and finally Copiapo. As she stepped out of the terminal a cab driver smiled and offered in his best English, "hotel lady?"
Now it might of been because she was exhausted, or maybe she was a bit mischievous that day, but she didn’t like the assumption that she was American. She asked him in broken Farsi if he understood Farsi or German.
He was taken aback and she giggled to herself then she told him in perfect continental Spanish that she would like to go to the "Hosteria Las Pircas."
His grin was so endearing that she felt a bit embarrassed that she had picked on him, but he was chattering away as he threw her back pack into the back seat of his cab and held the passenger door open for her. He told her about all the local attractions and asked about a thousand questions. It all boiled down to what was she up to in Copiapo.
She started to answer, no she wasn’t going to the "day of the woman" convention, yes she would like to have him pick her up in the morning, no she wasn’t wanting to catch the train to Caldera.
Finally she gave up trying to satisfy his curiosity and told him to pick her up at noon tomorrow, than remained silent for the rest of trip to the hostel. She got a bed and passed out.
When her cab picked her up the next day she had him take her to the Alameda Manuel Antonio Matta. There at the historical center of Copiapo, she crossed over to the old church San Francisco. The priest wasn’t anxious to let Sarah riffle through the church archives. He assured her that the university had copies of all the relevant records. She shifted the conversation over to Latin, telling him that she was looking for manuscripts in languages other than Latin. He tried to maintain a poker face but she immediately realized that she was onto something here. He knew he had tipped his hand, finally after more debate, he accepted that she may know more about unique languages than the local scholars.
He led her into a reading room and asked her to wait. He returned in eight minutes with a laptop that he set up for her. He kept explaining that he intended for her to answer questions for him, and that he could in no wise open his library for her curiosity. When the computer had booted she could see that the contents of a vast library had been painstakingly copied into text files. He leaned in behind her and took hold the mouse. He navigated quickly to the text he wanted to show her, had she not been fluent in Latin she might have missed the name on the journal he landed on. She wasn’t sure if it seemed familiar or if she just hoped it had, Alonso de Barcena. Barcena at least hinted what she could expect. She had heard that an classmate from UW had gone to Barcena Spain to study the Basque Language. What a shock when she scanned down the page of text that the young priest stopped on. It was mostly Latin, about escaping a native uprising, and then a few lines of... Sort of a Sanskrit....Yes, it was Romaní language, "Gypsy." she voiced in English. The padre’s English was obviously not good enough to recognize the word, and her first thought was to play it close to her belly. He was insistent, if she knew something she must tell or he would take his ball and go home.
"Gitanos!" she offered as if the answer was simple.
"Gitanos?" The priest was puzzled.
Evidentially, our Alonso de Barcena learned to speak the Romaní language.
The priest offered that Alonso was a linguist, then he included the rest of the story, about the Spanish evacuation of Bolivia and Peru. Diego de Almargo was the Spanish Captain that led the Jesuits over the Andes through the Gorge of Paipate. They waited here in Copiapo until reinforcements arrived, then went back and put down the Incas. Some of the Jesuits stayed here, and this journal was left with those first missionaries.
How many lines of Romaní are there. Sarah asked
Answering her question with a question, he needed to know if she could read it.
Yes, I have some notes in my laptop that will refresh my memory. Sarah told him she would be back the next day, he promised that he would have all the text set up for her, so she headed for the hostel.
Arriving back at the church the next day, she found that the padre had separated all the Romaní into a single file. She finally convinced him that she needed the context to best translate the journal. He agreed, with reservations, to let her read the entries in their original form.
They where logs of the journey over the Andes. They had traveled fast and light with the natives on their heels. At one point the captain cut the pack animals loose so they could move faster. Alonso then switched over to a more secure mode of communication, because he was describing where he hid some things.
The priest was more excited about the prospect of a hidden treasure than Sarah was. She got a sinking feeling, like she was once again going to be left out of the loop. He wondered out loud if there might be a need for a translator.
Sarah answered, perhaps. He then confessed that he had called a friend at the university to inquire about her qualifications. He had discovered that there were people in Santiago who were anxious to know what she was looking at. Fortunately, his friend got around them and discovered that there was some question of intellectual property. Before Sarah could defend herself, he assured her that his friend seemed to believe the folks in Santiago had stolen from her.
Barriers broke down and Sarah realized she didn’t even know this young priest’s name. When she asked he replied "Juan de Copiapo."
She wanted to know if he was a native. and he told her he was "Diaguita."
An expedition to the "Gorge of Paipate" was in the planning stages by that afternoon. Father Juan allowed Sarah to read as much about the flight of Alonso de Barcena to Copiapo, as she could digest. That turned out to be a sizable amount.
In the days that followed, Sarah met the padres cousins, uncles, aunts and father. She wondered to herself, what do you call a father’s father? Grandpa. That was sadder then she had thought at first. Father Juan was an only child, and not likely to give his widower father any grandchildren.
All of the people the priest brought by to have a look at the American girl with the red-brown hair and green eyes, seemed to approve. She found out later, that the Diaguital people never trust Europeans, including their descendants, and she certainly didn’t look like a native. Their hair was thick and black, strait and the women wore it in a long braid down their backs. They had very dark eyes that shined with ready laughter. They were slender with thin noses and full lips, and the men had very fine facial hair if they had any at all. Sarah got used to being inspected and soon settled into a routine of studying the description of the place Alonso stashed his cache.
The journey up the Copiapo river valley, was no great task, there was a good road up as far as there was cultivable land. As the mountains loomed nearer, Sarah realized that her failure to trust anyone, might have caused a big problem. She mentioned to Juan that she might not be fully qualified to catalogue an archeological dig. He laughed and pointed to one of his cousins wondering, didn’t I introduce you to Professor Tayci, head of the archeology department at the university.
The detail of the trip and trail; rugged, steep and hard, went by in a blur. Sarah’s major contribution was again finding the spot. The picture of the location in her mind wasn’t complete ‘till she saw the place. Than, when she saw it, pow there it was. The digging part went along entirely too slowly. But, unlike the last expedition she had been on, apparently she was to receive the credit for the entire discovery. Professor Tayci kept asking her if she had figured out a title for her paper on the dig. Or, sometimes he’d suggest a name of someone who might review a doctoral dissertation by her.
One day Sarah Jane got to wondering if her dad would feel like he got his moneys worth. She said to Pedro, Professor Tayci’s sir name, "I need to go home for a while, can you let me know if you find anything."
"Before you go, are you sure this is the place." He queried.
"I am 98% certain this is it," Sarah replied. "It’s right here."
"Okay then, go on home and we’ll call you from Copiapo when we get the loot back to town".
Loot, what an interesting choice of words. It was months before he called. She had spent a lot of time with her dad, who was sure she should’ve stayed there to claim her prize. Then they called and her faith in these good friends was justified. Juan and Pedro were together on a speaker phone. They were super excited, but Pedro spoke in English in case her dad was listening.
"Sarah Smith?" Pedro verified. "The Diaguital people are indebted to you for discovering the lost translation of our native language. Alonso De Barcena had complete lexicons, catechisms and prayer books in the Cacan Language. Some of our people are trying to learn the language as we speak, we could sure use your expertise down here."
"I can come down right away." She responded.
Pedro assured. "Sarah, everyone who knows anything about this knows you did it."
Her dad did overhear, not hard to do, the Chilean cousins were shouting. A big grin came across his face and Sarah couldn’t want for a greater reward.
Langolango tango
Sarah should’ve known. Maybe she sort of did. Her great expedition to the Berents Sea found her fetching coffee and kissing backsides. She would have rather called her dad to come help bail, than wind up watching Dr. Evan Tischer taking bows and curtain calls while her involvement was completely forgotten.
Yes there were discoveries. Her discoveries. Nobody having read the original manuscript as often as she, had much chance of finding the island in question. She had read it over and over in the months since she had found it. She had envisioned the island all sorts of ways, and not until she actually saw it did she know. When she saw it, she knew it. Then they landed on the rocky beach and she walked straight to the cave, or rather caves. There were more than one.
There was a lot of digging, of which she was left out. There was a lot of hoopla and patting the Doctor on the back when he, no matter who actually dug it up, found something. Then the translation. Sarah thanked every deity she could remember that she was tasked with transferring the stone inscriptions onto paper, she kept copies.
Dr. Tischer started his next text book on the relevance and meaning of the "Under the Edge" langolango. "Under the Edge" was a name the doctor slapped on the project, believing it a better transliteration than Sarah's "Bottom of the Edge." Sarah was unimpressed with Tischer’s habit of ignoring as unintelligible, characters that seemed to show up in the wrong place. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but she was sure there was a pattern. Her first attempt at suggesting that there might be more to it, was lesson enough to be her last. Every night she punched scenarios into her laptop, wondering what she would do if she managed to crack the code. Admittedly, Evan Tischer was a genuine expert on the langolango language. Sarah learned a ton, in spite of her being shoved off into a corner.
One night, more than a year after she was returned home to Idaho, Sarah stumbled onto the pattern. She almost didn’t try again that night. She had a job in a shop on the bridge. Most nights she got home late and weary. After so many attempts, she was beginning to believe that she was wrong to doubt Dr. Tischer. She had read his book, she had to drive to Pullman to find a library that had a copy,. his translations were so complete. Yet, out of habit, before she went to bed she ran one more possible pattern through her computer. Funny, the program she was using was written by Dr. Tischer. Going to the kitchen, more to stay awake than to find food, she missed the beep that resounded when the program found a pattern.
As she came back to her desk she read. "Pattern match to Lexico Helos 98.3 %" she dropped her coffee cup and burned her left leg, her fingers needed to be on that keyboard. She typed "transliterate stone 1 line 1 :> Greek."
There it was, plain as the nose on your face. "astron kindundos asphalos eutrapelos astron." the tense didn’t make sense or was it the phrasing?
Wasting no time she sent an e-mail
"To: etischer@usa.gov.edu.usc
Subject: It’s All Greek To Me
Dr. Tischer, I can’t believe it myself. I compared the syntax from a stone, to Cgreek, and it printed out. Try your stone number 14E32 line 1. transliterate :> CoiHelos :> right to left..routine=T
I got "strong wind safely travel strong" or in modern terms "fair winds and following seas"
S.Smith
Another sleepless night and a grueling day at work, she couldn’t wait to get home and check her e-mail. Nothing, she hollered down the stairs. "Dad, did anyone call for me today?" Nothing.
It had been more than a week and finally a call one evening, not Tischer but from the other intern on the dig. "Sarah, this is Kent. What did you do? Dr. Tischer has published a new paper in Modern Philology, and your the bad guy. He refers to you as an unschooled and under experienced charlatan. Looks to me like a case of he who publishes first is the only one regarded."
Taken aback Sarah blurted, "No Kent, I just cracked the thing and sent the key to the doctor."
"He’s claiming theft of intellectual property. Says you took copies of unpublished translations and were planning to claim some credit for the decipher." Kent replied.
"Okay, I stole copies of untranslated lines of glyphs." She answered, "I spent every spare minute plugging in far fetched parameters, and the second I found something I turned it over to Tischer."
"You turned it over to him all right, sounds like he’s making sure you can’t claim your work." Kent waited for quite a while then asked with his best Sam Spade Slur, "what you gonna do cupcake?"
She was crying. "I could go to Krabchikov, and tell him my side."
"Too late Sarah, it’s already in print, you stole it." he responded.
More sniffling, then silence. Kent offered. "Sorry, I thought you should know. I wouldn’t fight it, Tischer’s reputation is unimpeachable. Keep laying low, I’ll call you again if anything changes. My guess is, that if you don’t respond, it will go away. Bye." The call disconnected with a click.
She pretty much cried for a month. Her dad couldn’t take it anymore. One day when she was coming in the front door he stopped her in her tracks saying, "I’ve got some money I might want to invest to clear your name. Is there anywhere you can go to find something that can’t be claimed by Doctor Cuckoo?"
She hadn’t considered such a thing. She started off again toward her room while it sank in. He called after her, "I mean it Sarah Jane."
Hours later in her room it came to her, Chile, and she was off.
Yes there were discoveries. Her discoveries. Nobody having read the original manuscript as often as she, had much chance of finding the island in question. She had read it over and over in the months since she had found it. She had envisioned the island all sorts of ways, and not until she actually saw it did she know. When she saw it, she knew it. Then they landed on the rocky beach and she walked straight to the cave, or rather caves. There were more than one.
There was a lot of digging, of which she was left out. There was a lot of hoopla and patting the Doctor on the back when he, no matter who actually dug it up, found something. Then the translation. Sarah thanked every deity she could remember that she was tasked with transferring the stone inscriptions onto paper, she kept copies.
Dr. Tischer started his next text book on the relevance and meaning of the "Under the Edge" langolango. "Under the Edge" was a name the doctor slapped on the project, believing it a better transliteration than Sarah's "Bottom of the Edge." Sarah was unimpressed with Tischer’s habit of ignoring as unintelligible, characters that seemed to show up in the wrong place. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but she was sure there was a pattern. Her first attempt at suggesting that there might be more to it, was lesson enough to be her last. Every night she punched scenarios into her laptop, wondering what she would do if she managed to crack the code. Admittedly, Evan Tischer was a genuine expert on the langolango language. Sarah learned a ton, in spite of her being shoved off into a corner.
One night, more than a year after she was returned home to Idaho, Sarah stumbled onto the pattern. She almost didn’t try again that night. She had a job in a shop on the bridge. Most nights she got home late and weary. After so many attempts, she was beginning to believe that she was wrong to doubt Dr. Tischer. She had read his book, she had to drive to Pullman to find a library that had a copy,. his translations were so complete. Yet, out of habit, before she went to bed she ran one more possible pattern through her computer. Funny, the program she was using was written by Dr. Tischer. Going to the kitchen, more to stay awake than to find food, she missed the beep that resounded when the program found a pattern.
As she came back to her desk she read. "Pattern match to Lexico Helos 98.3 %" she dropped her coffee cup and burned her left leg, her fingers needed to be on that keyboard. She typed "transliterate stone 1 line 1 :> Greek."
There it was, plain as the nose on your face. "astron kindundos asphalos eutrapelos astron." the tense didn’t make sense or was it the phrasing?
Wasting no time she sent an e-mail
"To: etischer@usa.gov.edu.usc
Subject: It’s All Greek To Me
Dr. Tischer, I can’t believe it myself. I compared the syntax from a stone, to Cgreek, and it printed out. Try your stone number 14E32 line 1. transliterate :> CoiHelos :> right to left..routine=T
I got "strong wind safely travel strong" or in modern terms "fair winds and following seas"
S.Smith
Another sleepless night and a grueling day at work, she couldn’t wait to get home and check her e-mail. Nothing, she hollered down the stairs. "Dad, did anyone call for me today?" Nothing.
It had been more than a week and finally a call one evening, not Tischer but from the other intern on the dig. "Sarah, this is Kent. What did you do? Dr. Tischer has published a new paper in Modern Philology, and your the bad guy. He refers to you as an unschooled and under experienced charlatan. Looks to me like a case of he who publishes first is the only one regarded."
Taken aback Sarah blurted, "No Kent, I just cracked the thing and sent the key to the doctor."
"He’s claiming theft of intellectual property. Says you took copies of unpublished translations and were planning to claim some credit for the decipher." Kent replied.
"Okay, I stole copies of untranslated lines of glyphs." She answered, "I spent every spare minute plugging in far fetched parameters, and the second I found something I turned it over to Tischer."
"You turned it over to him all right, sounds like he’s making sure you can’t claim your work." Kent waited for quite a while then asked with his best Sam Spade Slur, "what you gonna do cupcake?"
She was crying. "I could go to Krabchikov, and tell him my side."
"Too late Sarah, it’s already in print, you stole it." he responded.
More sniffling, then silence. Kent offered. "Sorry, I thought you should know. I wouldn’t fight it, Tischer’s reputation is unimpeachable. Keep laying low, I’ll call you again if anything changes. My guess is, that if you don’t respond, it will go away. Bye." The call disconnected with a click.
She pretty much cried for a month. Her dad couldn’t take it anymore. One day when she was coming in the front door he stopped her in her tracks saying, "I’ve got some money I might want to invest to clear your name. Is there anywhere you can go to find something that can’t be claimed by Doctor Cuckoo?"
She hadn’t considered such a thing. She started off again toward her room while it sank in. He called after her, "I mean it Sarah Jane."
Hours later in her room it came to her, Chile, and she was off.
Left at Greenland
Having to ask her dad to wire her money, again, was not at the top of her list of things she wanted to do. Last time they had talked face to face, maybe five months ago, he was definitely not impressed with her chosen profession.
He complained, "I paid for six and a half years of university, where you majored in more than five fields of study, and you are now qualified to hold a nonpaying internship with some Doctor Cuckoo from Upper Under Somewhere." The argument that ensued was too unpleasant to recite.
She would admit that she did take a lot of detours on her way to finding philology as her life's passion. At first she was sure that computers were everything she could ever want. That led to her discovery of abstract mathematics. Somewhere around lost languages her dad started asking, " Is there any money in it?"
On a glacier in Greenland, translating some "Old Norse" manuscripts, she discovered mention of a tiny island south of Edge, Spitsbergen. Naturally she had to hire a plane out of Thule ASAP. As usual she was without means and was forced to contact dad.
She guessed a sketchy, maybe even cryptic, message would be most effective.
The telegram read, "Dad, stop I need to get to LA, stop I can get home OK from there, stop Please send money, stop"
Once in LA she could report to Dr. Tischer and he would get her to the Berents Sea. While the university set things up, she could slip off to Sand Point for a quick visit.
Knowing that most of her time in Idaho would be tense because her dad had really had about as much of her lifestyle as he could take. Forget about explaining to him that she was really onto something, Langolango was Greek to dad. No pun intended, if it were as easy as Greek it wouldn’t be at all fascinating.
Fascinating, what an understatement. The Vikings knew the waters of the North Atlantic better than we do now. They mentioned a cave on a tiny island they named the bottom of the edge. In this cave they mentioned stones with lines of pictures that were strangely oriented, every other line being upside down. If she could find any such stones, you know, really find some stones like that, then the research grants would be fat and full. No, she wouldn’t bother trying to explain it to dad, he’d only call it fantasy.
"You can’t buy bread with fairy tales." He would say.
While she waited for funds to arrive, she couldn’t get her relationship with her dad out of her head. Dah! She was counting on him to bail her out. Knowing full well that Doctor Tischer, who usually couldn’t remember her name, wouldn’t respond to her call for help, she had to go to dear old dad. She couldn’t wait to lay what she had discovered on the doctor’s desk, then he’d have to acknowledge her. So come on dad, send the money.
The man behind the counter cleared his throat. "Miss, we have a response."
Getting up to take the sheet of paper the man offered she tripped over her backpack and nearly ended up on the floor. The paper was a telegram. "Sarah stop, Come directly home stop, I’ll pick you up in Spokane stop, Itinerary and reservation info to follow stop."
Ouch, I guess he doesn’t know that the only way out of Thule is by charter.
The man behind the counter gestured for her attention. "You should go catch the sea plane at the dock now." he said handing her a carefully detailed itinerary. Dad had done his home work.
Sarah figured on catching a nice nap on the plane but, the best laid plans and all, her co-passengers were; two goats, one ram, and a cage full of hens. When she jumped off of the sea taxi to rush to the airport, fresh air was all she had on her mind. Finally, on a real airliner, she drifted off to dream of being published in "Modern Philology".
Twenty one hours and four planes later, she was greeted by her dad in Spokane. They hugged and separated just a bit too swiftly, then walked silently to the parking lot. In the car she cracked the ice. "Thanks for bringing me back dad." she offered.
"Don’t be so sure you’re home free." was his emotionless reply.
"I’m Twenty seven years old." she parried.
"And in debt to your old man for a bundle." came back without a glance in her direction.
More silence for twenty miles, than at last she dared again. "I need to bring this stuff I brought back, to USC."
Without a moments eye contact he replied coolly. "Pay me back what I spent now, or work it off at home, makes no difference to me."
They were passing "Silver wood", an amusement park, she hated that place. She had worked there before, and knew her dad wanted her back there sooner that yesterday.
Months went by, a blur of screaming kids and blazing sun. On her way out the door one morning, heading back to the park, her dad said. "If you wanna give notice today, I guess your paid up. I’ll miss having you around, but your head is already somewhere else."
Her dad was the master of understatement. She had been working on her presentation to the doctor, every spare minute she could scrape together. Funny how things work out. Thinking back, if she would have gone straight to LA, she wouldn’t have been ready. She would have blown the whole thing by exaggerating the potential of her find. Now, Sarah Smith was ready.
The two weeks before she could leave flew by and she was confident that she was on her way. A couple of planes, a two hour lay over, and she was at LAX. She made an appointment to meet with one of Dr. Tischers’ aids. then went to the library for some last minute research.
At the meeting Sarah was perfect, and Dr. Tischer was contacted in Santiago. He tore her interpretation to pieces during the teleconference, then looked up and exclaimed. "Well, Miss Smith is it? You got one thing right, this description in the ninth passage sounds remarkably like Langolango." His eyes lit up like gemstones. "Let’s get up there and have a look around in the spring."
Sarah was dancing in her pants, a phrase her mother coined to describe her tendency to fidget when she was excited. She was going on a dig with Dr. Evan Tischer himself.
Back to Sand Point to tell her dad that she had made the big time. Not that he would get it, he always called Dr. Tischer Doctor Cuckoo. Amazingly he actually seemed pleased to hear about her success in LA. She could tell he was kidding when he said, "Don’t call me from a life raft in the North Atlantic and expect me to show up to help you bail."
That night was like a childhood Christmas eve, she didn't sleep a wink.
He complained, "I paid for six and a half years of university, where you majored in more than five fields of study, and you are now qualified to hold a nonpaying internship with some Doctor Cuckoo from Upper Under Somewhere." The argument that ensued was too unpleasant to recite.
She would admit that she did take a lot of detours on her way to finding philology as her life's passion. At first she was sure that computers were everything she could ever want. That led to her discovery of abstract mathematics. Somewhere around lost languages her dad started asking, " Is there any money in it?"
On a glacier in Greenland, translating some "Old Norse" manuscripts, she discovered mention of a tiny island south of Edge, Spitsbergen. Naturally she had to hire a plane out of Thule ASAP. As usual she was without means and was forced to contact dad.
She guessed a sketchy, maybe even cryptic, message would be most effective.
The telegram read, "Dad, stop I need to get to LA, stop I can get home OK from there, stop Please send money, stop"
Once in LA she could report to Dr. Tischer and he would get her to the Berents Sea. While the university set things up, she could slip off to Sand Point for a quick visit.
Knowing that most of her time in Idaho would be tense because her dad had really had about as much of her lifestyle as he could take. Forget about explaining to him that she was really onto something, Langolango was Greek to dad. No pun intended, if it were as easy as Greek it wouldn’t be at all fascinating.
Fascinating, what an understatement. The Vikings knew the waters of the North Atlantic better than we do now. They mentioned a cave on a tiny island they named the bottom of the edge. In this cave they mentioned stones with lines of pictures that were strangely oriented, every other line being upside down. If she could find any such stones, you know, really find some stones like that, then the research grants would be fat and full. No, she wouldn’t bother trying to explain it to dad, he’d only call it fantasy.
"You can’t buy bread with fairy tales." He would say.
While she waited for funds to arrive, she couldn’t get her relationship with her dad out of her head. Dah! She was counting on him to bail her out. Knowing full well that Doctor Tischer, who usually couldn’t remember her name, wouldn’t respond to her call for help, she had to go to dear old dad. She couldn’t wait to lay what she had discovered on the doctor’s desk, then he’d have to acknowledge her. So come on dad, send the money.
The man behind the counter cleared his throat. "Miss, we have a response."
Getting up to take the sheet of paper the man offered she tripped over her backpack and nearly ended up on the floor. The paper was a telegram. "Sarah stop, Come directly home stop, I’ll pick you up in Spokane stop, Itinerary and reservation info to follow stop."
Ouch, I guess he doesn’t know that the only way out of Thule is by charter.
The man behind the counter gestured for her attention. "You should go catch the sea plane at the dock now." he said handing her a carefully detailed itinerary. Dad had done his home work.
Sarah figured on catching a nice nap on the plane but, the best laid plans and all, her co-passengers were; two goats, one ram, and a cage full of hens. When she jumped off of the sea taxi to rush to the airport, fresh air was all she had on her mind. Finally, on a real airliner, she drifted off to dream of being published in "Modern Philology".
Twenty one hours and four planes later, she was greeted by her dad in Spokane. They hugged and separated just a bit too swiftly, then walked silently to the parking lot. In the car she cracked the ice. "Thanks for bringing me back dad." she offered.
"Don’t be so sure you’re home free." was his emotionless reply.
"I’m Twenty seven years old." she parried.
"And in debt to your old man for a bundle." came back without a glance in her direction.
More silence for twenty miles, than at last she dared again. "I need to bring this stuff I brought back, to USC."
Without a moments eye contact he replied coolly. "Pay me back what I spent now, or work it off at home, makes no difference to me."
They were passing "Silver wood", an amusement park, she hated that place. She had worked there before, and knew her dad wanted her back there sooner that yesterday.
Months went by, a blur of screaming kids and blazing sun. On her way out the door one morning, heading back to the park, her dad said. "If you wanna give notice today, I guess your paid up. I’ll miss having you around, but your head is already somewhere else."
Her dad was the master of understatement. She had been working on her presentation to the doctor, every spare minute she could scrape together. Funny how things work out. Thinking back, if she would have gone straight to LA, she wouldn’t have been ready. She would have blown the whole thing by exaggerating the potential of her find. Now, Sarah Smith was ready.
The two weeks before she could leave flew by and she was confident that she was on her way. A couple of planes, a two hour lay over, and she was at LAX. She made an appointment to meet with one of Dr. Tischers’ aids. then went to the library for some last minute research.
At the meeting Sarah was perfect, and Dr. Tischer was contacted in Santiago. He tore her interpretation to pieces during the teleconference, then looked up and exclaimed. "Well, Miss Smith is it? You got one thing right, this description in the ninth passage sounds remarkably like Langolango." His eyes lit up like gemstones. "Let’s get up there and have a look around in the spring."
Sarah was dancing in her pants, a phrase her mother coined to describe her tendency to fidget when she was excited. She was going on a dig with Dr. Evan Tischer himself.
Back to Sand Point to tell her dad that she had made the big time. Not that he would get it, he always called Dr. Tischer Doctor Cuckoo. Amazingly he actually seemed pleased to hear about her success in LA. She could tell he was kidding when he said, "Don’t call me from a life raft in the North Atlantic and expect me to show up to help you bail."
That night was like a childhood Christmas eve, she didn't sleep a wink.
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