

### Opealeux

Published by Miles Rothwell at Smashwords

Copyright 2016 Miles Rothwell

Cover photo: Paris - Toits NNW depuis Beaubourg - JLPC free media repository Wikimedia Commons

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Contents

Braq

...as the world disappears...

...ascension...

Other Titles

Connect with Miles
Braq _de Leppis_ was not always my name. Before I was born I had no name. I live in what is known as _Le Compounde_ on _Rue Orchamps_. The roof rattles in the rain. Footsteps and horse cabs from the laneway can be heard inside the crumbling gypsum walls.

_Marie Richelieu_ collects the rent. No one knows her last name. Maybe no one has ever asked. She waits at the gate near the stairs at noon on the first Sunday in the month. Sometimes we pay, sometimes not, it doesn't seem to bother her which.

Mushrooms are easier to pick in the soft wet mulch.

That is Marc. Don't be alarmed but sometimes I hear what he is thinking.

'Grab that one there.' We are outside in the field collecting mushrooms.

Kindling scratches; hindering progress through the thickets. A snapped branch - rotted out – tugs on a shoelace. Mulch everywhere, aroma of wet grass, blackberry branches mingled with oak leaves squelch underfoot. With a swift kick the gold tops fall to the ground.

Sometimes my thoughts get mixed up with Marc's.

'If I scrape them into piles with this branch we can collect them later.'

'I'm not coming back, it will be dark soon, and this rain is getting thicker.'

I can tell Marc is getting anxious. He doesn't like the outdoors or the dark.

'We could collect more berries if the brambles weren't so stunted from a lack of sunlight.' 'They're seasonal as well!' I remind him.

'What?'

'It reduces any consistent yield.'

'I can't sort mushrooms in darkness. They need to be sifted and sorted into piles of similar shapes.'

'Let me see.'

'There are the grey ones; those are black as coal and the smaller ones have the gold tinge.'

He was right; in the dark it was hard to tell which were which.

'Discard the smaller pieces, they taste woody.' I told him.

'What about these _off-cuts_? They smell peculiar.'

'They are bitter for certain but when left to dry they are excellent to start the hearth fire.' 'Here, I have a piece of hessian, wrap them to place under your cap.'

'My hair will stink.'

'It can't stink any more than it already does.'

'What was that?'

I hear a crack and a whistle - could be a bird high in the tree tops. Silence is the forest holding its breath. The vista appears two-dimensional, bland yet natural, the mind interprets broad brushes of light as a natural feature with no discern between earth, trees, and sky. A snail ventures onto a blade of grass unique in the thousands surrounding it, an odyssey of death and forgiveness. On a tree, bark shreds what touches it but along the grain the softness nourishes and protects when needed. Branches sway and yield to wind, rain and nests, but when dried litter the forest floor then snap and burn to support the process of re-generation.

'In nature all is not what it seems and only becomes alive when seen as it is.'

'What rubbish you speak. And why do you carry those bundled papers so?'

'You know too well why. These are my _journale_. For who knows when complete it may change _literare_ forever. You should scoff so, how less significant is your _arte_.'

'My arte, as you call it, is nothing - for that is what I strive for, to paint nothing.'

'You talk in riddles.'

'Exactly.'
I introduced Marc to Marie just in case she needed to know. Allies are necessary but adversaries even more so. She said it was okay for him to stay with me. That was three years ago.

'Hurry, she will be waiting at the stairs.'

'Is it noon already?'

'What are you doing?'

'I'm counting, and it looks like I'm five francs short this month.'

Every month is the same.

'You have days, weeks no less to arrange and let me know if you are short. Why do you leave it so late to account for the rent?'

'Wait,' _stop your incessant blabbering_ , 'there is 3 francs in the kindling satchel, I'm sure.'

She won't stay long at the gate, and the suitcase seems heavy.

'Marie doesn't care if we pay or not.'

Sometimes money is more trouble than it's worth.

Marc works at _Café Mesmaris_. He collects and washes plates and jugs. On a good night he makes enough to buy cheese and brioche. Sometimes he brings home wine collected from the dregs which he pours into a jar and carries expertly in his coat pocket without spilling a drop.

I am a painter; actually I want to be a painter. For the time being I use _charcoale_.

Life is a struggle, as it should be. There are good days and bad days, but along the continuum they merge into neutrality that must be discarded of having any importance. There is a change in the air, you can feel it everywhere, and also the papers say so.

I collect newspapers from around the traps, and although a few days or weeks behind I keep up with current goings on.

Paris is alive again after years of inactivity. There are cafes springing up everywhere and people of mesmerising talent are converging here. I have read there is a shift from old Europe; Vienna, Rome and St Petersburg are teetering on the brink.

There are new ideas - transforming literature, art and music. Paris seems to be the new epicentre, for where else would Monet, Proust and Stravinsky be more at home.

I would love to live in Paris but it is too expensive, even here in Montmartre is becoming difficult to survive. Thank the heavens for Marie. She is a breeze, allowing us to do pretty much what we want and the rent has never increased.

Mind you she isn't spending too much on keeping Le Compounde maintained in any high regard. The walls are cracking, the gate needs replacing and the wind whistles through the gaps in the roof but we are happy. The other lodgers all seem to have jobs in the day, leaving us to go about out nocturnal struggle unencumbered.

Painting requires time and attention to detail. Charcoale must be prepared, gypsum walls cleaned and washed and when paper or parchment is available it must be dried. All this takes time along with the seemingly never ending search for mushrooms and the occasional slab of rind and brioche.

The communal duties are supposed to be shared by Marc and myself but the reality is I end up carrying out the majority of chores. I collect the kindling, arrange for the laundry and clean the laneway of rubbish.

Le Compounde comprises ten rooms or huts as they are commonly known. There are three on each floor plus a manager's office on the ground floor that is primarily used for storing ladders, tables and an odd assortment of never used buckets.

'Trouble lies ahead for those that don't learn from the past.'

'How so?'

'The past is the only reliable source of information. Without it we don't know who we are.'

'You and your lament for the past. Today is the only important day. Tomorrow will never happen. Your protestations fall on deaf ears.'

'I have a gift!'

'A gift for what?'

'I can see into the past.'

'If you are going to assert you have a _gift_ at least predict you can see far into the future for no one will know. What's the point of believing you can see into the past?'

'To see how things were done.'

'But things that have happened are already known.'

'Not exactly, history is fantasy; people's recollections are tainted by sentimentality and righteousness. Only the _Lord's_ word is resolute. Factions expand and contract, melancholy dominates the pages of history. Noble conquests of ideals and great expanse are tempered with the strewn and mutilated bodies of the great Peloponnesian wars, even our own Revolution. I have even heard there is unrest with the Tsar. How will he be recorded?'

'But you can't change History.'

'Not so, history changes all the time, it is reviewed, revised and re-written all the time. Why does the great book not mention those huge fossils found in Egypt, or the bones of huge beasts that were never recorded in Noah's Ark?'

'It must be an oversight.'

'How plain you see things, of course not, they weren't discovered - they weren't known about, so how could anyone write about such things. History is only what people at the time know. Cavemen could not write about electricity yet it was all around them, they would have looked up to the black belching sky in the middle of a great storm to see the sky light up for a second or two, no doubt they saw trees hundreds of years old crash and burn to the ground after such strikes, yet did they know it was electricity?'

'And for what purpose is all this? Your retrospective wisdom?'

'It fuels the present we find ourselves in. The future is over the horizon - yet to burn our eyes, so all we have is our history, both collectively and individually.

What do people hold onto most dearly? A mother's breast, a quiet lullaby, a favourite toy, perhaps that first love, a tankard of ale...the list goes on.'

Marc and I often talk like this, sometimes for hours
'Why is everything covered in soot? You never clean this place.'

'Charcoale is very expensive so I collect what I can. I wait till dark then go to the laneway behind _Partistes_. On my hands and knees I search for shiny shards of black sticks. In a good night I can collect enough to last a week.'

'That's smart, I should come with you, never know what we might find.'

A seriate of semi-tone birds?

'No, that's not a good idea.'

'Why?'

'We might be seen.'

'Maybe, but with both of us we will find more.'

'True, but it also doubles our chances of being caught, you stay here and I will roam the laneways.'

Squeaking gates and dogs with insomnia are the enemies of nocturnal adventure. Along the banks of the canal many less fortunate congregate, not to share their histories for they have far more pressing affairs to attend to – warmth, food and shelter among the more prevalent. Traces of fire from the previous night lay dormant after the coals have dwindled. The homeless move on leaving lumps of coal, amongst the debris shards and flints of charcoal are left. When collected and pressed into thin pencils they can be left to dry and weighed down under cobbles. Over time they can be used as drawing implements, some are rough and splinter under the slightest pressure, others less rigid are malleable and if treated like wrapping a baby can be used for many etchings. Newspaper tears, and butcher paper rare so the piles of gypsum in the quarry behind Oriane can be transported to Le Compounde and used as a wash that dries pearly white on the inside walls opening up vast potential for all measures of murals and great artistic meanderings.

Rain shields cold. To know you are going to die is the greatest gift of all...it releases you from wondering what is going to happen to you...imagine if you lived forever, what would you think about? There would be no motivation to do anything...it would be so tiresome...when it gets desperate I collect kindling from the open fields behind Le Compounde for the hearth. I've never had much but when necessary I can be resourceful. The difficulty is traversing the brambles and thickets which prevent most people trespassing.

I wander into the fields as much as I can to pick mushrooms that grow everywhere after it has rained. Berries too, for Marie to make jam, but just as much to clear my head. Sometimes the visions I have are so vivid and concerning that I need to walk for hours. Once I even left at dawn and did not return until late into the following night. By the time I returned Marc had raised the alarm. Le Compounde was ablaze with light and movement. Marie had been notified and although not present had arranged for her staff at Mesmaris to be on high alert. I was set upon as I rounded the corner with my basket of mushrooms.

'Where have you been? We thought you were dead!'

'What of it?' I countered. 'The passing of a life is nothing compared with a river flowing into ocean or the stars above.'

'Ah such madness you speak, next time we won't bother, we'll just unleash the hounds.'

'Unleash them at your peril.'

'Your pile of off-cuts grows bigger. I sneeze every time I enter the room. That reminds me _Pierre_ wants to see them,' Marc suddenly fills the courtyard with excitement.

'What? Who?'

'Pierre from _Le Taverna_. I was taking my gloves off when he noticed something drop from my pocket. I didn't notice but he picked something up from the ground. He was holding one of your off-cuts and asked me where I got it.'

'What did you tell him?'

'I said one of the lodgers at Le Compounde brings them home when collecting mushrooms. He is coming to look at them. I told him you have a whole pile almost to the ceiling.'

'No, impossible, he cannot come here!"

'Why not?'

'No one is allowed in this kingdom, by royal decree, we must keep this hallowed ground sacred.'

'You are stricken with madness.'

'Mad or not, I recognise the lineage of our ancestors. There must be continuum with our duty and obligations. We must be careful that this renaissance of ideas must pass through the gates of modernity unsullied and unchecked. You can walk away if you must, but you can't hold back this tide that will fill the streets of Paris with radical rebuke of the Viennese protocols and Russian colonisation of our minds. It is time to stand and be free of all thought, of all ideas.'

... _mask a box in metallic sharpenings...discordant notes that someday will tear down the waltz mentality..._

'Strip away the clothes of bondage that hold us within ourselves...I am witness to my life.'

I laugh at such tedium. The rocks under my feet know no such anguish. How long they have been here, nobody knows. I rest against a tree and marvel at its density and fortitude. It survives storms, floods and people building houses. Walking amongst the forest mulch enriches my resolve to withstand hunger, angst and the unapproachable inevitability of my demise.

Walking in the forest affords no less than I deserve. The cows normally leave me alone but this one seems remarkably idle. It stares as it chews with glossy eyes deep in texture. The hide feels shallower than I expected but the smell is what captures me. There is a reminder of approaching rain, concealed earth, low lying cloud, freshening wind...

Haphazard placement...random grazing...detached stillness...affords me release from having to be self-aware. They wander not into the forest...the grass nearby enough to feast upon...like us we dare not progress into the unknown content to stay where we know the grazing is fresh.

I could stroke this rump forever; there is a soothing pattern as I slide my hand across the back bone down the bloated side to the hind quarters...the cow looks behind momentarily before turning to the wet mulch and tall grass...
Sleeping was difficult - there was much chaos last night upon my return. The _Gendarmerie_ present, noted inventory of all lodgers. How it was explained was difficult to understand for I was groggy from being out all night. I must have fallen asleep next to a cow for I woke up with my head tilted to one side lying on the beast's flank.

Marie had been called and was identifying residents...but where was _Francois_?

A complaint was made from one of the daughters of the couple on the middle floor. _Antoinette_ raised the alarm a little after three in the morning accusing Francois, the janitor, of disturbing her underclothes while she was still wearing them.

'And how did he gain entry?' asked the Gendarmerie Captain. 'The door was still locked, was it not, when your father arrived?

'He must have scaled the balcony.'

All in attendance in perfect _sympatico_ tilted slightly and looked up at the girl's pointed hand.

'So this Francois, who is how old?' He turns to Marie who is still looking at the second tier balcony. 'Gains access by standing on the ground floor railing then climbs up to this balcony,' Pointing up, 'Gathers himself and clambers through your window?'

'I'm not sure of his age exactly, but he could be fifty or sixty.' Marie shakes herself from the improbability of Francois' nocturnal gymnastics long enough to provide the missing piece of the puzzle for which the Captain is profoundly grateful.

For now Antoinette is not so sure of her account of events and sheepishly sinks into her chair. There are empty bottles of Absinthe to the side of her bureau and under the barest of scrutiny her poise and indifference quiver and buckle.

What events had transpired were long gone, soaked into the background of night. An intrusion of malevolence may have occurred, perhaps some lusty foreplay had been misconstrued and under sufferance some poor buck had been banished leaving the less than credible victim grasping at ghosts to explain her out-of-character behaviour.

'Why do you wash at night?'

At first I didn't answer Marc. His voice was distracting. The alcove with the tap is narrow. Hip high the flow of water oozed rather than poured. It made lathering difficult. The slimy curved cobblestones were an adequate bathmat as long as sandals were worn.

'It's better at night the water feels warmer,' I eventually answered.

Marc went to his hut, presumably to read his journale. He always reads out loud. It was the way he was taught. I can hear him from the washing alcove.

'Babylon was an independent Holy Citadel surrounded by a wall to keep the Assyrians out...'

His voice faltered as I washed my ears. The gurgling in my ears made me feel heavy.

Ice cold water heats the skin - a trick of the nerves.

Standing or sitting doesn't make the slightest difference – what is important is the evenness of the lather. My soap is composite, like marbled slate, collected from the bathrooms of many cafes, hostels and taverns. Thin string bounds the _chardres_ together, a quick rub of the pieces moulds the edges so more chardres can be layered keeping a bar of soap alive for weeks. It can't be used for washing hair as loose valuable flecks can be trapped in strands and never to be used in the genital area.

I knocked but there was no answer. Candlelight was dimming. Marc stared at the table. At first I thought he was asleep. I noticed the fixation of his focus. On the table in the dead centre as if placed with geometric precision by a surgeon was a placid currant bun.

I stood at the doorway longer than was necessary.

Marc turned to face me with the look of a man in a deep morose as if contemplating the Virgin Mary.

My thoughts turned to excavating the hard dried fruit from the bun, a heap of organic mess, so that the flinty pieces could be set aside to form a preparation for flea bites, something Marc had read out loud many weeks ago. His proposition was provocative in its simplicity but so far had not been ratified by any scientific means. Tentative steps to touch salvation had gone mostly unheralded.

'Caravaggio! Caravaggio!' Marc screams to the wall as a pious sentence as when the Greeks foresaw the emergence of decay and despair.

I tried to dislodge his slumped figure but Marc held firm - postured - screams went high into the night. Tears rained down where nothing existed. The cave was dragged shut. Solace evoked certainty – blast the fortitude...

Iesous calmed the tempest by savaging the daemons away – prostrate yourselves for the migration of souls. Piece by piece, pebble by pebble, stone by stone, I was brought to this land by mariners forgotten.

His thoughts were angular and carried an undertone of protestation but towards what or who was never fully known. Maybe it was a blight on his naivety or something more sinister; I could not tell not having full and unbridled access to his deeper states of mind.

Marc picked up a stone with marbled flint and placed a twig on the edge of a crack between the droppings of a rat and a _fledge_ of mossy granite.

'Be weary of sentimentality, by God's will,' he is still not fully postured, and continues to pick at a loose thread on his trousers.

Borne from will, set aside, Goethe's lightning release from antiquity, the dark settled around. Staring at this thread, with hunger by my side, picked at the base, knee bent silvered knee canopy, thread oh thread, clings. Rest away the worm beckons but attaches to the cotton soil spread out through the land. Drip, drip water lurks at every instance, mould aroma dangles the acrid poverty with hope stranded outside – peace at last. Hours pass, days perhaps for who is to know. The Sun may have perished long ago, the Stars burnt out, energy lost forever. But, once eternity is grasped, focus on the thread returns, so it is picked at, tortured, bent backwards, and scraped along the ridge of the knee until progress is thwarted by hopelessness.
From his journale, Marc reads; 'Helena my muse, love rests swallow on a spring breeze. Purity is not defined only sought. Beauty is not bestowed; simply softened till it becomes aware.'

'Stop!'

'Too sentimental?'

'Helena, your beauty is not stylised like a portrait with cherub ink, it's in the way you stand bare foot over the cauldron, with sweat on your brow pounding the soiled sheets from a sick child. True beauty is what happens not what is dreamt of.'

'What? Jesu you talk merde.'

'It's true, we wander around thinking all this shit, when there is no you, just drop it. Watch the hearth, the fire is too hot, the flames too orange, the broth will scorch.'

Marc felt the weight of expectation. It was his turn to cook and I had dragged so much kindling back from the field.

'This mutton is dry, too much burnt sauce.'

The soup bore no semblance to its origins – not the brush wood used for heat, not the carrot or onion from the market, not the dried tarragon from Dubois who sold cheap Syrah and mouldy Camembert. Marc pictured the farmers and their toil, seasons blanched, hay rolled into Monet stacks.

An exhibition rallied a cause producing such tragedy of almost perfect alexandrine. If I were to return to La Ferte-Milon how should I be judged? Jansen believes so intently that his daemon god will punish and redeem all those that scorn his piety/stoicism/hard edged megalomania.

The greatest tragedy occurs in the smallest of moments. Marc's obsession with Helena's unrequited love dooms him to despair so much so his object of affection pales into insignificance compared to the feeling of being spurned so that Helena herself dwindles in impact compared to his own feelings of remorse.

' _Cum occasione to the Fall of Man.'_

Augustine's proclamation that the Fall of Man is the inevitable result of the unresolved tension between sexual fervour and God's Law is in dispute. Man changes with the wind but God's Law is irrefutable. Faith is supposed to fill the gap and soothe the un-wanting procurement but Man is weak and God is strong,' announces Marc.

' _La Theologie Morale des Jesuites_ was supposed to help but only revealed the splintering of the birth of ignorance. So what of the Fallen Man? Is divine grace now removed/avoided/denied his free will, and that Christ died for our Sins was a pagane attempt to teach the Jews a lesson, once and for all – and the sailors sing;

They've been wailing ever since,

To the beat of their own drum,

So say I, so say I.

But turn your back

At your own peril,

So say we, so say we...

In the end God will prevail. Time will elapse and darkness will conquer all – a comforting thought for the unwashed who majestically ignore anything to do with _eternale_.
I, Braq, will immerse myself into an artiste's life – captured in stills. Held onto in dreams...mythical where greatness explodes with intent...

God be understanding...et Benedictus...Te deum...herald...virtue...Quodsi...horreur des...

This declaration I hereby make to the world for whatever does occur it will be done without my bidding or concern, for to hell with them all that scorn and conceal their derision.

Open drain like the Euphrates feeds the Hanging Gardens - a dead vine snaking through the stone walls. Soldiers line the path with swords at the ready. A ship is launched to trace the channels of remembrance.

Marc turns page after page - _on the headsail venturing forth on the lookout for worlds uncertain yet discovered before the crew left shore..._

... _it is..._

It is hard for me to tell what Marc is hoping for through his journale. Perhaps they are remembrances from deep within his submerged memory or is it a desire for the future to be golden, what is certain, is his undying persistence.

Night falls...crimson cloak...rain is captured by the sea...never to be separated again...water blurs into itself...what is a drop of water in the ocean...where are waves in a drop of water...Helena can't be spoken of now...she is worshipped from afar in memory only.

The heroine of his adventures cannot be from the past although he often envelopes her with textures of antiquity. No, she is a modern woman with a restless heart.

What is to become of her only time will tell, and time is something there is an abundance of, so I wait each night for the next instalment and although he never asks for my thoughts a critique is never far from my mind.

What would I tell him of my observations of Helena, that she is too bold, too unencumbered by her single mindedness? Perhaps I would say she is simply a medium of the unrest in the world, of the changing atmosphere, but that would be too safe, too predictable. The truth is his writing is far more advanced than my arte. I have nothing but shambolic etchings to show for all the industry, but I am far more concerned with the daily utilities of life than Marc. He no longer shares in the search for kindling, the gathering of mushrooms. He goes to work, returns with scraps of food then retires to his hut.

I am much more like the scorned wife every day, no longer sharing a combined journey.

It has become obvious Marc's journale can only be read to me, for I am the only one present. If other people were present in the tomb of lost souls they would hear his words but not the intensity and fervour he imagines he is delivering to the congregation from the pulpit.

... _for tonight is only for the parched of faith..._

'Take your time; there is plenty of time to waste.'

Marc prepares the sermon. He has done this a thousand times or more...he has a captive congregation...an attentive audience...for where are they to go?

'Jesus is the torch we must hold onto when darkness descends for the light comes and goes but darkness is constant.' Marc looks uncomfortable.

'Do you need some water,' I ask.

'No I am fine, it's these clothes, they itch.'

There is a rash where the collar has rubbed his neck.

'My shirt was washed and hung to dry outside. Maybe it is too rigid and full of dust.'

'It is possible as the shirt was outside for a few days. It is quite hot recently and there has been dust in the air, for there has been little rain in this part of the city.'

All looks to be settled again, after he loosens the top button.

There will come a time when angels will herald the return of our Lord Messiah, but hope and faith will not nourish the hungry, nor will it parch the thirst of us desert dwellers as we wait in all good faith for his return. Too many have vanquished and fallen to the wayside on faith alone. Courage is required, fortitude to survive the barren autumns, the ridicule of the heathens and relentless will to push through all barriers and frontiers, for when we congregate on the Mount once more, at the feet of our Master and look out upon the rich fertile valleys as the barley grows to block out the Sun, we will not forget those that trespassed against us, we will make room on the rocky slopes for all who were blind so that they may see for the first time, be born again in the devastating glory of the Lord Saviour...Amen.

Marc slumps to his knees exhausted, sweat poured from his brow, his pasty bony frame looked like a sack of dirty laundry. I went to comfort and soothe him, holding his head in my lap. Squeezing drops of water from an oily paint rag, but there was nothing left for me to do but let him sleep.
Marc licks the gypsum wall. It is resistant to fire and water. The ground under the _Abbeye_ is riddled with tunnels, making the ground very unstable and difficult to build upon.

Marc recounts, often, when I'm least prepared to listen, of his adventures hoping to find treasure.

In his labyrinth, tunnels intersect, flames flicker from brush wood lamps every fifty steps or so making shadows that at first seem indiscriminate but upon closer inspection depict famous battle scenes, historic moments, Assyrians rampaging, Vikings pillaging, Athenian's fending off Spartans. The Byzantium age shone then burnt in a flicker of flame, Perseus drowning at the gates of Rhodes, Caesar after Caesar. Transcendence is overwhelming till he can go on no more.

I shout for him to keep the din under control as a new wall is prepared, washed down with newspaper and water carried from the well. The gypsum wall dries to cover a section big enough to stand next to where I can pace before it deciding where to strike the first charcoale engraving.

I, Braq, wonder if I have uncovered a technique not used since the cave paintings in the Galapagos. With a touch dry white washed wall with enough give on its surface to accept the charcoale, black lines are scratched into the surface to imprint a textured marking. From a pace or two back it gives the line some tension as it has scored the gypsum surface as you would a mullet on a skillet pan with dried herbs and lemon peel pushed into the tiny cracks of the skin. Line after line is etched this way, before a little shading, retract the intent to view the result. Not unlike a sculpture, the interest is where the black lines are not present as a sculptor is more interested in what to take away than what is left.

Marc returns from his subterranean jaunt and frowns at the geometric boundaries on the white wall but I needn't fret as there are wider designs to contend with. In my mind I see a mural fit for an Emperor depicting the voyage from Carpathia to Constantinople.

There is nothing like a deep sleep around dawn after a full night etching, plotting and dreaming of high arch domes filled with mosaic richness, nothing vulgar mind you, just simple scenes of angels carrying David to the heaven surrounded by cherubs and long horned beasts with the piety of the disciples waiting at the gate of forgiveness.

So it was with a modicum of unpleasantness that the sound of the earth being hollowed away not more than ten steps away from the other side of the hut wall did I prepare to attack the cat or possible thief.

Dawn light struggled against the tide of prevailing darkness. Shuffling feet and hands slap the wall in search of the doorway, then like the blessed land of Theus, Euripides discovers the doorway to Marc's hut.

'What pray tell in heaven are you doing?'

'I am scratching out a fossil from the gypsum and it is a hard task.'

Haunted by visions of fossils in the form of a monster with a violin or a cat, Marc has taken it upon himself to rid the _Sacred Heart of Iesous Abbeye_ of visions and incantations to deliver the world from suffering. Marc has decided our great Catholic Church has not done enough to promote the suffering aspect of Christendom.

Marc has taken substantial umbrage at the Jewish commentary of their son as merely a prophet as do their Islamic cousins. For what is so paltry about a prophet? He asks no less. Are they not great enough, why complain that he is only a prophet and not the son of God? Marc in all good conscience reckons it to be like _just_ a lieutenant on an outrigger headed for the South East passage, for the captain requires able support and in the captain's absence doesn't the lieutenant act as the captain in all his duties, so in all purposes is the captain.

'Religion is drowning in semantics!'

'Keep quiet!'
A stained glass window is alive with depictions of catastrophic events that are never explained. Rain has settled over the Basilica, the lanes and gutters are awash with turgid brine and leaves. It is impossible to set foot outside. Days go by awash with muck and distress but time enough for watching the completion of the _Murale of Destiny_.

Transported back to the Chartres Cathedral - thousands of tiny black lines, intricate designs of faces, seasonal attributes and farm animals strategically placed in patterns that start to resemble something only seen in books.

A stained glass window as bright and poignant as anything St Peter's has to offer comes alive portraying the sanctity of Old Testament fables. There is a mission to cross the Sea of Galilee in one corner as the Jews embark to the Promised Land while in another corner merchants set up camp in ancient Gaul with spices and fruits from the Orientale. Tall black men with rings and chains from nose to ear sell goblets of fine red powder that transforms a goat stew into a banquet.

... _soup ablaze, cockerels swimming in broth, hearty brew, dialogue to a bowl and spoon; constant...Hermetica to enlighten disciples – the divine cosmos, mind and body, suffering is inevitable. Peime-nte-re known to have said who art thou, look inside to see who you are – not the Nous of the Supreme. The monad tilted the cup and reasoned all that flowed from it would deluge the righteousness as a dark shadow crossed the land.Re flew to a rocky outcrop burial ground..._

The stained glass window also depicts Tune, an ancient Viking ship, in its bowels was a cabin of sorts where Avalon knelt before an altar with small totems, a hammer - not Thor's -a candle and various odd shaped wooden blocks with gouges looking like ancient symbols. Avalon was apprehensive that the voyage they had embarked upon ventured into unchartered seas. His crew were full of vigour but starved of fresh food and water. There came a realisation that they had not the resources to turn back...what lay ahead was uncertain...does the safety of the homeland protect or guide the unknown...the answer of course was simple...and was laid out before them on the ornaments around the altar.

Avalon, the hero of so many escapades, re-arranges the wooden blocks to form allegiances only he can decipher – _how convenient_?

There are messages to unravel, courses to plot, and with so little time, for above deck there is more than rampant sea water flooding the decks. The elements can be withstood, but the minds of men, poorly nourished, can tip into madness at the blink of an eye.
'A goblet of mead for Blot,' shouts _Gustine_.

Drinking horns, butchered roaches and a floor of soggy straw - _Salone Mesmaris_ is brewing with noise, wooden stools and irate customers wanting more lamb shanks. Marc takes to tasks with diligence and bravado but he is caught in a tide of swill and incandescent light.

'Bowls are removed from the table but never a goblet,' the barkeep shouts at Marc. 'Keep the swine awash with deluge.'

With a scar on his wrist to remind him of epic skirmishes Gustine turns his attention to a minor scuffle over a jar of eggs in brine.

Marc is filling in for _Jeane_ who has fallen ill and was last seen, before dawn, retching and spitting into a drain near the canal. There was only enough time for him to change his tunic and appear at the cellar door. Gustine was not happy that he was already one down but had no choice so after a bowl of hot beets Marc was sent into the lion's den to fetch what he could so the kitchen could re-serve from the two simmering cast iron pots that served a stock made from bones, pig heads, shanks and ribs. This stock that few would describe as soup was delivered in wooden bowls and topped with boiled root vegetables and for an extra franc, dark seeded bread.

If fortunate enough, Marc could find the occasional franc on the ground or in the swill trough which often carried urine from sailors who could no longer find their way to the ablution house out the back.

Dawn seemed an eternity away as patrons appeared in no mood to abate their quenching and chomping. There was music of sorts from a small table in the corner which seemed barely able to contain two people let alone an accordion player and fiddler with their audience sitting, kneeling and standing around them joining in on the chorus of an obviously well know shanty:

It comes across the sea,

from where, from where?

It comes from far away,

To where, to where?

It's not that clear, but when it does,

I'll be there, I'll be there.

After many rounds of the same song, Marc tried to block out the call and response but it went on and on until he could no longer fathom what they were singing.

'Look out, those bowls are filthy!' Old Jacque screamed at him from the galley, with a fag butt looped from the corner of his mouth. His stringy hair draped across his forehead, and a constant eyebrow in relief of trimming.

'Mind your way!'

Other patrons wishing to exit for the ablution push his basket of dirty plates out of their way so they strike other patrons moving between tables.

The noise and stench become fever pitched as the music gets louder and Marc who is full of under cooked beets feels as if on a steamer going down the Seine.

His knees feel like _Bolbiere's_ fruit custard tarts as his shoes squelch in the swill over flow, the windows are closed and the smoke wafts under the ceiling, the stairs rickety from people tramping up and down to the games room.

Suddenly he is grabbed on the shoulder. His head spins around to see his assailant but it is Samuel, another of the lodgers from Le Compounde.

'Steady as she goes, my man, you don't appear well...' he shouts but the din drowns out the last part of the sentence.

Marc is grabbed by both shoulders and shoved up against a hat stand covered in cloth caps, that look like barnacles on a ship's hull.

'I'd help you out old man, but I'm on a mission of my own, I am about to set sail on a robust young ketch named _Racine_ , who will wait no longer. Here is a franc, now pour that bowl into that one and that one as well.'

Marc, who is fully laden, cannot stop Samuel pouring the dregs of many others into a bowl so in no time at all the bowl is encrusted with lamb fat and shiny potato before he sets sail for the door wiping his mouth with the coat sleeve.

'Hoist away matey,' he is heard as the door briefly opens and closes again.

Marc spies a franc in the trough but there are too many people in the way so he drops a bowl which clatters on the one bare floorboard which isn't covered in filth. A few heads turn and a few mutters come his way. In the slime he extracts the coin and places it in his waist coat next to another one already there. Another franc and he will have cheese and baguette for breakfast when the Patisserie opens.

Somehow the hours transpire with little incident. He is glad to be away from the stench and the noise of drunkenness and sloth as footsteps slide on glossy smooth cobblestones, with the hiss of gas above and yellow flame beacon to illuminate the path.

Fingers jingle four francs amongst an array of unfiltered fag butts. It is past two am, and breakfast awaits somewhere in the future which is enough to hold onto. The previous day is lost forever, like a wave in the ocean it succumbs and sinks to the ferocious inevitability of wave after wave. Rain after rain flowing into the Seine, people walk to work, walk home, horses defecate on the street, maybe someone will trail behind to clean the mess before the next rain washes away the mess.
A train whistle...a horse and cart on the cobblestones; echoes of each step catching up with the previous one...a baby crying from across the courtyard...the sound of wet clothes being struck on a stone...the wind through a wooden shutter...a bird flapping its wings. There were other sounds but they were inconsequential however, they did inform Le Compounde that life went on unabated outside its walls.

Braq stared at the buckets he commandeered from the office. His offcuts have reached haystack proportions. There are so many and the ones on the bottom are starting to putrefy and are in need of drying out. He starts to spread them in arcs across the floor but soon realised they will cover the floor in no time.

The buckets are only half empty and most of the floor in his room is covered. He stares at his haul and thinks of the fish market in Marseille where wooden racks filled with sardines and red mullet are lined in rows to dry in the Sun while the ocean breeze crisps the skin.

Le Compounde roof? Maybe there is room to build such a rack, but how to stop the cats eating his prized kindling starter...soft and fibrous – pulled apart they exude a residue along the strands.

The smell is still yet to be classified, somewhere between wet leaves and cold meat. Mushrooms are better when fried in butter and garlic, but these wet pads taste worse when cooked. Marc said he only tried it once then gave the rest away.

As the roof slopes down there is just enough room to crawl along the beam. Pellets of rat shit make it harder to grasp the beam. The last window at the end of the attic is jammed shut. The window looks different to the others. The glass is divided into four panels unlike the other three in the series.

Wooden slats under the glass panels have been painted over with green paint that in the dark looks black. Pushing the edges of the panes proves difficult and he soon tires. Resting against the wall one of the slats creaks. After a slight push a slat gives just enough to take notice. While still sitting he feels other wooden slats, tracing the outline of each till a fingernail roughs over a protruding nail.

Further encouraged he turns to face the wooden slats on his knees and digs at the nail. It is rusted and breaks easily. Armed with a tool the nail is used to pry, scrape and dislodge a slat, then another, more nails are removed and placed in order so that they can be easily identified and replaced in their original positions. Before long there are two piles; wooden slats in order of their removal and a pile of nails with less concern for their sequence, as he thinks; a nail is a nail.

Squeezing through the opening under the window the cold blasts over the metal roof making it almost hot to touch. After crouching, standing up is not easy and with little to hold onto he struggles for grip.

Dawn is still a couple of hours away so seeing on the roof is difficult. There are more questions than answers. How would the offcuts get up here? Could they be spread out? How would the wind be sheltered against? Would cats and rain take them away?

Would it be simpler to keep them in the hut, or even still not bring them from the fields?

The desire to use them as kindling ignition is stronger than the reasoning needed to construct a drying solution. Already images of wire netting, wooden fruit boxes and newspaper filled crates flicker through his internal landscape.

Lighting a cigarette butt momentarily catches the spire of _Saint Sceour_ in the distance, a neighbouring roof slopes over the laneway, which gives some shelter from rain, another match is lit and beams are revealed in the murk, the slope will be an advantage for rain to flow away.

On the terrace he surveys the courtyards and spires with an artiste's sensibility. He is drowsy and melancholic as the night subsides. If he were so inclined he might have brought his charcoale to sketch the gloomy backdrop, and if done so, may have embarked him on an altogether different trajectory but for the time being, minimalist lines and resolute defiance of any structure dominate the clouded thoughts of suffering in silence.
Braq wets each corner of paper with a pumice of gypsum and dust. The sheets are comprised of newspaper that has been pummelled into a bucket of water, dried and laid on the table then coated with a layer of gypsum to hint at being a canvas. After days of industry the finished product looks like the holiest of parchments - for Braq truly believed.

He lovingly presides over his charcoale flints with the pride of a parent. Waiting for inspiration to arrive Braq fiddles with an oily flint of charcoale, twirling from one finger to another then letting it rest in his hand till an oily streak formed on two fingers and a well in his cupped hands surrounded by lines of skin.

Not to paint is the only truth. To draw a line separates the truth, to paint something you have to make a decision to leave something out. Solace resides in depth...let it rest...

The edge between painting and not painting is razor sharp; they both travel the same path as light travels through all possible directions at once. There is no distinction between painting and not painting, for they are part of the same picture.

Where there is light and no light occupy the same space even though one exists when the other doesn't, for how would one recognise light if there was only darkness, it would not be called light as there would be no darkness to give it existence. It was not hard to extrapolate this to life and death.

When Braq held the charcoale flint there was no distinction between life and death – which was a perfect setting for him to draw line after line, smudge after smudge, shading here and there, for it did not matter where the charcoale landed on the gypsum wall for where it did land was balanced by where it didn't so the markings on the wall became a presentation of light and dark, of life and death, so there was no subject matter other than the balance of charcoale markings and gypsum wall.

What it looked like did not enter his consciousness for it could only look like what it was. If in time it was viewed as a landscape, industrial setting or portrait was nonsensical for it could only ever be viewed for what it was – the edge between painting and not painting.

Braq woke before opening an eye. The remnant of a dream was still vivid as motor functions began to operate - An unidentified person opened a door for a piano to be dragged into a hallway. The occupants of the room seemed impressed. Braq lay on a bed with many people standing around talking. The wall next to his bed came alive to replace silence and rigidity. People dissipated as being awake brought with it a damp blanket of mediocrity.

The day before became the day ahead. People walked past without knowledge of the indolence within. How many days or weeks could go by without any reference to the world outside Le Compounde's walls?

The currant bun remained impassive...the pile of dried fruit was flat after many roaches had dislodged the flux...the bun itself had remained largely ignored which could only be pondered over...

A letter arrives from a cousin informing Braq of the death of his Aunt who had looked after him after his parents had died. There was some money from the sale of some personal possessions if he could arrange to travel to Chartres.

Braq is too embarrassed to attend the dislocated family gathering. He imagines them all arriving in their refinery, handsome cabs and gay talk of summers in Provence and game keeping at the _Chateau Dreux_.

Marc upon discovering the letter remonstrates with Braq that he must attend.

'For what riches are you willing to forgo due to your shabbiness and indolence. Don't we struggle in the mire, clawing our way through each turgid offering of a day, and you sit there impassive, immovable like a _Pagane_.'

Marc rushes in with clothes stolen from a nearby washing line but Braq is too embarrassed regarding his appearance and the thought of travelling outside the Le Compounde is too terrifying.

'There is so much to do – the kindling is low, the walls need another wash and I've only just begun this...' Braq moves slowly towards the wall with all the pageantry of a coronation. He looks at his masterpiece with unbridled pride. There are sweeping lines that carry him to forever, moments of shaded glory hinting at a new dawn, inspired angles of romantic deconstruction, vistas of grandeur...Marc sees none of this and disregards Braq's domestic ties as impudent.

'To forsake your birth right for some wooden sticks and a conglomeration of unyielding mess is lunacy.'

Braq hears only the wind caressing the lavender.

'Well if you aren't going then I will.' Marc decides to impersonate Braq and travel to _Eure-et-Loir_.

'Where are your papers?'

'What papers?'

'The papers that prove you are alive.' Marc is beside himself with the lust for untold riches. 'How can such a madman hide behind his own indulgence? Life is a struggle and occasionally a fortuitous opportunity arrives that cannot be ignored, and this is such a time!'

Marc folds the letter and bids farewell but Braq is already on his way to the fields to scavenge for kindling even though the Sun has risen earlier and the new buds are flowering, but such is his industry for routine even when the weather does not necessitate further contemplation he can only think of those long winter nights hunched over the hearth drying off-cuts.
Braq stands in the laneway behind Le Compounde. He finds an old box which he tests to stand upon to peer over a fence. Looking over houses and down a valley towards the city, the buildings take on the guise of anger, belittling him, sneering at his ineptitude, of never being a real artist.

Braq strives for great advancements but is hindered by the dull grey sky, the noise of horse and carts and people with purpose and industry – when all combined create an impenetrable barrier that can't be broken down. The mere thought of presenting himself to the outside world is a crushing fear. The voices and laughter ring loud in his head.

Marc hasn't been seen for days so there is no food. Under the cloak of darkness Braq ventures into the lane way after midnight and keeping close to walls and away from street lamps, stalks the streets like a feral animal.

He closes in on the Taverna which has just closed. There are still people lurching and twisting in revelry as they prance down the silent cobblestone paths. The last light inside the Taverna on the top floor goes out and the hiss of gas melts into the darkness.

Braq steps forward, waits then continues to slide against the edge of a brick wall.

He crouches down and feels along the cobbles, in particular in the maze of indentations between the stones, searching for the odd loose coin that has fallen out of some drunk's pocket as they check for cab fare for a late night potion of Absinthe closer to town where the Cafes and the more refined restaurants stay open well into the night.

A centime is found quickly followed by another one. Before long two francs are held tightly in his grasp. Another centime and a baguette will be his. The ferocity of the search has dwindled now that _L'or_ has been forged. Tomorrow is the horizon and no event exists beyond that.

A severe reconnaissance is carried out over the Square, but no more currency is found. The bakery light is on but the door still closed. Winter has gone inside but the mornings are still flavoured with a chilled wind. With no coat Braq huddles into a precipice between two walls in a corner of the Square near the bridge.

The wait is interminable but he is eventually rewarded with the sound of the door latch being opened. Braq dredges up some pride amongst the hunger and cold and remains still. He does not want to be the first customer of the day.

The coins are slimy cold in his hand. There is a piece of ingrained dirt on one that must be removed. He enters the brightness of the bakery and is overwhelmed by aromas of bread, croissant, brioche and currant buns. His legs go weak at the combination of abject hunger and sweetness in his nostrils. His sweaty hand attempts to grip the coins in his pocket.

_Valentin_ notices the poor wretch and slowly wipes his flour coated hands down the sides of his apron. There is a ceremonial stand-off as the baker waits for a sign.

'May I help you?' He eventually asks.

Braq holds out his hand to display the assortment of tarnished coinery. The baker leans over the counter with a slight frown to count them.

'What can I have?'

Braq fails to process the display of wares and their prices. Weakness overrides everything, even his self-esteem.

'Let me see, how about a small baguette and a currant bun, two in fact.'

Simple words captured Braq and sent his predicament to the seaside, momentarily at least - ' _Merci, merci_!'
At home with his breakfast, Braq pours through Marc's Journale. He chances upon an entry, to his surprise, referring to himself. Braq takes stock of the handwritten entries, all written in the most beautiful classical font.

Braq de Leppis, native of Illiers, son of a long line of sea captains. His schooling was unremarkable until he chanced upon the works of Jean Perreal. For the first time Braq saw a vision of what he could be. At the Lycée he met his lifelong friend Marc Dufy and studied at the Le Rouault School of Fine Arts before moving to Paris. In Paris, Braq met Albert Marquet and rebelled against the established academic teaching by becoming a member of the Fauves. He exhibited sporadically with no real success so the following year returned to Illiers to explore more esoteric styles of drawing after discovering his dream of becoming a painter like Matisse was not going to eventuate while his technique still resided in the past. In an attempt to open his own studio he moved to Montmartre and remains there still, except for brief trips to Toulon and Givenchy. He now seldom paints while obsessed with drawing charcoale etchings that appear surreal and obtuse in a style completely removed from his contemporaries. Having abandoned the arabesque murals of his Fauve years, De Leppis has returned to a more subdued palette. Chardin and Corot are briefly referenced even Cézanne to an extent.

Braq is happy to pretend the history of his favourite school-of-art means as much to him as the rancid, mouldy fly sodden currant bun which has somehow moved from the table to the floor near the doorway.

As he falls asleep he hears a marching band in his head and sees the Republic's new flag flapping in the wind.

La semaine sanglante has returned, victory night will not be slaine, Paris to be defended at all costs, Garde Mobile will replenish the ranks, fire cannon and bloodshed will drip down the steps of Faubourg Saint-Antoine, Long live the commune, Viva Montmartre Viva!

In a dream, Braq stumbles across _Eugenie_ , Marie's daughter, sleeping in the downstairs office. He is entranced by her beauty as she sleeps. In her sleep, Braq whispers in her ear to go to _Saint-Albertes_. A chauffeur and notorious actress from the _Trocadero_ are sent to retrieve Françoise and while waiting, he muses on Ravel's music. As a captive in Venice, _Vinteuil's_ septet enhances all those that hear it. Braq and Eugenie dance the night away as thunder and lightning rip across the night sky. They run through a park with rain and wind buffeting their progress. As branches are tossed in the air and leaves scratch their faces, they dance in the full moon light, their bodies having been transformed into goats, their nakedness more at home as beasts of the _wilde_ – there is a _festivale_ at play, ornamentation and design flapper from every vantage point, music and laughter roam the forest outskirts like itinerant travellers looking for a Taverna for the night. Chants and Songs mingle as the crackle of bonfires send flecks of burnt orange spiralling into the tree-tops and beyond...
Braq in a very singular fashion roams _Rue de Compoine_ barely managing to hold Marc's journale together for it has grown beyond his wildest dreams, so much so he is incapable of the following; keeping the sections in order, maintaining narrative fluidity and perhaps most importantly appreciating it is not in his or anybody else's, for that matter, interest to read elongated passages while avoiding the most basic of potential obstructions; street lamps, gutters, small dogs, prams and most surprisingly, to Braq; other people going about their daily convivial; posting letters, carrying sausages, hailing cabs and all asunder of things too narrow in scope for Braq to be bothered with, but he continues nonetheless. Regardless of his mindless pursuit, the saving grace for those things he encountered was that he read not aloud so much, but in a sort of demonic whisper as if possessed by daemons of unknown origin, not unlike the pagane ancestors that splintered from all manner of non-secular tribes in a time when the Sun was not seen as God.

" _Confusion from the word of God has meant the fragmentation of the original message to whatever people perceive their truth to be...Tablets were found depicting astronomical observations from 2000BC, even before the Greeks."_

It is evident Marc's obsession with Babylon has embellished his Journale with far-fetched musings on the ancient city. Unknown to all, Marc dreams of a day when it will rise again to spurn all sorts of great revolutions in art, music, architecture, philosophy...and other great pursuits he can hardly imagine.

" _The Assyrians met the Vikings in the Mediterranean, what a meeting of minds, but the Persian wars deflected their resources and the Vikings were left to discover the Nile and the Arabian states. Gold was used to finance the Persian wars which led to the collapse of Babylon."_

Upon his return Marc finds Le Compounde empty. The smell of dried offcuts and wet newspapers greets his arrival at Braq's hut.

For reasons known only to him, Braq has been excavating under the hut proclaiming great archaeological discoveries; including the black rock of immortality.

'Oh Princess of Wallonia, Grace of Spa,' he proclaims.

'Of what riches have you returned with?' Salutes Braq, but his friend does not wish to speak for his journey has been arduous. His pilfered clothes bare all the signs of long days on the road with little food or sleep.

'So am I rich?' Braq shouts as Marc descends into his grotto. For a moment Braq is actually interested but the sight of his ever-changing _murale_ captures his attention once more. So with nothing more said, Braq embarks on a protracted routine of working through the night till he can hold the charcoale no more before consuming what scraps are available before sleeping well into the late afternoon before continuing the cycle.

Each drawn line, each sweep of shading extracts more energy than Braq can muster. The dense undergrowth surrounds him. The gypsum walls close in so that they tower over him; mocking his every breath.

The murale is overwhelming in its ambition, he only its guardian and for that he feels he is failing. The minutes descend to crush his spirit but he senses the rhythm and marries each stroke with an exhalation of breath till his breathing controls the onslaught of the beckoning wall before him. Hours pass, lines are planted and sown, there is no overall design, no plan; certainly no apparent structure; it is a full flowing demonstration of equilibrium and pointed manifestation of – nothing.
Marc begins to suffer greatly from nightmares. There are daemons and pagane but worse, for him, is the dissolution of his spirit and hope for the future. A single image creates havoc and piece by piece destroys the carefully constructed peace and quiet he has created.

' _Ourte!'_

In the Ardennes mountain range strangers appear at night, they must be appeased in the Vesdre valley where Lemaitre proposed the Big Bang.

Marc's most repeated nightmare is of a troupe of puppets dancing and singing - surrounding him speaking a language; _scriptae_ \- tainted.

" _moret eupt slevin trapste sever lepone non au Keval Gambe ist eu Kief Cachier Cherf, A la rescousse!_ " A clown with a horrific grin and over-laced theatrical make-up charges him.

' _Oui, j' comprinds.'_

" _At'ervir, croyez a mon amitie vraie."_

The clowns eventually stop dancing , mid-dream, their dis-jointed bodies collapse upon each other, their strings entwine and they are silent once more...a graveyard of clowns...no longer mocking their terrified dream owner.
As the murale takes shape; entering its final version, Braq ventures out less and less, relying on Marc to not only provide food but also news from the outside world. Whereupon he used to walk around Montmartre to take in the sights and venture through laneways even stopping at certain stalls to inspect the season's first asparagus or to discuss the finer cuts of pork, he now goes no further than _Rue Giradon_ to the north and _Rue Beauchamp_ to the south with the laneways _Garderie_ and _La Clichy_ creating a border to the east and west. Along this boundary are the Cafes; _Babil, Oriane_ and _Verdu_ which he still visits arbitrarily.

Fragments fall apart, his former life begins to fade, despair runs wild, hunger and pain enclose emptiness. Unbridled fear of the unknown circles the fallen. Piece by piece is held up for introspection but there is no respite for when the fallen cannot find the will to go on the battle truly begins. Vanquishing minds is insecurity personified. It is why people only talk about other things when they are really talking about themselves.

'There is a new painting by some pompous Spaniard,' Marc explains. 'I have not seen it myself, but others describe it as the splintering of light to show the divergence of existence.'

Without seeing it Braq knows this to be folly for a painting cannot be this.

'A painting has a frame with some oil arbitrarily dispersed, these visions you speak of are of the mind, they say more about the viewer than what is on the canvas. The mind splinters truth as much as a prism splinters light. None of the individual colours of the rainbow are light, as none of a person's thoughts are truth, yet wars are waged, prophecies decreed and people destroyed because of ideas, slogans and the sheer will of the mind.'

'Yet the same can be said to prove the opposite, take Lord Byron, Shakespeare and Baudelaire, aren't their words driven to the same ludicrous conclusions?' Marc asks.

'Only because they are bathed in lyrical colours, humour and melancholy do people fall about laughing and crying, but they are barely splinters of truth, mirages perhaps, from life but not the entirety of existence,' Braq argues and continues with; 'Hope is for the bewitched, praise for the insecure and worst of all faith for the righteousness, for a crusade is easy to embark on, just bring in the cannons, a wilful mind spurned with religious fervour will never be vanquished for it lives on in other splintered minds where only a slither is consumed while the planets, stars continue on their cyclic path. It is known the Sun is a ball of gas, or so they say, what happens when the gas runs out, is it covering another Sun hidden from view or will it extinguish and along with it the multitudes of splintered truth?'
Chestnuts fall, rain soaks into the earth as mushrooms are picked along the gate to the north side of the Verdaine – a mass of rock and fallen timber in pastures filled with lavender, sunflowers and wild herbs.

Against a post with coiled wire is an acceptable place to rest and drink some wine with a crust of bread and a slice of _Vorge_. The line of fence has untended grass holding each post like a serviette around a café candle.

The occasional beast chews grass, sticking its head through the wire to sample a lavender stalk or daisy head. Ploughing goes on with no end in sight, baring the fallow section for next season's garlic and onions.

In dung as big as a face, clumps of mushrooms appear. They seem to be brighter deeper in colour after rain.

Once a cow trampled on one and the next day there were more, maybe the spores fertilised the area, begat, begot forget forgot, the more that is collected the less offcuts can be brought home.

Le Compounde roof now has a tray hidden by an old chimney. The tray is enclosed with wire and springs from an old mattress found in the _Ordeure_ , meticulously pulled apart by hand and re-strung over many days.

There are a hundred or so little pieces, stuck in the mesh with air circulating around them. Numerous trips up the stairs, along the alcove through the wooden slats are needed to check on bilious clouds from the Sea. Some are placed along the top of the cracks in the brickwork and dry much quicker.
The hand of the devil is not so cold...it captures and feeds upon itself...the stars look so far way. If only they could be friends...would they like me...so impassive...they stare down every night like nothing has happened...while people slave and toil...day after day...with no end in sight...looking at the buildings...the streets...

'It is hard to comprehend there is a planet...'

'What do you mean a planet?' Braq asks.

'The Earth.'

'How do you know?'

'Ship sails come up over the horizon...'

'You don't know for sure there is a planet underneath us. Have you ever seen the planet?'

'No, you would have to be up in the sky.'

'Where does the sky go at night?'

'It must be connected to the Sun.'

'How so?'

'Well the light must be blue in part, like a gas flame.'

'So much to ponder, that's what is so good about the night, time to reflect.'

'Well while you are reflecting, how about giving me a hand tying these trays together. And be quiet we don't want to wake anyone.'

'Heaven forbid.'

'I don't think anyone paid rent this month, Marie seemed a little upset on Sunday.'

'I know, I think I heard her mention you.'

'Me?'

'Yes, she asked Georges, have you seen Braq, he has not paid in two months. I think it was when you were collecting berries with Tomas.'

'What did he say?'

'I don't know I was on my way to the Café.'

'How many more of these wire baskets do we have to make?'

'Enough to fill what off-cuts are left on the floor downstairs.'

'You know, you could always try not bringing so many home.'

'Well, they're hard to see in the dark, when I scoop up the rotten mulch they are hidden underneath. That's where the best little mushrooms are, not those stinking things you get.

Don't talk about my Bluebells like that, you certainly eat enough of them.'

Laneway with oily black slush...trees covered in snow...frost and rocks...slush and cold...wet leaves...crackling wet ice under boots wrapped with wire to make soles with tread...

'Braq, hold the newspaper still.'

'I am you are over loading it with mulch.'

'It's not mulch.'

'It's not?'

'No, it's the soul of the earth, we must transfer this sacred parcel of dirt, leaves, and beetle dung to the altar or up the Abbeye spire to the house of revelation, so the seeds of tomorrow are sown into the air...the sky will take our orchard...and reveal fruit for the masses to gorge themselves on.'

'Oh...!'
Marc brings Pierre home from the Café. He was intrigued by the coin sized offering Marc shoved into his hand. Pierre demanded that Marc take him to where he found them.

Pierre walks into the hut and starts to giggle like a young girl.

'I will give you 5 francs.'

Marc thinks he means for the entire pile and starts to collect them into a newspaper.

Pierre says, 'Wait, wait I can't afford that much.'

Marc is confused, 'But I thought you said 5 francs?'

'I did, for each one.'

Marc looks at the pile of droppings, his eyes widen as he tries to ascertain how many there could be, in one section near the door he stops counting after fifty for there is at least ten times that amount along one side of the wall alone.

'You want to pay 5 francs for each one?'

'Yes, sorry is that not enough, maybe I could go as far as 8 francs for each one.'

Marc has to sit down. His mind cannot comprehend the untold riches in front of him. His mind is incapable of adding up that much. All sorts of scenarios confront him but surprisingly it is not a structure...house...cab...clothes...it's a feeling, long forgotten...as freedom comes bounding down the laneway...
...as the world disappears...
...from outside... garbage cans are disturbed - the rattle resonates – ripples of sound in the dark. Roman lies awake, hours go by, thinking about the last thing she said... _I can't leave him...I just can't_ ...she is weak, he thinks but there will be others - he hopes.

Roman can't get up before the shop is open. The thought of fresh bread and instant coffee supplants what lies ahead.

When it is time he takes a shower pretending she is still with him. It doesn't last long as he is worried about being heard. Walking to the shop will not take long, there exists a slight possibility it will be shut - he is prepared to wait.

The street is busy with buses and taxis - noise deafening, making it a struggle to memorise the shopping list going around his mind...coffee...butter...bread...

People stand at a bus stop; impassive. He senses their mood – dull, lethargic, and comatose – like the jobs they are travelling to. In more ways than one he is going in the opposite direction.

The shop is open. Aria places a white bucket filled with long stemmed flowers next to the newspaper rack – _Bush sends troops to Kuwait_. She sees him but there is no acknowledgement. He is just another dole bludger with an account that heaves and sighs with each fortnightly payment.

_Where is he in the cycle?_ Mid-term she assumes.

'Morning,' he says rapidly to get it out of the way, heading straight for the bread stand. He scans them all in a process of elimination before deciding on a loaf of wholemeal, before checking the use by tag.

_At least five days – perfect!_ He has coffee, so just needs butter and marmalade.

Michael sticks his head around the corner. His thick hairy knuckles holding up the door frame. His eyes sparkle behind thick black _Nana Mouskouri_ glasses, all that is missing is the gold chain... _a young Greek boy is lost at sea, his family wait but nothing comes back except three white doves_ ...

Michael tilts his head – an affliction perhaps...Alzheimer's? Or just a lazy tic...

'Look at this.'

Roman follows the lazy tic to a sorting area filled with boxes. There is the aftermath of rampant dysfunction...tardiness to the nth degree...threatening to submerge all who dare enter.

'What do you think of this?' A large snap lock bag is held up for inspection...dope possibly, he thinks, then hopes.

Roman stuffs his bona fide Mediterranean honker in the bag expecting heady resin bushels of primo ganja...his head rocks back with the kick of an AK-47.

'Smells like Greek salad.' Sensory overload morphs into confusion. He gives up too easily.

'What it is?'

'Greek oregano, _dried!_ ' Michael seems impressed with the emphasis on dried.

'What for?'

'To mix down, how you say?'

From under the bench, Michael retrieves a smaller snap lock bag wrapped in shiny brown masking tape – the kind that vacuum cleaners are sealed with and would survive an exploding Space Shuttle.

'You'll get killed.'

'What?' Michael pushes his glasses back along his cockatoo shaped beak.

'You don't mix dope, not here anyway!'

'But you said, mix down?'

' _Harry_ yes, not weed.'

'Oh!?'

Michael was left to work out what to do with several kilos of Greek Oregano, _dried!_

'That's all today.' Roman hands Aria the money. There's change but he says,

'That's fine, take it off the bill.' He doesn't wait for a plastic bag or a reply.

The morning could not be going any better. Ahead lay breakfast, music and pretending to be other people. Roman walks in the main door, through the dark cold lobby. The deep brown paintwork blends with the mosaic tiles and wide staircase.

A Boarding House from an era gone by, _Moira_ stands alone amongst the sandy coloured blocks of units, with twenty single and double bed rooms and a labyrinth of stairs and passageways.

Must get the butter in the fridge.

Humidity is moving from the courtyard into the lobby. His single-mindedness is brought abruptly to a halt by the sound of unfamiliar voices. There is a disturbance in the air of unknown origin.

As he turns the corner into the light, the sight of Police - one male, one female - doesn't stop his gait but it certainly changes his facial expression. He tries to think of all the possible options; drugs, theft, accident, murder and any chance he is even remotely involved.

'Are you Roman Blackman?' asks the man cop.

'Yes.' _No point lying at this early stage_.

'Have you been here all night?'

'Yes.'

He walks up the stairs with some confidence as his dislike for authority kicks in. They seem slightly aggrieved he hasn't stopped.

'I need to put this in the fridge,' he says holding up the small slab. It's then he notices all the handwritten signs stuck on walls, handrails and most disturbingly his door. Remnants of last night start to re-assemble.

This may take some explaining.

'Do you want to come in?'

'No, out here is fine.'

He stands in front of them. Other lodgers become aware that something different is happening. Some balcony doors open, others close, curtains are drawn tight lest they become involved.

Courtyard features suddenly come into sharp focus – garbage bins, wrought ironwork, weather board shower cubical, cracked cement, weeds at the bottom of a drain pipe – all inconsequential up to this point but now framing his predicament.

'There was an alleged assault last night. Do you know anything about it?'

'No.'

'Can we look inside your room?'

'Sure.'

What the Police made of the signs he could not begin to guess. Roman tried to read them without laughing...' _rude rude head...you shouldn't deface innocent girls while they are drunk_ ...'

The Police look around the room, checking for god knows what?

'Do you mind if we take a statement?'

'Nope.'

'At the Station.'

'At the Station? Why?'

'We need to check fingerprints.'

Suddenly the morning wasn't panning out as planned and the look in their eyes made it certain there was little he could do.

Back outside there was more than a little interest. Most balconies had someone on them looking in his direction as he was led down the stairs.

Fate would have it that under Police escort he passed practically everyone in the courtyard, hallway and outside that he knew. People he hadn't seen for ages miraculously appeared as he was led to the Police car.

The drive to the Police station was filled with no further comment and hence no clarification. The generic term _assault_ in his head began an uncomfortable feeling of anger percolate to the surface.

At the Station he was finger printed then escorted to a room where a series of questions were fired at him. A copy of his statement was presented which he had to sign after initialling both pages.

The gist of the _incident_ was a girl had identified him as her assailant. The allegation entailed he broke in and woke her up while stealing a pair of underpants from her bureau before fleeing through the window.

Rooms on the ground floor had a sort of door window set up where you could lock the knee high door if you brought down the window so if the window was open and the short door locked you could step through the opening.

The one question that threw him was, 'are you gay?'

He answered yes as he quickly traced a logical path that if they believed he was gay then that would most likely eliminate him from their line of enquiry. That it might remain on some record for who knows how long was a risk he was willing to take.

Driving back, the signs posted on the walls and doors made him smile. The previous night they were all drinking in the front room with the members of the _Tribe_. One of their girlfriends had fallen asleep and he had assisted in drawing decals on her face, knowing she had a job interview at a petrol station this morning.

'So you are definitely _gay_?'

'Yes,' he answers again.

'We thought so, that girl was crazy, but you should think about...telling your friends not to place incriminating evidence around with your name on it.'

'I will.'

The older _gang_ are playing snooker. They are at the _Sailing Club_ most days. There is no pattern. They arrive at staggered intervals.

Gerry is a welder by trade and a good one by all accounts. Graham works occasionally as a casual labourer. He gets to the Hotel mid-afternoon sometimes lunchtime on a Friday. His days can vary depending on what job he had that day.

Bill is retired, always impeccably dressed. He visits his war buddy every Wednesday at the Veteran's home. They play scrabble and talk about the mates that didn't make it back. Bill was in his early twenties when he went to war. He survived and doesn't think about it too much. He didn't know anyone that went with him but he made friends there. He attends Anzac Day but harbours no regrets. Going to war now seems somewhat of a dream or a distant holiday but he does wonder who will talk about it when his buddy dies.

'So did you molest her?'

'I tried but she woke up, all I got was a pair of undies.'

'You, but you couldn't get it up if you tried.'

'I resemble that remark.'

'Gee, I'd give it a go.'

'Remember that _rhino_ we saw at _Buck's_.'

'That was so funny.'

'We're sitting there surrounded by all that filth, I mean real beauties.'

'Remember the one with red hair.'

'Then that beast in blue shorts arrives with her pubes hanging out her arse, and lover boy here says; my god I'd chew that out.'

'I was almost sick.'

'But she was beautiful.'

Bill shakes his head and pots the last two balls before sinking the white off the black.

'Beautiful?'

'Beauty rests gently on all those that take the time to offer her a pillow.'

'Where did you hear that?'

'I just made it up.'

'Bullshit!'

'You can believe what you want, I most certainly do – I believe in sunsets, puppy dogs, grandchildren on my knee, walks along the beach, soft rain in a caravan park...the look in Deidre's eyes when our first child was born...'

'How about the first sight of your ugly little monster,' Bill laughs so hard he has an attack of phlegm.

'You should give the bungers away.'

'What for?'

'Whose shout is it?'

'Smoking is not good for you.'

'Neither is listening to the crap that comes out of your mouth.'

'Do you realise that everyone that jogs eventually dies.'

Gerry waves it away.

Graham cracks up. 'That's a good one. Bloody poofters.'

'Here comes Taffy.'

'Evening gents.'

'How's the morgue?'

'You know it's the dead centre of town!'

'Every day the same joke.'

'My shout, a round here love. Jeez I'd give it to this one.'

'And she'd give it back.'

'Margins of error are hard to control.'

'What does that mean?'

'Whatever you want it to.'

'You guys talk some shit.'

'Yeah, but it's interesting. Think about it. I see dead bodies all day, and there sure ain't any soul, so if it's all meaningless then what are you worried about. We're all going to die, so why worry about anything.'

'Sort of blessed are the _cheese makers_.'

'What?'

'You know, _Life of Brian_ , when he escapes from the Romans by falling onto the soothsayer.'

'I just want to drink my beer and stare at Lorraine's tits.'

'Well, fine, do it, it doesn't matter what you do if we're all going to die, while you're at it, ask her out, she can only say no, what have you got to lose.'

'His self-respect.'

'That went years ago, I don't know what you've been smoking Taffy, but I want some.'

'Are you saying he could go out with a piece of gorgeous arse like that?'

'No, I said he should ask her out.'

'But she'll say no.'

'So what, at least he asked.'

'But what's the point if she's going to say no.'

'So you're a pessimist.'

'No I'm a fucking realist.'

'Well I'd rather be a dreamer and pretend she says yes.'

'The point is, you clowns, it doesn't matter either way.'

'This is starting to piss me off. Are we going to play or what?'

'Sure, what's the difference?'

'Shut up.'
The Tribe are setting up their gear in the Wintergarden. The sound check goes without a hitch. They have a set of new songs primed to be unleashed before an audience. Roman is nervous as he has only just learnt all the new material. Troy is stoned, as usual, and possesses a limited array of licks, which for the most part are interchangeable. Louis drums the same for every song – a'la Bozzio, and is only concerned with tempo as he tends to speed up as the songs go by.

Jess sits in the Wintergarden drinking cider waiting for other transients to join her. The venue starts to fill after 8pm. Dinner was a chicken schnitzel followed by more cider and a quick hash cigarette in the courtyard with Taffy who, again, promised to buy some, next time.

The first song is _Tiredness_ – a sort of Ramones inspired tale of waking up to find your stash is gone. It's perhaps a little too energetic to capture people and Jess reminds herself to perhaps suggest they start off with her favourite Tribe song – an instrumental based on _La Grange_.

Bleak is the way.

Can't sleep no more.

But I'm not awake,

just too tired to care.

Jess taps her foot as the song continues along its merry way. She is always impressed with people performing live on stage. She doesn't comprehend how they do it, fixating on how she would feel, not taking into consideration that musicians tend to focus on their playing and not how they feel on stage. She doesn't consider that they may be sick to the stomach with nerves but they perform anyway. The anxiety that she can't subside equals a monumental rush.

Empty baskets

Flooded fears

Shelled out fucks

Just disappear

The Tribe have the small crowd's attention. The lingerie waitress makes a brief appearance but is absorbed back to the front bar world of meat raffles, horse racing and snooker.

Roman looks bored on stage. He appears agitated. They haven't had sex yet. She wonders what to do. Does he like her? What is the plan?

Crash and burn

Splinter and roll

Can't take it with you

Too tired to care.

The movie _9 Songs_ enters her mind. She identifies with the girl, she sees Roman as the guy. There is an age difference. Is she playing a part to appease what she thinks he wants from her? A relationship beckons, she is sure of that, but at what turn, at what point does it materialise. A lot to ponder with the music so loud and Roman screaming;

Danger ahead

Light years away

Bliss on the road

Fuck it I'm dead.

The song ends to modest applause.
'He wants to see you.'

_It's all about the wanting_ – 'Who?'

'Ali.'

'Did he say why?'

'Nope.'

'The car is waiting.'

_As always_ – 'Where?'

'In the lane.'

'He'll have to wait.'

'Not sure how well that will go down.'

_I don't give a fuck_ – 'Well, there's a first time for everything, besides if he wants me that bad, he'll wait.'

'Pretty sure of yourself.'

'Not really, just a hunch.'

Parked car, dark lane - apprehension turns to excitement as film noir ambience rolls onto the scene. Jess doesn't like gangster life but she was getting used to it.

Jess needed some quick money while her contacts were being extracted from the rock 'n' roll lifestyle she found herself in.

Buck's Nightclub needed waitresses. $200 a night – cash. She was a bit worried when she saw the uniform – black tights leaving little to the imagination and a gold bra but the clientele seemed regular until the _Bhagwan Band_ played one night. The place was filled with the crimson robe set but Ali was furious – they drank soft drinks all night.

There was the occasional slap on the rear and faux lap dance but generally once the red people left it was old guys smoking cigars and drinking _Chatelle Napoleon_.

Ali is a two-bit gangster with emeralds in his eyes. Michael is the bag-man. Ali provides the cash, Michael the hash – teasing Jess with the promise of romance and the high life in _Strawberry Fields_. The reality is much more desperate and succinct.

'What took you so long?' Ali sounded stern.

'I had to dry my hair.'

He went to touch it as if to make sure.

'Hey.'

'The meter's ticking.'

Jess looked up through junkie eyes. There was never any peace, always a deal to be negotiated, a plan to roll out or someone to avoid at all costs. Had she not learned her mother's lesson well – don't get too strung out on the promise that it will get better.

The lesson less learned was, to not be attached to anything.

All senses are needed to pass through the gates – her mother also used to say.

The real lesson was - it's all in your head, everything is a sham - a private joke that no one shares.

There was no declaration that any of it meant anything, yet the wheels keep turning. Why is anyone's guess – can't be just for the money – surely?

Michael drove down the lane with not much room either side.

'Where are we going?'

'You'll see.'

'I don't like surprises.'

Ali looked straight ahead as if she weren't there. Jess wondered what he was thinking and where he had just been. Had he left behind a trail of mayhem – she daren't look back – never look back. She always looked forward no matter what the cost.

Instead of the bright lights she was expecting, Michael drove down one lane after another. After ten minutes she was aware of the mounting tension. Jess questioned whether it was just her or was the inside of the car actually changing density.

The car stopped in front of a security shutter door. Michael took out a remote control and pressed the up button. With a shudder and slow grind of chain and mesh the shutter door slowly disappeared behind a cement bulkhead.

They drove down a couple of levels past a sprinkling of cars. Michael followed the large yellow arrows to car space no. 15.

The doors unlocked and Jess followed them to the exit sign. She was at least out of the car, so a less perceptible tension replaced the dense chest pressing condition inside the car.

They walked up a short flight of cement stairs into a small lobby with two elevators, a side table and a mirror. Jess looked hopefully at the entrance door but could not see any distinguishable features outside.

The elevator indicator lit up with a loud _ding_ which startled her. Inside the small elevator they were too close to each other which highlighted the situation she was in. In more ways than one she felt trapped.

She had embarked on a short money making enterprise with the hope of securing some easy money for her and Roman to escape but now the ferryman was issuing a protracted series of tolls that created unwanted detours she had no control over.

After a short walk along a carpeted corridor they stopped outside Apartment 15.

Inside the foyer, the lights were turned on to reveal two hallways; to the left was a lounge room and kitchen.

'What do you think?' Ali turned to Jess.

Jess was wondering what she was doing here, so was unprepared to give an evaluation of the furnishings. To her it looked like a doctor's waiting room; non-descript colours, bland tan and grey, solid but tasteless furniture including a hideous a six seater dining ensemble.

'It's yours.'

Now she was in serious free-fall. _Yours_ meant commitment and obligation – the term _love nest_ sprung to mind which made her re-coil.

'Mine?'

'Yep, well, I pay the rent, but it's for you – us.' Ali stood close and held her arms. The intent was there, his grip tightened. He pressed the key into her palm.

'Let me give you the tour.'

There were two bedrooms and a bathroom down the other hallway. Michael disappeared and Ali motioned Jess to the larger of the bedrooms. This was a rendezvous she wasn't expecting or maybe she had but ignored the signs.

'I've waited so long for us to be alone. I wasn't sure how to do it. Then the idea occurred to me for us to have our own place.'

Ali waited for a reaction but Jess was still in shock. It was a big step from fraternising with Ali and his cohorts to being ensconced in a...Jess didn't know what to call it.

Ali was in love. This was his moment of freedom - all that he had worked for - more than business, more than...dare he think it, family.
Buck's Nightclub was an oasis in a sea of mediocrity. Ali held court most nights under the guise of entertaining associates. The entrance was discreet with a small sign over the door stating _Ali Ramshid_ as Licensee.

The foyer was dark and narrow leading to a vestibule with a desk shared by Vanessa and Marco. Vanessa guided the 'mint' – slang for the VIP's who were directed upstairs to the Saloon area leaving Marco to maitre'd diners to the restaurant downstairs.

Jess introduction was less than ideal. After applying to be a waitress in the restaurant she was promoted rather unwillingly as an usherette upstairs.

Jess listened rather suspiciously to Leo who explained the usherette's core duties, which seemed to cover pretty much anything from checking in jackets, supplying cigars, keeping an eye on the 'working girls' who provided company for the mint brigade.

The 'closet' was spoken of in subdued tones. Girls if agreeable were escorted by Leroy to a cordoned room to perform lap dances and if the price was right low level extras.

Unknown to any of the girls was a one way mirror where Ali and is cohorts could view from his office the activities transpiring in the closet.

Jess found the goings on in the Mint room mildly amusing.

'It's like a kindergarten for old men.' She remarked to one of the girls. 'As long as they are fed, supplied drinks and pampered to they behave and generally stay in line.'

One old crusty specimen took a fancy to Jess and inquired to Ali, 'Why isn't that one available?' To which Ali had no immediate answer.

Ali had fallen in love with Jess but cannot bring himself to have sex with her unless he is watching. The idea of her lap dancing on one of his cronies before he had the opportunity to savour her delights twisted him in a bind.

Eventually money won over and he decided she would have to join the ranks of the 'girls' as she was proving quite popular amongst the mint set.

'This is Jess.'

The old man held out his hand. A collection of large be-jewelled rings dominated his hairy wrinkled fingers.

' _Bon jour, Mon cheri_ , and what are you doing for the rest of my night?'

Jess had no way to answer, but the remark was delivered with no reply intended.

'We need more champagne.'

Jess reacted instinctively but was man-handled to remain nearby.

'That is your job any more, you are required here to listen to me tell you how wonderful I am.

Ali had not introduced either of them so it fell to Jess.

'Hi my name is Jess.'

'Oh I know who you are my dear, but that's not the important thing.'

'It's not?'

'No, it's who I want you to be.

Champagne arrived, Ali left them alone while other girls floated around the movie set bordello. It was incongruous to Jess how she was perceived to be in the same classification as the other girls. They all looked far more enticing, if not comfortable in their skimpy outfits and high heels. She felt like an imposter soon to be discovered.

'It's nice to stop and reflect with a cold glass of bubbly with refined company, don't you think?'

Jess had no reference point and as such decided the best mode of survival was to play it straight as if she were out on a night out.

'Yes, life can get crazy, although I'm not sure this is an ambient environ in which to summon mindfulness.'

'Really, such insight, I rarely hear within these less than salubrious walls, how interesting, please go on.'

'Well I'm not sure your host and my employer sees this as a temple of reflection.'

'Of that I'm sure, but he had the good judgement and may I say taste to include you.'

Jess looked at this man with mild amusement.

'Finish your glass and let's retire to the confines of my desire.'

Jess knew it was now or never time. She was escorted past the other girls who kept one eye on their colleague eager to know would she endure her first time.
Jess soon realised the apartment's intended use was for Ali and Michael to organise their heroin packages. One night a courier turns up stoned. Michael won't give him the package. It is obvious the mule is using the stash for himself. A fight ensues. Michael is forced to shoot the mule. Michael tells Jess to take the body into the car park. After placing him in the boot Michael drives away.

Ali rings her to tell her to clean the apartment and stash what is left of the heroin.

Jess is left alone to deal with the Police who show up asking residents if they heard a gunshot.

The Police enter the apartment and look around and ask her questions.

Jess in a moment of terrifying clarity told them she did hear a loud noise and assumed it was a car back firing as it sounded like it came from outside. She also tells them she saw a car speeding out of the car park driveway a little while after. She couldn't be sure but it looked like a black Mercedes and there was something strange about the number plates like they were a customised design like a doctor - MD or something. It was so quick she couldn't be sure.

Jess had hidden the remaining heroin in the clothes dryer by removing the cylindrical insert and pasting the packages around the metal interior then re-inserting the cylinder.

Jess finds some money in the bathroom and places it in various cushions around the apartment.

Another of Ali's stooges arrives the next day. He asks Jess where the heroin is. Jess shows him, it is all there, so he asks for the money, Jess says Michael took it with him. He searches the room and finds nothing.

He rings Ali and Jess hears him say to Ali that she seems like she is telling the truth. Jess shows him the card left by the Police. Ali speaks to her on the phone. Ali says he has to leave town for a while but thanks her for staying firm. He appreciates it and tells her she can stay in the apartment for as long as she wants.

It's all over so quick, Jess can't believe what has happened and anxiously goes over the events and what she has said at various key moments. Her intention is to find a lapsed moment of concentration, perhaps a wrong word even her tone comes under close scrutiny – anything that might incriminate or endanger her. Resting on the lounge with a cushion full of money behind her she sits and waits but nothing sinister appears on the horizon.
Steak Diane, French Fries and Jugs of Jim Beam and Coke cover the red and white chequered tablecloth. This was their Thursday night ritual. Roman hoped she didn't know he was watching her every move; the way she chewed, smiled, held her drink. She was perfect in her imperfection.

How many Thursday nights had he waited? He'd lost count. He knew the cycle of her dresses. Sometimes she surprised him. His favourite was the white dress with the light blue swirls and yellow daffodils. He loved watching her walk.

There were consequences to being honest. He had to meet her on his terms, alone without distractions, but how?

It had all come together with his pride and joy – the motorbike. He'd caught her watching him one night in the car park behind _Rancho Deluxe_. The next night he brought his helmet into the restaurant. As luck would have it there was a space next to her.

'May I?'

'Sure,' she answered without a shred of self-consciousness. He looked for somewhere to place the _Shoei_.

'I'll place it here.' She held the helmet much like he had expected, with surety and concern.

To hold those hands.

She placed it on the floor under the bench seat.

'I'll look after it,' she smiled.

After that conversation was easier.

He took her home that night - the two of them on the GS 400. Late at night with little traffic, the road belonged to them. Her hands were on his shoulders. He checked the speedometer to ensure she was not scared but her posture was at ease. There was so much promise of the future he could hardly stop smiling.

At the house she was staying at, the motor continue to click as the heat met the cool breeze. There was a discourse of frivolous chatter but the real conversation was in their eyes until enough had been said to cement another meeting.

The motor bike roared into action and he was off again. The seat felt like she was still behind him and her perfume lingered.

At ease with the world and a few Penfold's Ports under his belt, he leant into the corner itching to turn the throttle. The promise of a long corner was derailed by a T- Junction. There was no blood just pain. His helmet was taken off by a complete stranger.

'That was unreal, I stopped over there to light a cigarette when I saw the headlight then the sound of high revs, I looked at the corner then saw you, I thought, wow this is going to be interesting.'

Instead of going home he rode the Suzuki back to her house with a broken gear lever and bent handlebars.

He had no idea what he was going to say. He had a vague notion of her comforting him in her arms. The opening of the door filled him with excitement. The silence from within the house changed the air pressure. His heartbeat drowned out the ringing in his ears.

She helped him remove his Belstaff. He lifted his shirt to reveal his lower back. Exposed to the bright porch light she looked for any obvious injuries. It all became a possibility until she said, 'You should go to the hospital, just in case. I can take you.'

His back had a few grazes; she had to make sure there were no internal injuries. The drive to the hospital was silent. His plan had taken a detour, now there were other people involved. From what should have been a private tender moment was turning into a public ordeal.

The waiting room was bright and crowded - two things he despised. There was paperwork, blood tests, an examination and a final look from Jess that suggested the novelty had worn off. She offered to drive him home.

'You can come by tomorrow to pick the bike up.'

'No, it's okay.'

They pulled into the driveway; her parents were home, waiting on the doorstep, curious as to why there was a crumpled motor cycle in their driveway.

'It's ok, just a little accident.'

There was a moment when their worlds merged just before she walked away.

Roman retrieved his helmet, started the bike, checked the handle bars and rode away with a missing indicator light and the snapped gear lever.
_Piston Broke_ was on the top floor. Tropical plants in pots lined the iron railing that patrons could look over into the _Mall_ below. The bar was filled with truck drivers, nurses and drug dealers – who all needed each other. Most days were the same and most nights were different.

Ceiling fans that ran all the time soothed the icy blast of air conditioning. License plates from around the world were set into brick walls. Pictures of extended highways amongst the bamboo screens and Batik material hung across various cordoned off areas.

Roman had made one of the booths near the King Lee Chinese restaurant his private stash commissary where Buddha sticks, blocks of Hash and ounce bags of off-cuts could be easily dispensed.

From Roman's booth he watched Steve the Bar Manager regularly throw people out of the front bar. Steve's brother Moose was a truck driver who did the overnight run, occasionally extending his own brand of madness into the wilderness and beyond.

Roman had set up camp in the caravan park. His hut was next to Steve's permanently parked caravan.

Steve had befriended a young woman named Shirley who had two children. Shirley lived in a house on the outskirts of town but sometimes needed to be away from her estranged husband Henry, who shuttled between home and Piston Broke depending on the extent of his drinking binges. Henry spent most days recovering from the day before which normally began at midday.

So that Henry in one of his drunken tirades could not find Shirley and the children, she often spent the night at the caravan park. Steve spent many a night playing basketball with the kids or pushing them on the swings wondering if he and Shirley were ever going to take the plunge.

Moose had to be monitored closely as he liked little girls but had to curtail his activities due to some unsavoury business in one of the inland settlements the previous year. A cop had found him by the side of the river searching for a dog he had accidently shot. The cop had taken to Moose with the butt of his gun when he found the underage girl, doped out of her mind, lying on the bank.

'Don't you know there are wild pigs around here?'

Moose looked around, 'Yeah I saw one but I scared it away.'

One night in the caravan park, Roman almost got into a fight with Steve over whether Greenland was an island or a continent. Roman backed off remembering the vicious attacks he witnessed Steve perpetrate on drunken individuals. One such incident stayed in his memory.

A fight broke out in the Public Bar. Steve watched from the sidelines determining how long it was going to last and how many casualties would escalate with it. Roman watched from the gap in the doorway from the all-white Saloon Bar.

Steve turned off the lights which had little affect initially but after a minute or so the shouts and the broken glass diminished somewhat for Steve to re-ignite the overhead lighting to find blood, glass and amazingly to Roman, a shredded pool cue.

'That's really hard to do,' chuckled Steve, as he attended to a man holding his wife's head about to slam it into the ground before he realised who she was.

On another occasion, a flamboyant guy walked into the front bar wearing a green satin shirt, cowboy hat and boots. His face reminded Roman of a meteor. A lot of people seemed to know him and surrounded his table. While a procession of drinks adorned his table, Roman made his way from the Saloon bar.

'Who the hell is that?' he asked Steve.

'Local boy made good,' came the dry reply, as Roman listened into a conversation.

'How did you get involved in movies?'

'They asked me.'

'Who?'

'Some fella came to see the settlement, they wanted someone to show them round, they picked me. It's not such a big deal, anyone could have done it. You just need to see the land for what it is – nothing more.'

'That's amazing!'

'Thanks, but it's not really.'

'The open space, the isolation, you come across on screen like you know something we don't.'

'Unlikely _Bro_.' His eyes dust red squished into his rugged features.

The town was caught between two worlds; the river – a beautiful natural feature, and the settlement. It was odd for Roman to see such natural beauty and the custodians separated from it via settlements and government sponsored housing projects.

The town survived on tourists and truck drivers passing through. The Hotel, Supermarket, Newsagent and Post Office took centre stage along the Highway while indigenous people sat on the embankments, but someone else may have seen it differently, he thought as he boarded the Bus.
At the same time Roman was asleep on the Bus, Jess was lighting a _Mangalore Ganesh Beedie_. She was recovering from a three day bender waiting for Roman to arrive before their boat set sail for _Ambon_.

Roman had lied to gain them both passage on the mizzen mast, steel hulled _Scallywag_ \- one of the entrants in the annual yacht race.

Their mission was to enter Indonesia under cover to pick up a few kilos of _Indong Red_. Roman was supplying the cash for the promise of freedom but what Jess was really doing was escaping from her hairdresser mother and the litany of station hands and cross dressers since her father was run out of town after twenty-five years of servitude. One morning the household woke up to find the head of the family long gone, never to be seen again. Mother blamed daughter and vice versa.

Katherine instigated a search for her missing daughter which involved a fund raising night at the Crossways Hotel and the production and distribution of a thousand posters which covered the entire town including the settlement with its burnt out one bedroom huts.

The posters were delivered by the entrepreneurial team of Jack and Diane who took on any job to raise funds for their six year boy Levi who suffered from a rare form of cancer that needed Interferon shots once a week in Hospital.

Charlie, a close family friend, helped for a while by supplying a safe house but even the endless saunas, spas and free champagne did not dull the pain or hold back the restless Jess from knowing what was out there for her.
The morning of the race was a hive of activity. The dock and its surrounds came alive with people filling dinghies with supplies and criss-crossing the harbour between all sorts of sailing boats.

They were summoned by Carl, the skipper, to load provisions and pack the sails.

Jess watched Carl bring the boat into the dock; he had a large rope that he threw to Roman who dropped it so the front of the boat could not be secured. Carl swore at Roman then dived into the murky harbour water to retrieve the rope – an inglorious beginning to their relationship with the crusty old sea dog.

'Great start,' Jess said to Roman.

Once all the supplies were on board and the crew introduced, it was all hands on deck as Roman and Jess rapidly learnt how to tie off a sheet and hoist the mainsail.

Roman kept an eye on her to ensure her sailing incompetence went as unnoticed as possible and that she didn't become injured or cause any damage.

A new adventure lay ahead. The unknown mixed with pre-conceived ideas. Scallywag headed for the Arafura Sea around dusk. The first night on the boat was exciting.

Jess was mesmerised by the amount of stars twinkling upon her. Dinner was cold baked beans and dried fruit. Jess found going to the toilet an anxious experience in the close quarters below deck, so resorted to hanging onto the side of the boat.

After dinner Carl explained the shifts. 'There are six of us, so we can do four hour shifts on the tiller, we'll work in pairs so you'll get an eight hour break. All going well, I expect to reach Ambon in four days.'

The first morning was filled with the ocean. It dominated everything but Jess did not view the great expanse as merely water, that was what you had to conserve and drink sparingly, what she saw all around her and what Scallywag was ploughing through was something entirely different.

Jess could only describe what the ocean wasn't. It wasn't their home as they were only passing through it. If it allowed them they would sail safely within its power and volume. It was not an entity she felt safe in – there were too many variables.

The ocean made Jess realise her perceptions were fluid. The constructs of her mind were arbitrary at best and could be supplanted at any time. Out in the ocean she was just a blip on the radar, hardly perceptible.

Roman took a sheet and tied it to both sides of the stern so that it dragged in a loop in the ocean behind the boat. They took turns hanging on being ploughed through the spray of the wash the boat created. The afternoon Sun baked them on the cabin roof, where they both lay naked.

She noticed crusty old Carl seemed unaware of the magnitude that surrounded them, and was purely focused on his charts, the sails and the _iron spinnaker_ , as he called it.

He looked the part, half naked, brown and leathered but his demeanour and movements leant promise to the idea that he had survived his mariner life but not enjoyed it.

On their first night shift Roman was on the tiller while Jess joined him at the _stern_ – she was having fun with all the new nautical terms. They sat huddled together.

'I didn't realise how cold it was going to get,' she said.

Roman kept one hand on the tiller and one hand on her shoulder.

'You smell like an oyster.'

'Have you noticed the stars? There's so many of them, so far away...'her voice trailed away as a wave hit the side making the mainsail flap.

'Shit!'

'What?'

'I have to keep the sail full and keep on this course.' He pointed to the compass which was right in front of them.

'Am I distracting you?'

'A little bit.'

'What if I do this?' Jess placed her hand on his stomach and curled a tuft of hair. Roman flinched but kept looking at the sail.

'What if I do this?'

'Don't! Are they asleep?'

'Who cares?'

'Wait.'

Roman moved her away and grabbed a sheet from behind them. He wrapped it around a cleat then looped the tiller then secured on the opposite cleat. He waited for a few swells to pass under and when satisfied the boat would stay on course grabbed her arm and quietly walked along the gunwale to the upper deck.

He undid his trousers and lay down. Jess knelt in front of him and kissed his bare stomach.

Roman held onto the wooden handrails while Jess worked her magic. All was going to plan before an almighty spray of wave drenched them, quickly followed by the mainsail flapping again as it had before.

Roman knew he had been lucky not to wake Carl before but not for a second time, so with his member at full blast he grabbed his shorts and scuttled along the cabin roof to arrive at the tiller just as Carl was untying the rope. Jess followed meekly and stood at the galley entrance. The look on Carl's face said it all as he handed the folded rope to Roman.

Dawn found Jess staring out to sea. She saw a number of sea snakes glide past as she watched the Sun begin its path across the sky.

There was a moment when Jess became aware that her perception had significantly altered - instead of seeing the Sun rising and setting, she saw the Sun as it was; a stationary entity, and that she on a boat on the ocean was part of a planet that was moving.

It seemed at first unremarkable but as she sat on the side her view of the ramifications intensified. To know that this perception defined the perception of time was the first hurdle to overcome.

Jess felt the rough salty texture of the sprayed concrete. Her hands glistened with sea spray. She was in touch with the boat, riding each dip in the swell. The Sun was directly above. She gathered in the other side of the Planet, in darkness, waiting for the Sun, to encroach the dawn. The cycle continued.

_How many more times_? She wondered.

How remote she seemed. The vastness of the ocean was in tune with the vastness of space. This planet they were on in a remote solar system in a galaxy was far away from anything else. How could anything be better than this?

The shame she felt of a species destroying such a marvellous system threw her at first but to be aware of it was exhilarating. That the Earth moved and not the Sun was mind-blowing.She visualised the encroaching Sun on a different part of the sphere.

It made all the shenanigans onshore petty and inconsequential.

Wars, hunger, politics, economic crisis – all these events had occurred on particular days, as the Sun sent out radiation, appearing to look down when it was really motionless.

It represented God, for what else could you call it.

Space outside the solar system was irrelevant, for it affected nothing she could sense.

The Sun held Earth where it was – she wasn't schooled in the exact physics but she knew what she meant.

Scallywag held the kingdom in her hands, not unlike, she thought, the countless millions before her who took the time to stare at the celestial sphere, but she hadn't felt the need to divine it any religious significance, it was what it was, clearly.

She laughed at the simplicity of seeing another boat, with its mast ascending vertically, giving the game away that the Earth was spherical.

A part of her felt exposed as if she were having a hippie awakening, but she was no fool, she was simply seeing the only important thing in existence – the fact this magical unique bio-sphere was spinning around an even more incredible sphere – everything else was, as they say, colouring and flavouring for what did anything matter if either sphere did not continue to do so...
Ambon was nothing like she expected - an intriguing mix of low-level industry, tradition and fun. The harbour itself was plain enough. They were the second last boat out of seventeen to finish so they had to moor far from the Sailing Club.

Custom officers did not seem motivated to uncover anything so they were let off with a scant inspection of their belongings.

The first night was spent listening to speeches and handing out trophies. The party escalated when the duty free rum replaced the _Bintang_.

The next morning she woke up on the dance floor with many others. Roman was nowhere to be seen, in fact he didn't surface till the next day.

The Sailing Committee organised a _Hash House Harrier_ event. One morning the assembled crews or most of them were driven by _tuk-tuk_ to a camp outside of town.

Jess enjoyed the countryside - people harvesting rice, buffalos shin deep in lily covered water and women carrying material and pots on their heads.

It was a relief not to be surrounded by influences of mania. People looked happy, healthy and content and even though the streets were filled with activity it was as relaxed as you could expect. The incessant honking of horns was purely a – _I'm here_ , indication not a – _get out of my way,_ arrogance.

After half an hour all the tuk-tuks converged on a car park at the entrance to a Temple. Money was exchanged. Jess watched Roman hand over a 50,000r note.

'How much was that?'

'About four dollars plus tip.'

Jess was fascinated by the exchange rate and constantly calculated what everything cost back to dollars. That it could be so different intrigued and frustrated her.

'It's just a game of monopoly.'

'What is?'

'Money, it doesn't make sense. People get so worked up about it, all you see everywhere is people trying to earn it then trying to spend it, when all the time the rules that govern its distribution are so arbitrary – it's the closest thing to insanity I've ever seen.'

'Quite possibly so, now are you ready?'

'Ready for what?'

'To run.'

Jess had failed to notice the arrival of a bus load of tall blonde athletic types. As the two groups joined, Jess could hear a different language being spoken. It was European, quite guttural bordering on ugly.

'Who are they?'

'The local Harriers,' she was told.

Jess was handed a red t-shirt which she held up for inspection. She looked around to find a place to change as she wasn't wearing a bra when the flaxen haired beauties suddenly exposed their breasts as they swapped their shirts. It was done with such nonchalance and naturalness, Jess just went with the flow.

They were organised into groups and before she knew it she was with a dozen or so girls running down a track beside a creek. In single file they jogged through wet grass, open fields and various tracks before Jess gave up, covered in sweat, to bend over to stop the muscles in her legs from shaking.

Another group caught up with her and urged her to join them but she waved them on. In a few minutes she started to walk taking in the sights of the jungle and terraced fields thinking how idiotic it was to be running through this beautiful countryside.

What's the point? You miss everything.

Eventually she arrived at a clearing with people handing out bottles of water. Jess was covered in sweat so doused a couple of them before taking one to drink.

Another group caught up, she could see Roman concentrating hard on the feet in front of him. He too was covered in sweat and seemed to be enduring moments of torture.

Jess started laughing at the surreal nature of what she was involved in which relaxed her and in a way validated her decision to enjoy rather than endure this trek.

Jess stopped on the track before it went up the slope of a terrace. A crystal clear pond with a single orchid rising out of the tranquil water captured her. The Sun was blazing hot with a few clouds forming over the tall canopy of trees. The temperature dropped with the cloud cover, small insects landed on the pond without disturbing the surface tension. A breeze came out of the jungle to greet her, a few drops of rain caused ripples going towards the orchid, not one drop of rain touched the orchid and then the Sun came out.

Jess was transfixed, losing track of the normal merry-go-round of thoughts, dissolving into the environment – bliss.

The morning ended with everyone arriving back at the car park. Tents with portable showers were filled with naked glistening bodies.

Large plastic bins filled with ice and Bintang were scattered under canvas tops and before long there were people drinking as if it was their last day on earth.

'Well, what do you think?'

'I feel like I'm in a _Greenaway_ movie.'

'Is that bad or good?'

'Always good.'
As they drove back, the one overwhelming thought she had was life on these islands was somehow free of the life she was used to; there was a freedom, a carefree bravado. Maybe it was because the money they had was going to last far into the future. There was no more waitressing work to worry about, no Ali and his cartoon like underworld existence.

Roman was not a constant as he appeared to operate on a different cycle than most people. He came in and out of her life like a phantom. He was illusive and slipstream, which she had liked at first, but now he seemed chaotic – disturbing. How long they would last was a question she could not afford to ask. Answering it would imply an end date – making it finite, and she'd seen enough of that already.

What Jess was after roamed towards the infinite - day to day was what mattered. There was no choice. Each day was the same anyway – a carbon replica of the one before. The Sun came up; the Sun went down in an enclosed environment – the sky the dome ceiling, the ocean the tiled floor. An enormous habitat she could not escape from nor did she want to.

Her dream was to find a place with one entrance and no exit far from prying eyes and any obligation. Before any of that could happen they had Carl to contend with. They had hatched a plan not to go back. They had become friends with a Dutch girl who was the cook on Gandalf, a concrete hulled brute of a boat which had plenty of room and whose crew were more on their wave length.

What they had to negotiate was their release by stealth or by honesty. Roman was unsure which one was best but Jess pleaded for the easy way out.

'They'll be fine; he's got Margaret and the young bloke.'

'I don't know, the three of them? It doesn't seem right.'

'Remember he said himself he has sailed to Port Douglas on his own.'

'It just doesn't seem right.'

Jess didn't see what that had to do with anything. 'You'll never see these people again; he's been a right arsehole.'

So it was decided, they would pack their things and pretend they were going to the other side of the island. The day was spent checking the sails, cleaning the galley and head, re-stocking water and canned food.

Carl asked Roman to use the _tinny_ to collect some water from the jetty. It seemed an easy enough task. Roman set off from the side of Scallywag, between _S'fida_ and _Gandalf_ towards the jetty where people were collecting white drums of fresh water.

'Be careful of the gunwale,' screamed Carl from the deck.

On the way back Roman struggled with the extra load and just as he rowed around the stern of Gandalf the water started lapping over the back of the dinghy. Carl waved at him so Roman turned around just before the stern went under and the dinghy flipped.

Simultaneously Carl, Baldy Pete and half a dozen kids dived into the water to retrieve what was salvageable. With tremendous bravery and skill the kids retrieved all the white drums of water and the packages of canned food. Roman tried to upturn the dinghy which he managed with the help of a few kids much to his embarrassment.

Jess and Gretchen who had been sunbaking on the deck of Gandalf were in stitches of laughter and barely able to stand up. The look on Carl's face confirmed any lingering doubt in Roman's mind about confronting him on their impending departure.

Gandalf was set to sail at dawn. Roman and Jess took their possessions across during the afternoon after the dinghy fiasco when Carl and his wife were at the Marina having lunch. Their plan was to stay out late and return to Gandalf around midnight. Carl and Margaret were known to be in bed at nine pm sharp and they were used to them coming home late.

'Why don't we just tell them?'

'You never know who he will tell.'

'I don't care.'

'But I do.'

'Why do you care what people think of you?'

'It's not just that, I'll know, it's not the right thing to do.'

Jess tried to cuddle up to him but Roman was in no mood.

'You don't understand, the sailing community is a tight one, everyone knows each other; you never know who he will meet. I may need passage on a boat in the future and if someone hears I'm unreliable, well I don't want to burn any bridges.'

Jess loosened her grip around his shoulders. The look in his eye left her in no doubt how serious he was. She didn't have any plans to sail again so it took her awhile to come round to his way of thinking.

On the way to the restaurant, Roman stopped the tuk-tuk driver. He saw Carl walking up the boardwalk from the Marina. He told Jess to wait and walked across the road. Jess could see him explaining to Carl what they were going to do. Carl looked across at Jess a couple of times and wiped his brow and long hair back. He gestured by throwing his hands into the air and walked off with Margaret in tow. Roman stood still continuing to talk.

When he got back Jess asked, 'How did he take it?'

'Not good.'

They drove a little way along before Roman said, 'He'll get over it but at least I told him. He can now make other arrangements.'

Jess felt embarrassed about what Carl might be saying to the others and ashamed she had not garnered the courage to do as Roman. She looked across at him and wondered what he thought of her.

A few of the Harriers were already there, mostly the Dutch contingent. They were greeted with hugs, kisses and a bucket of San Miguel. Jess started a conversation with Petra, a country girl from outside Rotterdam who kayaked, rode mountain bikes and sailed Hobby cats. She was tall, blonde and muscular and seemed to have taken a liking to Jess.

'Are you _ossies_?'

'Yep, sure are.'

'We're from the Netherlands.'

'Yeah, I know.'

'What are you guys doing in Indonesia?'

'Well the plan is to sail around the islands.'

'Good plan. Are you going to Bali?'

'Not sure. Have you been?'

'Many times.'

'It's a long way from home.'

'Not so much, eight hours to Bangkok, then another three. It's not too bad, I'm lucky I can sleep on airplanes. You must go to _Batu Belah_.'

'Ok, I'll try to remember.'

'It's wonderful, really isolated and beautiful. We always stay in _Sanur_ then go to _Ubud_ on the way.'

Jess forgot all about what Petra had said and with the weight of confronting Carl lifted fell head long into party mode. The Dutch contingent had pretty much taken over the restaurant with the staff overwhelmed with orders of Mie Goreng, pineapple fritters and the house speciality, salt baked snapper.

The drinks flowed with the sound of the waves breaking onto the shore. Additional tables with white tablecloths had been assembled along the beach in front of the restaurant. A few tourist boats were moored off shore so the clinking halyards could be heard in time with the _dinga-donga_ music being played by a few locals.

Jasmine incense mixed with wild frangipani. A cooling on shore breeze kept mosquitos away as the night drifted away. About an hour into dinner a band hit a makeshift stage. Guys with sunglasses and dreadlocks started doing Jimmy Cliff and Bob Marley covers and dancing became the focus. Plates of food were left behind, bottles of San Miguel went warm out of their ice buckets and bodies moved and swayed to _No Woman No Cry, I Can See Clearly Now_ and _Exodus_.

Jess found herself jumping on the spot with her hands raised above her head, she was covered in sweat and her bangles and necklaces jingled. Roman flittered in and out.She saw Petra then closed her eyes, then a couple of Dutch guys who saw the free spirit manoeuvred in to share in her unbridled glory.

Jess landed with a thump, just catching herself before falling. There were bodies everywhere, bare feet squeaking in the sand. Her thighs ached, her arms red, she struggled to a clearing before resting on a stone wall. The ocean to her right balanced the lunacy to her left. Without thinking too much about it, she removed her clothes and walked to the shore.

She stared at a light blue hulled boat and let the water wash over her ankles. The temperature was just a little cooler than her body temperature so she walked further in till it covered her waist, small waves rolled in so she swam out beyond the break and was just able to keep her toes in contact with the sand by bouncing up and down.

The night sky was covered with stars, so she lay on her back sweeping her arms from side to side imagining the stars holding her up. She stared into the wash of light and sucked in the atmosphere between them. She marvelled at how far away they were, remembering each one was a Sun.

The magnitude of the Universe held her, pain and fear washed away. In the comfort of something so enormous and soothing she smiled, laughed and cried. She was so insignificant yet so important at the same time it was sheer bliss and gratitude for being alive and taking the time to be aware of it.

Jess promised herself to never forget to look around and be aware of the Universe, but not just an intellectual appreciation. There was instantly no need for any thought or feeling for what could a thought or feeling do compared with the infinite.

Before long she was aware of movement and voices around her, mostly men who like circling sharks had spotted a naked wet female form. There was much posturing and desperation in their eyes.

Jess recognised a few faces, with a few more women joining the fracas. Jess was pleased to see them but disappointed with the interruption and their ignorance of what she had been doing. It was obvious what was on their mind.

It reminded her of the human plight, totally absorbed with their own thoughts and desires while ignoring the beauty and magnitude of what was around them.

It got so crowded she swam away to be alone, leaving a lot of disappointed erections bobbing in the surf.
Sailing the ten foot swell into _Makassar_ soon sobered everyone up. At midnight hanging onto the tiller for dear life wave after wave sprayed the side of the hull so that eventually even her underwear was soaked.

Baldy Pete poked his head from the galley and shouted; 'time to hoist the jib.'

Jess latched onto the guide rail, stumbling and sliding towards the bow, to hoist the annoying sail to out run the storm.

Excitement and fear mixed. The saviour seemed perturbed. The boat was reaching and the salt stung, but his determination to get to harbour outweighed any concern for his novice crew.

Gandalf did not creak like Scallywag and ploughed through the water with its giant mainsail taut and sleek. Jess went downstairs to rest but motion sickness soon forced her back above deck.

They greeted the dawn with calmer seas. Breakfast was served; fresh pineapple, pikelets and hot tea. There were sleeping bunks for ten people, so with six crew there was plenty of room below deck.

Jess never got tired of seeing the Sun rise over the ocean. She was amazed at how much light there was before the Sun reached the horizon. She was transfixed on the ruby red, orange and yellow transition. Her perspective grasped the relationship between Earth and Sun.

Nobody was talking. Sir Tom was on the wheel, gently caressing shifts in the wind.

Pineapple rind was discarded overboard, while rum dispensed in plastic cups. More pikelets appeared with single serve portions of jam. Her sticky fingers struggled with opening the tiny plastic flap.

Time slowed down, gestures were infrequent yet measured - no wasted energy. The ocean and the Sun was all that mattered. Jess could have been on a distant planet. With no land in sight and S'fida way behind them they were completely alone.

They were too far from land for any birds and there was no sign of dolphins, sea snakes or turtles. The only sound was the bow of the boat pushing through the water and the occasional tinker from the mast. The Sun took no time to be above the horizon then seemed to slow down with the expanse of sky before it.

Jess closed her eyes, exhaled and thought of nothing.
Makassar appeared like a scene out of _Apocalypse Now_. The calm ocean welcomed them into the harbour. Small naked figures stood watching from the shore. Some of them ran along the beach waving and hurling themselves into the shore break.

Once Gandalf was secured they boarded the dinghy. At the jetty they were scrutinised by wide open brown eyes surrounded by glistening white.

Baldy Pete had conversational Indonesian so it didn't take long to find the nearest Amstel Bar and Hardy's. Plans were made over a few long necks to spilt up to cover shopping and

laundry facilities. The plan was to make it back in one hour.

Once provisions were collected and stored it was back to shore to unwind and feed up on vegetables and grilled fish.

It seemed the further west they travelled the more rural and less developed the towns were. Although Makassar had shops and villas on the beach outside of the main areas the jungle and terraced fields soon took over.

Jess found the isolation and greenery more appealing. The towns all looked the same to her; shops, taxis, stalls with the same brand names. Her mission was to explore, get out to the villages and the countryside.

Jess struggled with the humidity, the further she went into the hills the cooler and more dramatic the weather became; sweeping rain came and went with regular ferocity.

Inland, life was focused on working in the fields, caring for children and household chores – simple and well defined. Away from tourists was where she wanted to be.

'If you don't work, you don't eat – simple!' Baldy Pete exclaimed.

It became apparent as time went on that Roman and Sascha were striking up a close friendship. They could speak to each in French which isolated Jess who after a while got tired of sitting and smiling at their laughter and long winded conversations.

Instead she focused in on Baldly Pete's lusty recounting of tales from the seven seas.

'One time, bound for _Colonia_ , one of the crew opened the sail hatch to find a bloody monkey scurrying between the sails. The bloody thing must have gotten on board somehow looking for food. The crew thought it was hilarious. They tried to catch it. The first day it destroyed almost everything in the galley, ripping open boxes, and throwing cans all over the place. When someone tried to catch the bloody thing it would scamper up the mast and piss on everyone. After a few days of this I thought I'll fix you, so I laid a trap of fresh bananas in the hull. I placed it up the end and had a small jib folded up nearby so when it was cornered we could throw the sail over it. It worked a treat. The problem was it just about tore the sail apart. Three of us had to carry the thing wrapped in the sail without being bitten or scratched. The three of us are looking at each other with the rest of the crew watching. We didn't know what to do as we watched the sail with this demented monkey trying to escape. I looked at _Chalky_ and he looked at me, at the same time we swung the sail out over the sea holding onto a corner each, with the demented beast flying through the air. It was quite a sight.'

'What happened then?'

'Well it was quite interesting, it all happened in slow motion until it hit the surface of the ocean and disappeared. Problem solved, except we couldn't use the jib again.'
There was no ultimatum, no final annexure, it just slowly evolved – like a series of story boards - Jess watched her time with Roman slip away. Being on a boat created an intense backdrop for the drama to play out. There was no available space to retreat to. Daily chores were required so interaction was impossible to avoid.

At one island Roman and Sascha stayed overnight on shore in a hut with a thatched roof and no floor. It was a relief to all concerned as it afforded some time alone. Jess called into question her motivation and capability of forging a relationship with him. To watch it slide away with little intervention from her part intrigued more than annoyed her.

For a few days Roman and Sascha slept naked on their clothes amongst the sand and palm leaves. They swam at midnight and had sex on the beach. In the morning they drank coconut milk and ate papaya while Jess enjoyed a bunk to herself.

One morning Dolphins swam beside the boat. Sascha who was obsessed with them dove straight into the pod dispersing them. When she came up for air she was astonished and upset that they had been so easily discouraged from frolicking with her.

The assembled crew stood looking at the lone figure in the water. Jess was embarrassed at Sascha's insensitivity and complete misunderstanding of nature.

At the village Roman and Baldy Pete bought a basket full of scrawny chickens. The pathetic creatures looked like they hadn't eaten for days. The plan was to boil them up to make a kind of curry christened - _Jungle Boogie_ that Baldy Pete was apparently famous for.

Back on-board the basket was placed near the side of the boat. Baldy Pete arrived with what looked like a butter knife and with Roman holding the bird by its head and feet began sawing at the neck.

Amidst a flutter of feathers and a blood curdling squawk the head was eventually severed with a few lusty blows on the side of the boat and hacks of the knife.

After a few hours of boiling the meat which almost exhausted their primus gas supply the crew were treated with a bowl of coconut rice and a few strands of tough grey meat. Jess ended up scraping what was left after eating the rice back into the pot.

The next morning Baldy Pete was up at dawn on the tiller drinking Rum and coconut milk with the pot of curry between his knees munching at the left overs.

'Morning sailor, another day in paradise,' he smiled.
Gandalf cut a fine sail into _Benoa Harbour_ with all on board suitably impressed with their odyssey. Custom Officials came on board and looked at the assembled crew with their hastily arranged short haircuts and _I Luv Guam_ t-shirts and never thought about looking inside the life jackets.

Roman and Jess had one more instalment in their partnership to enact before cutting ties forever. The _switch_ as he called it was to be done at the _Safari Hunter_ , a non-descript Balinese furniture bargain bazaar near the overpass between Sanur and Ubud.

Over five kilos of el-primo Indong-Red was packed into a suit case and hightailed back to Denpasar airport where they were handed over to Roman's flight attendant mother and flown back to Perth via the safest airline in the world.

Jess was paid out her share and left to her own devices at the Ubud Monkey Forest where she sat at a table watching hysterical Japanese girls being attacked by an array of hungry monkeys.

She felt the money in her _bum-bag_ and after a few moments of quiet contemplation got up and walked to the exit feeling much better.

Not a bad result, all in all.
There is a spot in the infinity pool under the papaya tree that offers enough shade to gaze towards _Lombok_. The seemingly endless ocean absorbs everything about her. There is peace and a gentle submission to the elements which is only broken up by the sound of the waves breaking on the dark volcanic rock and the sight of the glass bottom boat moored not far away.

Jess has defined a routine for the past week or so which has the owners of Batu Belah a little concerned. Due to staff arriving to open up the restaurant around 5.30am each day, Jess does not require an alarm clock as the mini scooters roll down the dirt road from the highway.

There is minimal talk between _Joli, Komang_ and _Made_ as they open up the compound of huts to assemble the laundry for the day. Around 7am _Captain_ arrives with fresh fruit and vegetables for the day. Around 8am Jess makes her way to the restaurant bungalow for _Mie Goreng_ and _Bali Kopi_. After breakfast she settles the bill from the day before and sees to her laundry requirements before a shower or a swim.

The clientele are mostly French tourists, who generally spend their time exploring the diving spots between _Amed_ and _Tulamben_ or hiking up _Mt Agung_ but not standing in the pool motionless staring out to the ocean.

When the homemade designed resort was first constructed the first guests just happened to be from Lyon who saw the website at an internet café in Jakarta. Via word of mouth more tourists arrived from France and over time news spread through other parts of Europe regarding an isolated collection of huts built practically on the ocean with sweeping views of Lombok near perfect diving locations without the crowds of Tulamben and Amed.
'Do you think she takes drugs?' Made asks.

'Who?' Colin answers irritably. He is busy on the phone organising labourers to finish the driveway to their new house over the hill.

'The new girl, the one that stands in the pool all day.'

Colin knows too well who his wife is talking about for he has spied her sunbaking topless a number of times, through no fault of his own, mind you, he explained to his German drinking buddy.

'I was just explaining to Captain how to check the pH level, I didn't realise she was in the gazebo and before I knew it there she was.'

Jess knows nothing of the conversation and cared even less having been brought up where nude sunbaking was the norm.

The pool deck is cut into the slope, the natural volcanic rock a natural shelter. Tropical flowers and palms adorn the crevices. The pebbled walkway snakes around a stone Buddha and boulders that were too large to move, creating a Zen garden.

The deck chairs are weather beaten but do the job. The square gazebo provides shade and is raised off the ground which allows any breeze to circulate up through the wooden slats. There is a casual haphazardness about the whole scene which is dominated by the ocean and the volcanic plugs only metres away. Sitting in the pool the infinity design creates the mirage of being in the ocean.

Jess has not moved much since her third beer and jumbo hot dog when she hears laughter and sees two brown haired girls walk down the steep path, one with a box on her head filled with bananas, papaya and...a duckling.

Jess takes off her _Ray-Bans_ and strains to see where they walk to...but she already knows as the conversation from last night returns.

'We'll load up the _Landcruiser_ tomorrow and head for _Candidasa_. Is there anything you might like?'

Jess thought hard before answering. 'I saw on the menu you do Duck Curry.'

'Yes, but we will have to go to the market.'

Jess entered the kitchen, tentatively peers around the corner. The box is on the bench with the fruit removed with the lone duckling nervously pecking the inside of the box.

'Hello?'

Immediately sets of wide brown eyes appear from nowhere, trained to attend to every possible demand.

'Is that for dinner?'

At first the question elicits no direct response, for one of the reasons people return year after year is the distinct lack of comprehension, as English is not and hopefully never will be the principal language. Only Made speaks English but something in Jess's expression alerts one of the older girls to understand not only the question but the implied concern.

'Yes.'

There it was, as simple as it gets.

Jess walks towards the box, kneels down and attempts to pat, stroke whichever comes first or comfort the up to now doomed duckling. As she cups it in her hands she wonders what sort of meal it would make.

Suddenly a series of voices, all in different pitch come to her. Jolie says something in her scatter gun language as Jess wonders what the commotion is.

Jess, still with duckling in hand is guided to the area outside the restaurant to where she is shown, in all its graphic detail, Captain plucking the headless mother. Jess instinctively shields the duckling without realising what she is doing. The mother had already been killed for her dinner, which does not make Jess feel any better.

Joli and Komang exchange glances before they both hug each other and say; 'Maddie.'

It dawns on Jess, the mother duck is to be mixed with lime leaves and salsa but the duckling is for Colin and Made's daughter.

Each morning a flotilla of locally constructed boats set sail from the pebble beach next to the owner's villa. Jess walks along a track to the headland created by cows that make the trip from the foot of Mt Agung to see the boats make their way to the fishing grounds.

She doesn't watch them because of some romantic glossy postcard notion of viewing the locals. Jess has made peace with the world, but doesn't want to be involved with it. There is nothing more it can give her. She gets everything she needs from standing under the papaya tree in the pool staring at the ocean while young Made and her new pet paddle in the shallow end.

At midday two boats with red sails pull up on the pebbly beach. Jess is there listening to waves as they break and flow up the incline and then rattle away under the black shiny pebbles.

The fishermen throw mahi, lobster and barracuda onto the beach as Colin wanders down with Captain to inspect. He pays the men while Captain places all the seafood in a bucket and carries it back to the restaurant bungalow.

'Lunch and dinner,' Colin says as he walks away.

The next morning Made wakes Jess up and takes her to the markets. It's crowded and hot but Jess is alive with energy. She is caught up in the authenticity. At home people browsed with no purpose, here they buy and sell produce and clothes for their families – there is interaction and a support network.

The markets are in the grounds of the ancient _Summer Palace_ which is old, but not dirty. There are people from all over but Jess is aware there is peacefulness amongst them as they wade in the pools with spring water flowing from the mountain stream. Jess feels good in water, either with feet dangling in one of the spring pools, standing under the papaya tree or snorkelling.
There are no mosquitos because of the ever present on shore breeze. Each morning she resists the impulse to turn over as the sound of the waves reach her bungalow.

Wearing shorts and a Bintang singlet, she takes the winding path with care especially where it slopes near the restaurant. She passes her favourite patch of lawn with a single black rock.

She pauses for a moment - breathing deep, each exhalation longer than the previous - each breathing cycle roots her to the ground. Moving on when it felt right, without thought, she proceeds down the slope to rest at the Buddha. Jess stands to attention. The outline of Lombok is visible as she was in luck – no cloud to the east.

She sits on one of the long deck chairs, the plastic mattress still wet from the salt spray. There is a fine layer of salt over everything, even her hair had that surfie texture she missed so much.

The breeze weakens as does the sound of the ocean. She can just make out the outline of palm branches on the rocks below. There are distant lights bobbing from early fishing boats making their way to Amed.

Jess is complete yet empty. She smiles without knowing it. The view before her was perfect in every sense – even taking into account the movement and energy in the air and from the ocean. The lack of external disruption allowed her to watch her thoughts go round and round – breakfast, pool, shower, breakfast, pool, shower, breakfast, pool, shower...

There was a shift of reddish light above the mountain on Lombok, but all else was dark...moments came and went...breathing...watching...hunger...thoughts of snorkelling briefly appeared...then standing in the pool under the papaya tree in her spot watching the sunrise...so that's what she did.

The pool was surprisingly warm. She stood naked, comfortable that if discovered, it wouldn't matter, it was likely to be one of the girls and her singlet and shorts were nearby on the chair.

She stood...watched...and stood...

Her past seemed irrelevant...there was no one at home to remember...no obligation bar herself...no desire to do anything different than what she was doing...a shiver went through her...goose bumps appeared...nipples were erect...she felt her thighs, buttocks and a surge of sexual energy...

The sunrise took less time than she expected...the Sun doesn't appear to move that quick during the day, she thought.

The unexpected sight was the yellow trail that led from the pool to Lombok, a giant spotlight in the dark had come over the horizon and all the past civilisations joined her as she worshipped God...for it was her only physical God.

She reached out to all those that had gone before her who had looked at the same Sun rising day in day out...year in year out...for centuries and centuries...feeling gratitude, insignificance and wonder all rolled into one.
There is little traffic, only the occasional truck laden with black soil with a boy on top holding the inadequate tarpaulin down with four old men smoking clove cigarettes in the front.

'You feel nervous.'

Jess can only just hear Made's voice as he negotiates the bend. She can't tell if it was a question or statement. She thinks she feels ok, but she can't decide if she is or not, as the excitement of being on the back of a motor scooter with the wind in her hair is making a mockery of her self-awareness.

As promised they are going to his family's village. Jess assumes there will be chickens, rice terraces, maybe some jungle but most of all the authentic village life.

_The lamb of God...the body of Christ...I am not worthy_ ...comes from an old school hymn somewhere deep in her memory. The sensation is of release as the last vestige of sub-conscious drivel farewells her as she hurtles along the narrow streets.

The dawn experience in the pool is still with her...and she hopes forever...

Children are coming home from school and crowd on the shoulder of the road, scooters and small vans miss them by feet, dogs either scamper across breaks in the traffic or doze under stationary flat-bed utes.

_Warungs_ overflow onto the road, fruit stalls and piles of wood fill every available space between compounds made of grey brick and red tiles. Hindu ornamentation and tiny trays of flowers, biscuits and cigarettes are blown across footpaths.

The ride is over too soon. Made comes to an abrupt stop and lurches between two trucks with just enough time. From her vantage Jess cannot see the opening between a shelter and a brick retaining wall. They go up a short steep incline causing her to grab his shoulder and bang her helmet onto his bare head.

She watches people carrying baskets with roosters, bananas and small babies; there are small tendered gardens no more than a few rows deep. There must be a wider path leading to the village but he stops and motions for her to get off.

Made parks his scooter in a gap between a path and a Warung with room enough for two or three people to stand in.

'This is my mother's shop,' he says with some pride.

'It's nice.' Jess walks in and views the shelves. There seems to be no order or system – batteries next to plastic dolls, warm beer next to _Croc_ sandals, rice stacked on every available tile.

Made escorts her across bare dirt to the next dwelling, made of the same grey blocks. There are chickens and dogs but no sign of a jungle. Everything looks like it is waiting to be finished.

Jess imagines men going from one task to another without completing any of them so the dwellings, gardens and paths are all in a state of constant renovation.

An old weather beaten man sits on a tiled balcony with an even older bottle of Jack Daniels in his hands, filled with what looks like a clear liquid and small black rocks.

'Arak,' Made says, 'homemade, don't try it,' he warns with a delicious smile.

'What's that inside?' Jess inquires.

'Charcoal.'

A young woman with a child on her hip quietly comes out of one of the rooms and sits next to the old man.

Made introduces Komang, his wife and Nyoman, his father. Jess lowers her head and takes out a packet of Oreo cookies from her bag. The child looks at the packet as it is presented, unsure whether to reach for it. Jess pushes it closer and hands Komang a 100,000r note.

Komang smiles, releasing a full mouth of white teeth and says, 'Terima Kasih.'

'Sama-sama.'

Jess adjusts her pre-conceived idea of a village. She realises it is not the setting but the people, the ties between the family members, that creates the village atmosphere. She settles on the refreshingly cold tiles that look so brand new she can almost see her reflection.

People walk by, children play in the dirt, chickens peck and flap indiscriminately, motor scooters and trucks can be heard, scaffolding grows up the sides of dwellings, there is a lot of water and black dirt, but there are smiles, rotten teeth, cigarette smoke and the smell of burning leaves and rubbish.

People walk into the Warung and leave with odd items, Jess can't see any money exchange hands, a jug of cold liquid appears, biscuits and pineapple. Jess is offered it all at once but asks that the children be served first which brings a toothless smile from Ketut, Made's mother-in-law. Jess notices the veranda roof supports are missing tiles down each side. 'There is a lot of unfinished work.'

At first Made has troubling translating, and as he is the only one that appears to understand English she has to wait. The father jabbers away between smiles and shrieks. Jess leans closer to hear better.

'He says all his sons are layabouts, and can't finish anything, but we can only do so much before the money runs out.'

There is something monumental about the missing tiles and curved roof which stops the rain from pouring onto the veranda; it seems a masterpiece-in-waiting. From where she sits it has the beauty of any cathedral.

The randomness and naturalness of people living in harmony just as they are melts her. She looks at the faces staring at her, they are full of life, wonder and happiness, yet they look like they have nothing and what they do have is thrown together because it is needed – then it hits her. Her cup is empty. She has seen up close that only what is needed is required. Her own life has so much that is superfluous, excess to requirements.

She takes a slug of Made's Arak and almost passes out, with tears in her eyes she chokes, and holds her hand to her mouth. Laughter bounces off the walls.

'You should try the hard stuff,' Made says pointing to the old man's bottle.

Jess reaches for her saddle bag. 'How much to finish the tiles?' she asks out of the blue.

'The tiles?' Made asks.

'Yes, the tiles around the supports and under the roof.'

Made looks up and they all follow suit, even the children who have surrounded the veranda to gawk at the blond haired stranger with the long feet and funny voice.

Snippets of rapid talk fire across the veranda before Made says, 'maybe 500,000.'

Jess checks her purse, she hands over 300,000.

'I will give you more.'

Without hesitation Made hands the money to his wife who gives the traditional pressing of the hands before her nose and takes the money inside.

Made goes onto explain to the gathering what the money is for. Jess feels embarrassed at the adulation and attention and wishes she had been more circumspect and discreet. In her desire to help she feels she has only highlighted the difference between them and how arbitrary it was where she was born.

No matter what the perception, the moment passes and she rationalises that the tiles will one day be installed and she will come back to see them.
_Jimmy's Bar_ is owned by a German guy. Colin goes there to escape paradise by the sea to watch _SKY Sports_ and drink _Carlsberg_.

There is a pool out the back in a small courtyard that services six small bungalows for backpackers who visit Tulamben to dive over the shipwrecks.

'So you want to know what it's like.' Andy wraps both hands around his glass of _San Miguel_. The glass is so cold lines of condensation trickle down soaking the _33 Biere_ coaster.

'It feels like a tense rope being turned in opposite directions. I look around at the stupidity and incompetence of people with their ego-centric muddled fairy tale views concerned with making money, worshipping statues and believing everything they hear, I then turn and see the most incredible planet in the solar system and wonder why it is being slowly destroyed. I would do it today if it wasn't for my remaining children. The pain of living is like scalding water but the pain of them grieving for me wondering if they had anything to do with it is like a deep puncture in my body so avoiding that pain wins over.'

Colin drains his glass and looks intently at the bar. There is no way he can comprehend what Andy has lost.

'At first, I was numb, then angry, but after a while I just gave up. It was too great a pain. I thought the only answer was to go as far away as possible.'

Colin wonders what the loss of a son would be like. He has two girls with Made - Balinese girls with an English father. Andy had a son, and it seems to Colin more intense, as if having half-caste children makes them more their mother's. It's a feeling he would never share as he fears the reaction it may produce.

So they have both escaped, for different reasons for sure, but an escape nevertheless.
After watching the girls struggle with creating a replica of an English breakfast, Jess ordered the fruit salad and Mie goreng which complimented her appetite on a simple white plate adorned with slices of pineapple, papaya and lime wedges.

Jess sat at her favourite table only a stone's throw from the ocean and even closer to the lime tree from where her wedges were picked from.

Jess looked out over the ocean, fishing boats were full sail up the coast, heading back with their catch, cloud covered Lombok but the Sun was well into the sky. The constant ripple of water looked like a blue cotton sheet rising and falling slightly from a fan on low setting. There was no rush for anything, the girls checked on her but Jess smiled and gave the thumbs up, which still made the girls giggle.

The thought of her routine gave her pleasure. After breakfast she would attend to her chores, so that the girls could get into her room to clean the bathroom and change the sheets. She hated the idea of intruding as she knew they had lots of jobs to do.

The coconut pancake was the perfect accompaniment to the rich dark and bitter Bali Kopi. She reminded herself to grab a bottle of water to brush her teeth.

Full, almost bloated she left her table and sat at the bar to wait for Made to rack up the bill from yesterday. It was normally around $30 a day - for everything and she never went without.

With her copy of the bill, she walked back to the bungalow trying to absorb every sight and sound as if it was as important as breathing. Jess didn't want to miss a thing, and relished the paradise she found herself in. The girls had started on the bungalow next door and smiled as she passed by.

She showered looking out the window at Agung, the warlord that gave the ocean a backdrop. A cow wandered by the parched ground towards the shelter of the trees.

The land was exposed and very little rain fell this side of Agung.

The only feed for the dozen or so cows was under the forest canopy that Colin kept intact for that very purpose. Initially there were plans to create a dairy but the undulating rocky ground around the headland that the bungalows and his villa were built upon made it an engineering problem and there were enough of them to go around.

Collecting her cloth bag filled with sunglasses, sunscreen, her book and water bottle Jess re-traced her steps to the pool deck. As she struggled to open the umbrella on the stand to create some shade, uneasiness floated through the frangipani trees.

Jess couldn't place the feeling until she saw the glass bottom boat moored in the cove. She looked at the pool but it offered nothing special, so she took off her t-shirt and stepped into the wading side of the pool and sat on the step so the water came up to her shins.

The enticement to stand under the papaya tree had gone. She began to worry that her favourite place in the world was losing some of its appeal and that was not something she wanted to pursue for without that what was there?

She looked at the boat again and suddenly the image of her on the stern bench seat in the shade ploughing up the coast to Tulamben and snorkelling along the reef caused her heart to beat faster.

With no hesitation she walked to the bar area and waited for someone to appear. The girls were attending to the bungalows, Made had probably gone home but she could hear the sound of the hose so she walked around the tables to one of the exits to see Captain hosing down the side path and cleaning the buckets used for carrying fish from the pebble beach.

_Let him do what he wants_ ...went through her head, like it was a raw magical proclamation...that was the secret for harmony everywhere...just let these happy and gorgeous people do what they want...Jess struggled with the idea she was a tourist visiting this land and interrupting these people's lives for what would they do without tourists...would they be happier still tending the rice and pigs...watching their kids go to school without having to worry about changing sheets and cleaning toilets...Jess left this unresolved and asked Captain if the boat was going out today.

He stood impassive unsure what to do. Jess motioned for him to follow which he did still with the hose in hand, watering the herb garden so water didn't go to waste.

Jess pointed at the boat and then her watch. Captain got it straight away and mumbled something along the lines of, ' _up to you_?'

Jess flashed her hands twice to indicate twenty mins which seemed to be agreeable to the jack-of-all-trades.

It was difficult for Jess to ascertain his age, Captain could have been fifty or seventy. He was small but muscular, weather beaten but agreeable and always doing something around the grounds; watering, cleaning the pool, maintaining the vehicles, carrying bags of laundry or buckets of fresh fish.

Captain was one of those indispensable people in any organisation that could be relied upon to carry on without supervision all number of tasks and when seen in isolation did not appear that crucial but when added up at the end of the day amounted to keeping the place afloat.

Skippering the glass bottom boat was his pride and joy. When Jess arrived at the muddy slipstream he had already brought the tinny in to ferry her across to the boat moored some fifty metres away just off the coral shelf.

She wondered if she should have checked with Made if other guests were interested in a boat ride but as there seemed to be only her and another couple who were never seen until dinner time she soon re-focused on being hoisted aboard and looking through the glass bottom at the coral.

The boat was named - _Sekar Karang_ and gently moved away as Captain heaved the anchor inboard. The diesel motor fired first time and they were away.

Some hundred metres in to the half hour journey, Captain released fishing lines out to the side which were lost in the churn of white water. This simple task further ingratiated him to her as it was another reminder not to waste a moment.

Jess settled in to watching the shore float past. Under cover with a strong breeze behind she took time to check snorkelling gear which although well used was in good condition.

She adjusted the straps on the mask and chose her flipper size. The snorkel was washed with salt water scooped up in a bucket.

The countryside was barren, with only an occasional glimpse of the main road. Mt Agung stood centre stage. Boulders from ages past hinted at an eruption at some point in the past. Others, black and smooth from the ocean stood out of the waves near the shore. Jess visualised the continuity between the land sloping down from the summit to the ocean floor.

With the ocean on one side and Agung on the other, it was her and Captain in a world away from any concerns. It was a moment Jess could have lived in forever. This tiny enclave on a remote part of Bali was everything she had ever wanted. It was part of her.

The Temple, the sea, the volcano and of course the local people who lived without contact from anyone past Candidasa or Ubud.

The rest of the world could not have existed for it had no impact on their lives.

Jess was forming a protective concern for the Land and its inhabitants. She felt a responsibility to protect them from encroachment of the wider world.

Captain turned off the iron spinnaker and let the boat glide some ways offshore before dropping the anchor. Jess watched studiously, puzzled as to what he was doing. He was looking at the coral through the viewing glass on the bottom of the boat. She realised he was looking for a place to drop the anchor away from any coral.

Captain gave the thumbs up, Jess smiled and felt conscious she had been viewed and mimicked.

With snorkelling gear on she shuffled down the ladder into the clear warm water. Letting go of the boat's handrail was tantamount to letting go of the world. She was now at the whim of a world she had no control over.

Some adjustment to the straps was required as water flowed around her eyes then confident she had her bearings in relation to the shore and the boat she quietly submerged and began breathing out her mouth in deep long bursts.

There was so much water it ceased to be water, Jess was aware she was breathing but nothing prepared her for the amount of bubbles in the water rising up from a squadron of scuba divers way below.

The bubbles surrounded her. She tried grabbing them but they dispersed and formed again from a never ending stream from below. Jess smiled at the thought of divers below unaware of the view and sensation they were creating. Playing in the bubbles she imagined she was bathing in champagne.

Something in the distance caught her attention. She strained through the bubbles to make out what was causing the shift of colour, darker than the water, but still part of it. She tried to turn but was momentarily disorientated as a dense stream of bubbles lifted her then moved her to the side.

She looked down but the divers had moved, more bubbles arrived then slowly dissipated with the current. The wreck the divers were exploring seemed to move towards her as she flowed with the current.

A dark wall flashed, glints of silver interspersed with movement, colour, moving towards her, quicker, denser than the bubbles, then eyes, everywhere, tails and yellow stripes, fish everywhere from top to bottom, a wall of scales only a few feet thick but ten, twenty metres or more from top to bottom. She tried to touch one then another but they escaped with hardly a move, it was like a dream trying to touch something, but always illusive. Fear stayed in the background, not completely away, then the thought, _did they have predators_?

Her heart beat faster, breathing became shallower, she had to focus on something else, the bubbles - _follow the bubbles_ , she thought.

Her mask started to fill with water so she headed for the surface. Treading water was difficult while trying to drain the mask and required some intense thigh exercise. Surprisingly she had not drifted that far from the boat. She could see Captain, cigarette in mouth, checking the fishing lines.

A holistic comprehension of her surroundings occurred - the ocean, the dive school resort, the boat, the Sun, the fish and divers below all combined for her benefit. She was the centre of the activity and serenity.

A shiver passed through her body followed by a moment of sublime clarity – an awareness of being totally alive – her mind absorbed and reflected over the moment as if held captive by it. If it was at all possible she would remain bobbing in the ocean forever...

Returning to the boat was to be avoided for as long as possible but just as she was planning on how to prolong her stay the realisation that she could return whenever she wanted made her body feel lighter.

I could come back anytime, even this afternoon. Tomorrow, the next day, the day after and so on...my bungalow has fresh sheets, a cool breeze and amazing views of the ocean...it's there for a long as I want, at least till the money runs out.

Jess smiled at the thought of money in her bank account, which would last years if she stayed where she was. The future she wanted was here. Having to find work was left in a corner of a room inside her mind to be re-visited when necessary.

I could clean rooms, do the laundry, live in a village even help Captain with the boat.

Jess returned to snorkelling. The short respite had erased the excitement of the wall of fish and bubble bath, so back in her dream like state, all the excitement, fear and anxiety returned at once.

The fish had dispersed, the divers returned to shore so with a few scattered snorkelers and a few local kids she was left alone to hover and float over the wreck, which was broken into three parts. It looked like a medium size trawler or cargo ship, the rusted hull blended nicely into the red and orange coral giving it a sunrise ochre colour.

Large fish glided through open windows and doorways in no particular direction.

In this environment Jess was seeing the world through what she saw, the randomness, the moment to moment existence, food came and went, there was no struggle, no stress, no point to anything, which suited her just fine.

It became abundantly clear that people's minds create all the mess, the insatiable thinking, plotting, evaluating, and for what? To get ahead, to pay the rent?

She looked back at all the commentary she'd read and seen on TV, how inconsequential it all seemed, and what had changed?

She looked at the fish that just swam, although it was hardly swimming - detecting her own interpretation - they weren't swimming at all, that was just a word humans gave to what they saw them doing.

Fish moved through the water as they were hatched to do – straight forward - no more no less. They were not aware of any scientific explanation for why they were here or for what they did, they weren't aware of the genealogical categories humans created.

It was all designed so the mind could hold onto some sort of secure reality – but the reality was - none existed, especially in the ocean where humans were slow, cumbersome and completely out of their depth – _lit_.

Jess returned to the surface in a subdued frame of mind. Her musings had uncovered a still yet raw realisation about herself and she was eager to pursue it but at a later date when the emotional baggage it brought with it could be absorbed and left behind. She felt the weight of the mind's construction of the world with its money, politics and religion seemingly dragging her down but she held onto the image of the Sun, sky and ocean and that all would be ok if she just remembered the planet she inhabited.

The trip back to Batu Belau was filled with introspection. Jess reclined on the canvas bunk in the stern while Captain checked his fishing lines.

She tried to explain to _slow down_ but Captain just smiled and nodded with no obvious understanding so Jess stood up near the steering wheel and pointed to the handle which she'd seen him use to control the speed.

He watched intently like a child as she gently backed it down. Jess pointed to her watch and shrugged – the combined actions piercing through the language divide. Once communication had been made she pointed to him and the fishing lines a number of times. Captain raised his hands Hindu style and beamed back.

Now with the boat ambling back Jess continued her musings of living in paradise. The moral repercussions from selling hashish settled down beside her. The bulk of the money was in an account Roman had set up for her and could be accessed through _BTA_ in Sanur.

Whether she was complicit in doing something wrong was never resolved. In the balmy waters off Batu Belah the whole escapade simply merged into everything else.

Roman had arranged for her to be 'employed' at the Bargain Hunter to enable a working visa to be issued which needed to be renewed by flying to Singapore every six months until she could apply for a resident visa.

There was still a possibility the arrangement could unravel so she wasn't entirely able to relax. In the mean time it was about absorbing as much as she could from the island paradise.

Arriving back at the cove was met with waves from the restaurant bungalow, and some people snorkelling over the reef. The satisfaction bordered on elation. Knowing that the enclave of red rooves was her home and if so desired she could have lunch and a rest and go back to the wreck all for about $10, filled her, surprisingly, with gratitude.

As Captain helped her into the dinghy she was so thankful that she was able to spend the day this way. The neighbourhood kids were on the Temple jetty next door and waved as they jumped into the deep water, their naked glistening brown bodies the perfect way to be greeted.

Returning from a wonderful morning was destroyed in an instant. The atmosphere in the restaurant bungalow was dense. The girls in their pale yellow shirts huddled together.

Joli-baby-girl with tears in her eyes can't comprehend what has happened. The fabric that entwines them is lost.

Accidents were common. Motor scooters, trucks and taxis on narrow poorly made roads are not a great combo. Details were sketchy as they always are. A truck had slid around a corner near their home, spilling some of the generic black dirt seen everywhere on the side of the roads. There had been little time for him to react, the scooter forced under the wheels while trying to avoid oncoming traffic.

The body had been taken to Amed Hospital. Made's parents would feel the loss more than most, perhaps. He was their link to the outside world, the one that organised the labour for their family compound – the shop, the huts, and the pathway – all their prosperity.

Their family was seen as something different, success had paved a way to break the chains of impoverishment, now they would quickly slide into the crowd, become another compound like the rest, and merge back into the background. There had been some notoriety, some hope for the future.

For Jess, the symbol of Made's death was the unfinished tiles.

There is a noticeable change as the afternoon wears on. The Sun starts to slide down Agung leaving a violet hue down the darker side. Melting lavender, shadows creeping across the parched dusty fields, cows turn mauve, the highway dark, across the bungalows, to the ocean. Jess stands at the water's edge looking out over an endless ripple of lavender stretching to the horizon.

A trick of the light, an unusual occurrence, a landmark occasion – freedom forged ahead.

The search for Bali ended at the moment. There was no Shang-ri-la. No perfect paradise. Life goes on until it doesn't, even for Balinese who appear exotic – costumes, ceremonies, Temples - exist within the search for money, raising of families, tourists floating in and out of frame like the weather, present but not controllable, remaining as a backdrop.

Jess realised she had been shown a blessing. There is no escape from the world back home. Life on this small island was no different from the place she was escaping from – her own mind.
The funeral procession halts traffic along the highway from Tulamben to Amed. The white head dresses, bright flags and poles with bamboo woven ornaments all converge on the beach. Feasts, celebrations and processions went well into the night.

Jess sat on the edge of a wall at the Temple overlooking the beach. She felt too uncomfortable becoming involved with the traditional rites. She was a visitor but mourned like a local. The Gamelan and drums infiltrate everything. The music is indistinguishable from the air, beach and children in their white traditional costumes.

The prevailing wind is about letting go – when you get so tired of fighting the tide that there are no choices left – you must go with the flow because there is nothing left to do. The scheming now seems puerile, the motivation of something to prove now vanished, the thought of getting ahead and staying in front of the game ludicrous.

Death has paved the path. There is no other way but the way. It all combines with no boundary or definition.

Walking back to the bungalow she heard music – a haunting motif floats through the frangipani infused air.

A man is packing a bag via candlelight – shadows flicker. Jess wants to approach but is cautious as not to disturb his concentration but it is the music that she is drawn to.

The world has sighed.
At breakfast all the elements are there – the ocean, boats, the girls plus _Eugene_ who sits at the far table, alone, eating _Nasi goreng_ , with a few books on the table.

Jess takes up her usual table overlooking the ocean with Captain's boat moored in the same position as last night, the sea a little noisy and choppy.

The girls serve banana, pineapple, papaya and lime followed by an endless train of coconut pancakes with sugar syrup, coffee flows in and Jess is already planning her day by the pool.

She wants to know what music was playing last night, but there is a bookcase near his table filled with novels, some in French. It's her cue to remove herself from her banquet to find something to read beside the pool.

Leaving her sarong behind, with only her cherry red bikini on, there is a caffeine soaked exhibitionist streak unfolding. She stops to part two chairs, even squeaking them across the chalky slate.

The books she ignores are; _The Glass Bead Game, Naked Lunch_ and _Catch-22._ The others in French are _; Sodome et Gomorrhe, Trois contes_ and _L'Amante_.

Eugene wears boots, green canvas pants and a _Tin-Tin in Vietnam_ t-shirt. His bag is packed and he has two bottles of water infused with salt.

'That music was nice.'

He looks up from his breakfast, slightly puzzled.

'Sorry, from last night. I was walking past while you were packing.'

' _Ascenseur pour l'echafaud.'_

'I liked it.'

'Yes it is very beautiful, but not everyone's cup of tea. What are you reading?'

' _Tales of Power_ ,' she answers.

'What's it about?'

Jess turns the book around and begins reading from the back cover; 'It's about the perception of reality. An American tries to navigate his way through the world of an old Mexican through peyote.'

'Sounds interesting.'

Sensing she wasn't going away, he holds out his hand.

'Hi, I'm Eugene.'

'Jess.'

Jess and Eugene talk about the beauty of the island, his adventures around the world and life in Paris. His parents own a famous café in Montmartre, known for their truffles. He tells Jess about his grandfather who knew a famous painter who died in squalor who showed him where to find the best truffles in France.

Jess talks about searching for that illusive path of gold, and feels she has found her sanctuary. Eugene insists that time has taken her here, where all obstacles have been removed so she can be at peace with herself.

He is still searching for that beauty in himself that he sees in nature.

'I trek because I'm restless, I find peace in movement. The obstacle whether it be a mountain, lake or the ocean is not important. It's the destination I find exciting. When I reach a destination or the end of a trip, there's always a slight feeling of disappointment, a subdue resignation that it is over and I start to think about the next journey.'

Jess couldn't have been any more different but there was something peaceful almost poetic about the way he spoke.

'You don't seem that sure.'

'I am the opposite, I've been looking for somewhere like here for a long time, and now that I'm here I don't want to leave. I want everything to stop.'

Eugene took in what she said without judgement.

'You know even the most placid lake moves underneath. Stagnate water kills everything within it.'

'True, but maybe it is a matter of degree, intent, I move each day, swim here and there, that is enough for me, isolation is what I want. The people here don't hurt each other, there are limited resources here but they share and from what I've seen no one goes without.'
Jess reads Tales of Power while Eugene is at the top of Agung opening his second bottle of water and eating a banana. The trek took six hours. Time for an hour's sleep before the rays of light start to frame the highest peak on Lombok.

On the way back to her bungalow Jess sees Joli cleaning his room. She stops as the CD player is placed on the balcony chair as the tiled floor is swept.

The cover of Ascenseur pour l'echafaud is held up to the light. The blurb on the back of the cover reads –

A low-key meditation of walking the streets of Paris in search of love. Jeanne Moreau has a calm demeanour and stoic fatalism. Jazz and film noir are perfect bedfellows. This dark and seductive tale is wonderfully accentuated by the sensual nature of a mysterious chanteuse and the contrasting scurrying rat race lifestyle of the times, when the popularity of the automobile, cigarettes, and the late-night bar scene were central figures.

_Generique_ and _L'Assassinat de Carala_ linger in her mind. Jess finds his guidebook, scribbled notes, and diary entries about his trips to Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia, the last sentence is... _pour trouver votre proprex_ ...
...ascension...
Can any or every thing be done?

In an infinite universe the parameters of what can be done are limitless, although on such a scale all is rendered inconsequential pending subjectivity.

Infinite?

Yes, the big bang is as fanciful as God. The Universe was never in the same place at the same time, that is ludicrous. Notions of the universe contracting and expanding are fictious and only serve to propagate some scientist's view of what they see; even the most translucent theorem is subject to the foibles of perception. Suns implode certainly but the framework, the infinite boundary has never changed. We see gravity bending time, red shifts of expanding light but not the universe, scientists have confused the shift of red light as the universe expanding in all directions at once when it is only an element of light moving through the universe. Mathematics can be shaped to appeal to any theorem. Never forget all mathematics is man-made.

This is so...

Revolutionary!

There is nothing revolutionary about reality. Reality is an old man in a library with his books in front of a fire sipping 21 year old whiskey; it is staid, bland, predictable and above all else...old!

Why are planets spherical?

Because that's how we see them.

Time looks linear because we can't see gravity.

Like a rainbow?

Yes, or the sky, they are not actually there, it's just what light allows us to see, all that we know is filtered by subjectivity, there is no reality or truth because we can't see it, there is nothing to gauge reality with as it doesn't exist because we can't see through our subjectivity.

That's why God exists, because we can't see past our subjective view of the universe so we see what we think we see – hence the existence of God.

Is that why _Opealeux_ exists?

Who knows why anything exists. It is only a mirror to see how we see universe, it is a way-station, a planet that sits next to the culmination of what we see - the universe is not the sum of galaxies, gravity and time, they are only bands of the spectrum of what exists.

The prism is the universe, the shafts of light the elements we see, we can only see God because it is a splinter of the universe, one element...

How long will we stay here?

As long as it takes...

It will take too long for the world to see.

Where?

So what's the secret?

There is no secret but I can tell you where to start. Ask any person to tell you what they see when they look at the sky. That will tell you all you need to know about them. Their answer will dilute everything they are. You see the brain operates on two levels all the time; the ripples on the surface inform you how they react to the immediate – what someone says, their thoughts and feelings towards external stimuli. Underneath that is how you react without your perceptions – your inner truth.

These two currents operate all the time – sometimes in harmony sometimes not.

Pick any moment, picture any situation and you will see what I mean.

Someone tells the same joke over and over; you laugh, enjoy the experience, but after a while you get tired, annoyed – you can't understand why they keep telling the same joke. You no longer find it funny, but why? Why do you think anything is funny? What is laughter?

It is a reaction from the surface of your brain; you are interacting with all your stored conditioning and DNA.

Underneath however, it isn't funny or anything else. Your inner truth ignores your reaction as it does everything else. Your inner truth is just being with no discrimination, no judgement – it just is. There is no point explaining laughter to your inner truth as it doesn't see it as any different to anything else.

People who are not awake to this live purely in their responses to the external world. They have a sense nothing is quite complete but can't quite understand why. They are close to the event, like watching behind a one way mirror, but they might as well be on another planet.

You can tell by the way people talk and what they talk about to understand exactly where they are. You can tell by what they make up with their minds. They make wide sweeping proclamations, generalisations and can recite all sorts of knowledge but their words are like a swallow in flight – darting, stopping, diving to earth, twitching – while the wind carries them wherever it wants, then like everything else they die with no awareness of the external forces that controlled their lives.

It's all about how the brain has developed self-consciousness. Each person's brain is aware of themselves as in the body, but the thoughts and feelings dominate the landscape so much people don't associate that their view of the world stems from their brain.

People invent stories that turn into politics, religion, history and cling onto these myths like they are truth, and why? Simply because they think, they remember and they conjecture so that anything they concoct must be true simply because they think it.

The greatest example is the perceived difference between people's minds and hearts. People strongly believe their heart is where they feel from, you can watch them, and they even pat their chests.

People find it hard to accept that feelings and emotions stem from the brain just as thoughts do and that both are arbitrary and transitory.

So what to do?

Even ascension is a perception. The concept that you are ascending, developing, transforming is illusory. In the end there is nothing but the outside world and your perception of it.

Sitting in robes waiting for enlightenment is foolish. Get out of the way, you are holding up traffic, I yell at them.

What fool sits all day waiting for something the mind has created, it's a form of giving up.

The only thing watching your breathing does is make you aware of the simmering ripple of your thoughts, which is fine, but that's all there is – there is no awakening, awake from what?

Yourself?

How do you awake from your _self_ when it is your _self_ creating all the notions of your _self_ , you can't escape it, you are you, it's like a dog chasing its shadow, how foolish!

... _fortune a brave trident_...is the working title.

No self-awareness, no questioning, apartness of course. These are attributes that need no reflection.

The purpose of introspection is not to show your true colours. It is a smoke screen to camouflage raw emotion.

Do you think they will believe this?

They will believe anything if it's perceived as sincerity.

But it's been published before.

Not recently.

Transcripts will be available online

Online? What's that?

Nostalgia re-written.

There is a break coming up.

Do you want to take it?

Only if it is reasonable.

Are supplies expected any time soon?

What's with the questions?

I have to make a report.

_Over the loudspeaker_ \- have you seen anything like this?

No.

It's a new program.

_Regal_ coffee – two by two.

_Over the headphones_ – you take cream or sugar?

I've always wanted to say that, Sam giggles.

How long to the end?

The daze is thicker, about two hours, in a way.

How is the report?

Tremendously difficult to categorize – like a _Gumpton_ novel.

_November_ or _Swift_?

Swift was so much better.
Sam is writing a report from observations of a man in detention who has reportedly designed an app that shows proof there was once a planet with water, of course historical records show this is impossible, oh and as a side benefit that the universe is infinite.

Staring at a hologram of an open field, the man's thoughts are so vivid and random they project on the prison wall. Two patrollers are trying to record the images with a variety of digital equipment but the images are multi-dimensional so they look like bubble gum ice-cream when played back.

_iHere_ is the name of the project.

Sam and...

Anger is a platitude.

If we have to start again it will take ages.

Isn't this what it's all about, documenting the transition from iHere projection to semblance of reality.

But who is going to read it, I mean make sense of it. It won't mean anything if there isn't a piece of technology that can replay his visions.

That's why we have to document it all.

How did they know we could do it?

It was obvious.

What if we are part of his projections?

_Over the loudspeaker_ – Are you comfortable? Do you need anything?

... _Purple and black window...for a wave...an abandoned shelter for homeless animals...the driveway to a home...people milling around waiting for a procession...a celebration or anniversary...people are happy, no relived that something is over..._

How are they going to string this together?

The man didn't notice the rain at first because it was running down the walls and across the floor.

A map for consciousness, a guide to salvation, process clear – they were all names quickly discarded. An albatross circled with a descending spiral. Time was running out – obvious.

But the ramifications were not so clear, for what was the result of the observation. It was new territory, unchartered so the end game was being created as the observer became the observed.

A conversation was needed higher up the chain so they converged on a plateau with self-interest paramount.

Were Gods deciding fate? Unlikely.

The treasure is amongst us, once again, some may add. _Adres_ is no longer a secret. iHere is here to stay. ( _Some winced_ ).

Results cannot be reviewed only recorded and stored. We have to wait for the technology to catch up. There were disgruntled looks.

How much has this cost?

When do I see a return?

Shallow markings scour deep with intent.

He continued as if he knew what he was talking about. Others were prepared to listen as they had nothing to add.

When would they see Adres? When would they see some point to all of this? There were rumours the two assignees had already been removed after suffering fits and hallucinations, so a process needed to be in place to secure replacements. But who would volunteer for such a duty, and who had the skill set, for what skill set was required was still unclear.

Questions outweighed probability, and it was a gamble, an influx of energy with no release.

The past weighed heavy on them all. Patience was escaping out the door but Sam was prepared.

I would like to introduce our two programmers. There was a genuine hush of excitement. For this was unexpected, so they hadn't gone mad.

Please welcome Sam and Charles Worthington.

Twins no less, how odd, what are the chances of that?

Sam and Charles will walk us through what they have observed and recorded so far, gentlemen please.

A smattering of applause only as time was against them all and results, something concrete was needed, quickly.

Sam and Charles took their seats, and looked at each other. Some wondered if they were going to complete each other's sentences.

We have been observing the subject we call Adres for two weeks since his ingestion into our dimension. Recording what he sees or transmits, it is still unclear whether he is the source or just a medium, has been tedious. Our inputs only receive seven dimensions and his output has clogged the last three channels so we have assumed his wavelength contains many more – Charles interrupts, but that is still unconfirmed.

It is possible, well we have discussed, the transmissions may be coming through an unknown dimension – another hush more elongated and certainly profounder.

A dimension that is still an unknown quantity, as it would appear to contain everything.

It may be just _Time_.

Yes, but as we said, still unconfirmed.

We need more time to work on it.

More time for Time.

Some in the small audience sensed a discord between the twins as if one was eager to ramp up proceedings while the other, being more pragmatic, wanted to analyse the captured data.

Shall we proceed?

Certainly.

What we do know is the sequence, or should I say lack of sequence shows a random but cyclic progression – many heads furrowed, surely a contradiction.

If one was to believe the ancient view of Mercury's orbit around the Star, you would think from looking at the data that it was an irregular orbit, but we now know, it was perfectly round, it was just what they thought was gravity got in the way.

So it is for Adres, his iHere database looks random, but every million or so bytes it starts up again with either three or five continuous – Sam searches for words, rhythms perhaps, more like frequency but not linear, emanating from three or five directions at once.

They maybe colours, as they have different photic capabilities when transduced in a prism oscillator.

Surely they aren't still used, surplus requirements.

It may take many light years to fully store all that is being transmitted, but we have some equally compelling data that it may be slowing down.

The small captive audience reacted as if something finite was upon them. An end could be insight. Their brains could handle closure, but certainly not randomness and infinity, it made them look insignificant. I would like to describe some of the more frequent visitations. Sam cleared his throat.

Circles of dust...protein equations...sorbid spectrums of red, orange and white shifts...cubes of water spiralling...descent wind...long elapses of ice and wind wrapping around discs of granite covered ice...

The ice and granite we think could pertain to celestial objects, comets, meteors even moons. There are long interludes with no colour then all of a sudden the full spectrum opens up to reveal enormous trails of red, green and blue tails of gas stretching from solar system to solar system. There seems to be void in between, with no colour but certainly wind of some description. It's all very cold, denoting large distances between stars. Then it all pinpoints to microscopic viewpoints, very slow but saturated images, very clear, very dense; _...single rocks, mountains, vehicles with figures in them, unknown origin, perhaps an ornament_.

It is believed objects and figures were glorified, there seems to have been a propensity to live in the past, for what reason is still unclear. This has resulted in the reinstatement of the _Ayla Expansion_ theorem. Some in the audience had been waiting a long time to hear this.

Say the word, say the word, say the word...
Opea el whksn rugh njfj hhp hhtp qrur hgv sisin bjnvn vn vdf nvjfn vfjn nava jn vjkdn vfjnvu rbkd fnjvfk dafbv ubm xceoim xch fryt alma dkn aau hvm jidjcn leux

Transmission scripts are collected and placed in trays. Pages turn into reams. All are coded and paginated into formulas and conditions.

Heather Sharpe has been collecting albums of leaflets for the end of cycle report. Her boss has left for the day so it is up to her to locate parcels of memory large enough and sequenced so that when the reviewing technology is available the sectors are easily identified.

Ayla Expansion was trialled as a host receptor:

but the variable loss factor caused an imbalance so a _radia cieria_ :

  was introduced to subjugate the _triac inversion_ :  _script integral_ :   which opened an _accented limit log_.

None of this mattered too much to Sam or Charles. As they were distanced from the construction of a pathway, distractions were few and far between.

Lorus and Heather transgressed the variable hiccup by compiling each strand upon its own plane thus enabling each pathway to be installed as primary modules. This had the component geeks scratching their heads as they were lineal _tri-decs_ exponents so when the _belkien belles_ were separated there was an issue with posting transcripts for Chalres to reproduce.

Long into the night the _Executive Core_ debated where the extra funding was going to come from to expedite the remaining tenure of its collegiate program.

This news was delivered to Heather in the morning at the faculty swap meet for the Campus Secondees.

Heather and Lorus were pursuing immortality when functionality overtook their creativity. Grants from the _Foundation_ only went so far. They were forced to take second tier graduate postings to supplement their pivotal roles in accommodating Professorships.

In the ensuing time available the tube of _parallex denominators_ resolved but the notation was still un-scriptable. All their training looked them in the eye.

We must be missing something. Her eyes looked tired but her mind was steely taut like a wash of cold mountain stream over blue slate.

Resolution was all the rage. It was fashionable to scientifically run the scales up and down. Triumphant returns were expected at every turn. Funding depended upon it. Budget estimates demanded it. Deadlines framed their horizons so it was with a modicum of surprise and ineptitude that Lorus realised Heather was working upon a side project outside of the parameters set by the Board of Executors.
Obstructions are not an option; Thwaite slammed his fist on the marble desk. A desk so circular it contained no end or beginning. The room sat in silence, dictating his emotions.

There must be no rest till endeavour is reached.

Strategy was blurred with objectives. There was so much riding on the outcome that timelines, due diligence and procedure meant nothing.

These crazy...what are they called again? He bellowed at the stenographer. Silence but for a rustling of paper and the winding back of the tape.

Postulations, sir.

They can't be postulations, they're holograms. I can see them in the cubed room.

That's what it said.

Then be damned what it says, from now on they shall be known as holograms. In a whisper, make sure they write that down.
Meanwhile back in the lab.

What are these calculations based on?

They are just postulations; they aren't stable so I can't infiltrate the core values.

We are stretched for time as it is; I can't cover for you for too long.

They sat in the blue cafeteria with a host of under-graduates recovering from their latest round of symposiums. Each one was grafted from upper echelon stock and was expected to fulfil the three years of rotations within the curriculum.

Wystaff was in here yesterday. Santoni has been looking for him. There's a rumour he's been head hunted by the _Haute Fellowship_ , can you believe such a thing. After all those years in the _Helix Foundation_.

They were inseparable in the Corps, apparently...

What did you say? Heather's eyes pinned to a photon slit.

What?...Santoni may go...

No, after that, the what Foundation?

Helix, you remember, they traded out for...
The issue began with a circle, then a helix, then two inverted figure of eights, whichever way it was tilted it severed links with the main frame, until Heather alleviated the bottle neck of data by the use of _Cinetic_ media strips Nicknamed _Skizz_ by Ann-Margaret Holloway.

Invented by Elijah Denmark at the _Glasserow Heathstone Institute_ , which was like boring out a guitar solo on a _Fender Jaguar_ then transcribing the melody on a _Synclavier_.

The _Opealeux Conversion_ was born. The Opealeux Conversion took linear progressions and transmuted them to the appropriate pathway, but it retained the capacity to stretch out the equations or bunch them into spherical bunts or spiralling curves depending on the structure or format of the quantative density of the particles.

Heather was awarded the _Linc Energy Baulk_ scholarship to continue the work. iHere became the standard operating system for all investigative aspirations and the Adres feature becomes the most eagerly anticipated installation in the history of _Falles Welheat. Polyton Technics_ buys the patent for the Opealeux Conversion and Heather becomes the most celebrated _Polemic Isolator_ in history.

Her fame amongst research fellows enables her to enlist and fundraise for Institutes all over the western belt.

_Transek_ owns the rights for the iHere transmission platform but it's Heather's reductive assembly that allows the Opealeux Conversion to see the light of day.

At the global presentation Heather announces before the viewing that;

" _The Opealeux Conversion is the memory of a world gone by, a snapshot of the flux of a Planet and its civilisations."_
From a monitor the size of _Lake Aesoputus_ , images float out and around the audience. Some are sequential, holographic and spherical. Light casts shadows over faces and sound of the elements in constant harmony...

... _giant flares of radiation, cosmic photon bullets, ice storms and wind tunnels coerce and fuse a seismic layering of minerals, gas and explosions. They are portrayed as one canvas of energy but are received as information by separate elements then re-assembled due to size and shape of the prisms available._

The scientific amongst the throng see dimensions – funky enough in odd number clusters – most stop after five, a few see seven, no one sees the ninth dimension but if capable more are possible, but it is only a demonstration of subjectivity as a human trait, if there were Gods amongst them they would see no dimensions as there is no separation.

The main frame detects a glitch as only it can. A lone figure is seen in the distance. The hologram is larger than the screen so it radiates out over the audience. The blurred edges consume everything in its path.

The figure is Peta, long forgotten idol of the intelligentsia, as beautiful as she was smart. She walks along a silicon fused beach, small waves of sonic water curl in to the shore with monotonous regularity, each one more perfect than the one before.

She stares at her feet as she walks away, a red shift surrounds her limbs and back of the head. She is walking the same pace but appears to be headed further away.

The audience is silent, the presenters transfixed. Sam checks the data logger attached to the control panel.

It appears every wave, every step is consuming more of the Opealeux Conversion. Each passing moment exhausts a little more memory, data is rescinding, there is no end in sight...
Before long the antithesis of brutality will be forged and for those who stare looking, bright objects will appear where the sky used to be.

Thwaite tests his diary and his disappointed to see he has forgotten the march past at the Epitaph.

His valet is summoned with a new uniform and directions for the staff car driver. They meet in the basement. He has a choice of four vehicles and takes his time deciding. Appearances are everything, he reminds himself.

On the highway, they pass traffic going in the opposite direction. The dome is effuse yellow, must be near dawn, he whispers.

His speech is handwritten with copious notes in the margin. He hopes the cloud cover will hide the dawn long enough for him to arrive unflustered, but no luck, the troops have assembled and the official party is missing one chair on the rostrum. They are held up at the boom gate – sorry sir, procedure.

The car is checked and the license plates recorded.

A salute and Major General Thomas Thwaite arrives 15 minutes late.

His strategy is to take his time and present arms at the guard of honour. He walks slowly along the line of men. A lone trumpeter heralds his arrival but stops too soon; he is still interrogating the last Corporal before taking the Company salute.

Thwaite makes his way to the rostrum; he salutes mildly, as they are all below rank except four stars Mackie who he sidles up to.

_Code Purple,_ he mutters, as if that will explain everything.

Good Morning and welcome to the passing put parade for graduates in class 2162.

Before I begin I want to share with you why I was delayed. There has been a development in the Adres Facilitation. A curious code has been unlocked to store and review postulations of the iHere Foundation. He takes in the murmuring and glances.

I thought you'd be interested. It will take weeks for the glutton of data to become stable and at some point _Central Command_ will release pertinent details.

As for us, life must continue as there is a future to forge, a tomorrow to rope in so that we may sail unencumbered for liberty and peace are our bedfellows, and we may not rest for it is the delinquent that scouts the mountains and clouds our vision.

Now I don't pretend to understand everything these scientist types say, I sometimes think they keep us in the dark deliberately but what I do know is they are working around the clock like soldiers to ensure every rock is upturned and every string of data is analysed checked and re-checked, for this will surely determine the future.

Rest assured we have the machinations in place to revive and re-constitute public order and confidence again, so it is with my deepest gratitude and hope for you all that you take your training and commendations to protect and serve with utmost accountability, for I too will pass, but for those that follow will need you to guide and uphold the light which beckons our future. Thank you, and God speed.
A piece of dust falls on the ground, it opens up to reveal a moment of antiquity, a foreign substance, exiled from its origins, no home to go back to, no future in sight, and like so many of us only the present to squander...

****

Other Titles

Nightwatchers

Genius Remote

...a fleeting glimpse...

Jazz

Embouchure

Gotte Spake Musica

East

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