

At the bottom is a memory that can only be returned to, a closed circle of recurrence: at the top is the recreation of memory.

One must adopt either the way of imagination or the way of memory: no compromise or neutrality is possible.

A SECRET PLACE

by

### George Partridge

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2013 by George Partridge

All Rights Reserved.

All the gods, all the heavens, all the worlds are within us. They are magnified dreams

She was in a dense forest and she was lost. Every direction looked the same. Twisted, gnarled boughs blocked her progress, tangled thorny shrubs tore at her thin white shift, tendrils of blood laced her limbs, sweat oozed from every pore. She was dirty and desperate. She looked upwards. In the distance a towering conifer seemed to stretch two massive arms toward the sky. For no reason, she made for it.

Soon she found herself among a legion of lodgepole pines standing spare and straight like silent sentinels. The low bush was gone and she seemed to float over the thick carpet of moss between the living columns. Abruptly the terrain turned steeply down into a ravine but she continued on her chosen direction regardless. At the bottom she was blocked by a roiling brook. She decided to follow it upstream.

Suddenly she entered a beautiful grove. She felt like she was home. In the foreground she saw a cheerful bower of wild flowers shaded by graceful birches. In the background, a high glittering waterfall plunged over a white limestone cliff. Seething foam frothed into an emerald pool sending wavelets of water radiating out like a fan. A cooling mist enveloped the trees. It seemed like a Shangri-La, a secret and special place, hiding out there in the wilderness.

She approached the pool as if it was her very own. Dappled light fell on her in spurts, outlining her stocky body in silhouette. The girl looked like a sylvan goddess on another world. She pulled the shift over her head and discarded it. Then she raised her arms and soared upwards. Her athletic brown body arched over the water before it slid into the pool without a sound. She revelled in the experience as if it were the first time. She luxuriated in the feeling of water caressing every inch of her nakedness. She opened her legs to the surging currents. She swivelled and twisted against the press of the water. Finally, she surrendered to the liquid embrace. The pool seemed to claim her. She floated motionless, suffused with the fluid of life.

She emerged, shining and glorious. She felt like she had been reborn, as if the waters had had the power to renew her whole body and to cleanse her very soul. She stretched and swayed to let the light warm wind dry her off. She bent over double to rub the moisture from her lower legs but then she stopped. She had detected an upside-down shadow in the bush. Somebody was there, inspecting her bottom. She jerked upwards.

She was sitting up in bed, staring blankly at a crumpled white sheet. She was confused and she was annoyed that her exciting night-world had vanished. She regarded her surroundings balefully. Thin cotton curtains billowed in warm currents and beyond them blue waters sparkled to the horizon. The year was 1975.

The sexual quest as an end in itself seems to aim at possession rather than union and so invariably to collapse into the sado-masochistic cycle.

It was a beautiful sunset along the beach as they all are if you are attuned to the endless pastel interplay of sea and sky. A light breeze lifted the girl's auburn hair into the soft summer glow. She pranced along the berm in her short white cover-up and as she pivoted her hips, her brown thighs rippled like the sand. Her dark tan was accentuated by a bright bracelet and around her long neck was a thin silver band. She walked slightly ahead of an older man as they pushed up toward the villa. Her steps were quick and light, his were plodding and labored. Anton bit his lip as he watched her walk. He was tense with anticipation. They came to a vertical ladder suspended from a high balcony and she started up. He watched her full buttocks work back and forth as she climbed. He imagined that she was naked. He was more than ready. It was time.

They slouched against the balcony railing in the fading light. The sun was low on the horizon and all around it the light blue sky was melding into a faded yellow, the water to a burnished, bluish-gold. Below, shimmering swells rumbled along the steep shore like distant thunder. A glistening, hissing tide surged up the sand with a veering roll and then accelerated seaward into the surf. She spread her arms in wonder and exclaimed, "This is a real paradise here, Uncle Anton, a secret hideaway. But where on earth is it? That little plane flew so high and it was so dark I didn't have any idea where we were going."

"You're not supposed to know, Lauren," he smiled, "and no one else is either, except my people. That's the way it is in my business; the fewer people who know, the better. But why not enjoy it wherever it is because it's beautiful."

"It's more than that," she replied, "It's as lovely as the Garden of Eden."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Anton objected, "I picture Eden more like a hidden field of flowers with a white waterfall cascading into a green pool out in the middle of nowhere."

"That's really odd!" she exclaimed. "I had a dream last night about just such a place and it seemed so real!"

"I think it is real," he teased "and I think I know how to find out where it is."

"Then you must find out and take me there!" she insisted.

"No," he replied, "there isn't enough time. Time is running out." He broke off as if in resignation. "That's the whole trouble," he mused, "there isn't enough time. In the Garden of Eden there was no time and everything was connected. But then they got kicked out into the world of time with its sets of opposites...you know: beginning and ending, pleasure and pain, male and female. They were embarrassed when they realized they themselves were opposites." He paused for a moment then added quietly. "You know, there's a real thrill in trying to merge those opposites, be it with drugs or be it with sex." He was suddenly silent and then he threw up his hands and said, "Well, enough philosophy for now. How about coming up to the roof? You'll see even more from there."

"Oh yes, let's," she agreed. "I've been anxious to do that. I'll be discovering new things!"

"You certainly will," he murmured as he led the way.

She discovered that the way to the roof was through her Uncle's exercise room and up a short chrome ladder. It was very private. He; even had his own flower garden up there complete with benches and sculpture. She studied the view. She could barely make out the other side of bay from that height. She turned to view luxuriant foothills ranging upwards to the far horizon.

"That's really something," she marvelled but her uncle wasn't there. He had stepped into his penthouse office. He beckoned to her through the big windows. He was sitting on his massive desk and he grinned as he held up a small beige statuette of a seated female nude. One of her legs was folded under her buttocks. The other leg was drawn up and supported by the opposite arm.

"I got this lady at a dusty old shop in Athens," he explained. "She's supposed to be a Greek goddess. It is said that she kept a lover for a year, after which he usually came to a bad end. Then she went to her secret grove and had a swim. When she came out, she was rejuvenated; she was even a virgin again, ready for the next boy-friend." He turned it sideways so she could see the bottom. "See that small hole?" Inside, there's supposed to be the location of that grove, just like the one we were talking about. At least, that's what they told me."

"So did you ever look for it?" she asked.

"No, he replied, "I didn't. I prefer to believe the story and leave it at that."

"Well, if you don't want to find out, why not let me?" she suggested.

"Not now," he smiled, "but maybe later. I tell you what; I'll give you this instead. I know it's not your eighteenth birthday but it soon will be and I might not be here then. So here's my gift." She took the small elegantly-wrapped box with delight and carefully opened it. It was a shining silver bracelet ensconced in red silk.

"Isn't that lovely!" she exclaimed as she reached inside. She held it aloft and saw that it was double. There were two bracelets joined by a small bright chain.

"You know how I love jewelry," she said "and this is a beauty!"

"So are you," he replied, "so you better try it on."

The rings were much smaller than her hand and each opened with a metal clasp. She put them on her left arm then held them up in admiration, turning towards the light.

Instantly, he came up behind her and said, "That's not quite the way it goes; here, let me show you." He opened up one of the rings and then he grabbed her other arm, pulled it behind her and fastened the ring to it. "Welcome to the world of opposites," he whispered. She began to pant and to protest, "no..no!" Her arms fought against the bracelets but to no avail. The clasps seemed to be locked. The chain was much stronger than usual. She was handcuffed.

"Now it's time to open my gift," he muttered into her ear and then he reached under her cover-up and pulled down her bikini bottoms to her ankles. His palm kneaded her tense buttocks, his fingers reached for her vulva. "Stop or I'll scream!" she cried out in desperation, vainly twisting her body. She couldn't believe what was happening to her.

"Scream all you want," he retorted. "Nobody here gives a damn," He pushed her to the back of the room, toward a blue bed against the far wall. He forced her face down on the pillows. In a second he had her left ankle leashed to the bedstead with a short back strap. He took out a knife and cut her cover-up to ribbons. Then he roughly pulled the remnants from beneath her. He stood back and stared, fascinated by the sight of her smooth brown body writhing on the blue sheets. Nothing in his imagination had come close to the real thing. She didn't scream after all but instead made low, choking, moaning sounds like a trapped animal. Her free leg flexed helplessly. She had become a victim.

He climbed down the ladder and went to his bedroom. He slowly removed his clothes, folding each item neatly and then stood before a full-length mirror. In the subdued yellow light it was just possible to conjure up the man of years ago. As he turned, his long leg muscles still bulged and the sinews of his thick arms pulsed. He had been a magnificent animal. He went to the weight-room and let his whole body exult in its challenges. He felt revived, young and vigorous as if he had returned to the days of his youth when it seemed that the whole world was his for the taking. He anointed himself under the hot stream of his shower and then toweled off in slow motion. There was lots of time. He shaved and groomed and powdered with studied movements. And all the while, his mind's eye contemplated the warm brown girl on the ice-blue bed.

Then at last he was ready. She was still there. It gave him a thrill to imagine how it must have felt to be kept waiting, naked and helpless, for a fate that was all too clear. He slowly walked toward her as his excitement peaked.

It was later that same night that they bundled her into a float-plane. She remained huddled and silent throughout the flight against the dreadful discomfort and humiliation. She was hunkered down in her own little world. She was back in the crystal, cleansing pool.

Her mother was outraged but powerless. For one thing, she had no knowledge of Anton's location. For another, she had been married to his brother and she knew what they could do.

It took months of recuperation to come to terms with her experience and even then she was never the same. The integrity of her very being had been compromised. She didn't feel whole anymore but instead regarded herself as some imposter whose secret damage was to be concealed at all costs. In some irrational way she blamed herself for her condition. She was immersed in shame.

She slept for long periods and often dreamt of her secret grove. She knew it had to be real. She willed it to be real. She convinced herself that the contents of the statue would tell her where it was. She was certain that if she could only soak in those healing waters, she would be free of the trauma of her rape. She would be clean again. She would be renewed. But until then, she would always feel degraded, alienated and indelibly soiled.

She never trusted men after that. In fact, she viewed them all as adversaries. Her attitude was cool and aloof and she developed an obsession for the purity of white. Yet she was not above using men when it suited her purpose, just like any other tool you could name.

It was only much later that Lauren heard that Anton had been murdered in Europe and that the North American branch of the operation had been liquidated. She wondered who was living at the mansion now. She wondered if the statue was still there. She knew she had to find it at all cost. All the rest of her life was on hold. She took a kind of comfort in the fact that now she alone knew of the secret in the statue. No one, especially no man, could ever again use it to influence her.

The ascent to love and beauty also has its demonic parody.

The big fitful moon bathed everything in a pale yellow pallor: the ragged racing clouds, the giddy, churning waves, the battered resisting bluffs. Angry surf swarmed onto a strip of sand while the rest crashed into the craggy ramparts of the bay. The ghostly glow intermittently revealed the sharp geometric forms of a large modern mansion. It not only sprawled above the cliffs but also spilled over the precipice in a graceful cantilevered leap, leaving it partly suspended above a secluded beach. It was the only structure on the bay. It seemed as awesome as that wild mysterious shore dully gleaming in the dead of night.

The lush chords of the Warsaw Concerto wafted into the wind as a man opened a sliding door and glided down the shallows steps to the high balcony. Warm gusts stroked his thinning hair and probed the edges of his velvet robe. His cigarette flared. He flipped it over the wall and watched it flicker down to the rolling foam. He took a deep breath and drew the whole theatrical setting into his lungs. He was an incurable romantic.

It was some time before he went up to the dim bedroom. He seemed to skim over the shimmering floor, drawn into the shadows as a moth is drawn into the light. The bed was piled high with scarlet pillows. A light brown woman was stretched out there, loitering on the silk like a sensuous cat. He could already feel the curves of her naked body in his mind. She was exquisite. It would be heaven to make love to her. But there was no rush. Time stood still. He slowly removed his robe and let it fall to the floor. Then he just stood there, filling with the anticipation of languid love.

But suddenly the room brightened. The romantic spell was broken. In the harsh light he could see that her arms were bound, that her ankles were tied together. She was his possession to ravish. He felt electrified as he looked around for the whip. He knew it had to be there; it was essential. But he couldn't find it. He was frantic. He was beside himself. He was running out of time.

The baritone buzz just wouldn't go away. George Macdonnell heaved up and stopped the damned din. His bedding was a twisted mess. He was damp with sweat and he had an erection as big as all outdoors. But now it was time to face up to another day. The erotic world of last night had vanished. He seemed to be somewhere in between. The year was 1985.

_Everyone feeds the hope that someday, from the slough of his actual personality, there will spring forth a superman who is capable of redeeming years of mediocre existence_.

George Macdonnell made it to his desk that morning but he didn't feel like working. The muscles of his upper back and shoulders were aching and his ears seemed to be ringing. The dream had drained him. He felt like he was 80 years old (or how he imagined one felt at that age) but he was only 53 and a good 53 at that. He wasn't flabby or fat (although he did have a continuing love affair with beer) but he was just slightly overweight and relatively agile. He wasn't bad-looking either. Resolute green eyes overlooked a rugged football face. But as he had noted of late, that football was beginning to look like it needed some air.

On the other hand, his office reflected the younger, vigorous, restless George; the guy who brimmed with bright ideas, the guy who dropped everything and flew off to some God-forsaken spot in pursuit of a secret bonanza of gold or silver or diamonds. There, amid the jagged peaks and sweeping valleys he felt recharged. The rough clothing, the primitive meals, the sense of danger and discovery invigorated his very soul. And finally, with his detailed diagrams and dozens of rock samples, he would return to the safety and familiarity of his office to become engrossed in collating his data. Multi-coloured maps lined every wall like sacred tapestries. Glass cases coddled glossy crystals and technical reports crowded the cabinets. The desk supported strange variegated rocks and the computer screen-saver displayed the archetypal image of the profession: the geological pick. What other occupation could be so attractive?

Those were the good old days, the lost days of adventure. Now those green eyes surveyed the confines of his office with bored resignation, just as they had for the paste while. George was beginning to feel like the Maytag man. These days his services were seldom required but at least he knew why. His clients were invariably buoyed by his initial optimistic assessment of their claims but later, after his detailed examination, their hopes were often dashed. Of course, sometimes the ore just wasn't there or it was insufficient. But as time wore on, George was often aware that his methods were becoming out-dated and that his stamina was flagging. Younger men had new concepts and more energy. The truth was that he was still waiting for his next unalloyed success and he had been waiting a long time. And in the meantime, he had to travel with a bag of memories stuffed full of regrets and recriminations. Lately, he had been retrieving these secret shortcomings and playing them over and over like a bunch of B-movie re-runs. Finally, they all started to meld, to take on a life of their own as a single, accusing, harassing demon always looking over his shoulder. George Macdonnell shuddered and studied his silent phone. He picked through his mail and noticed an advertisement for a rock-hound exhibition in town.

The long tables were packed with glittering stones. It amused George to know that the exotic jargon of the gem trade was an attempt to glamorize the collecting of crystals. Specimens of Citrine, Onyx, Aventurine or Amethyst were all varieties of the ubiquitous mineral called Quartz. Sapphire, Ruby and Oriental Topaz were variations of the mundane aluminium mineral Corundum. Moonstone consisted of the very common Feldspar.

He sat down at a table near the small coffee concession and toyed with a quartz crystal that he had just bought. The glassy six-sided prism rose from a reticulated mass of smaller crystals like an obelisk. Inside the crystal, a fog of wispy, sparkling fractures covered its base and slowly dissipated upwards, leaving the pyramidal top shining and transparent. It was like an object from a fabulous land, exotic and mysterious.

"Excuse me, do you mind if I share your table?" asked a female voice.

For a moment, George was stunned. She was brown-skinned and brunette and her eyes were like two tears. The nose was snubbed and her lipstick was a very pale pink. He caught his breath. She reminded him of an old flame of long ago. He had burned with the sweet agony of desire for a while until her cold indifference had reduced his ardor to an everlasting ember. At first she had encouraged him but later, with each cruel rebuff, she had seemed to recede further from his world like a rocket until he could only think of her as light-years away, as a tantalizing inaccessible star. But now it seemed that she was back. It was appropriate that she was all in white. She was like a ghost from his past. The shock left him weak and oddly apprehensive.

"By all means, do sit down!" George urged in his most hospitable manner. As she sat down, George noticed her legs. They were brown too and they looked athletic. His mind was trying to assemble a facsimile of her body from incomplete data.

"I noticed you examining that beautiful crystal." she explained, "and it occurred to me that you might be something of an expert when it comes to rocks."

"Well, as a matter of fact, I am in the rock business!" exclaimed George with a big smile.

"How fortunate," she replied, "because I have a crystal here in my purse that you might be able to identify for me."

"I'll sure give it a try," he promised as he soaked in her beauty like a blotter. "By the way, my name is George MacDonnell."

"And mine's Lauren," she returned, "Lauren Langston."

"You can call me George if you like, he smiled, "and I'll call you Lauren."

She scoured her purse for a few seconds before she dredged up a dark crystal and extended her arm. The specimen sparkled in her palm like a jewel. It was a brilliant blue-black and seemed to consist of a staggered stack of beveled plates. He stared at the small brown hand. It seemed so delicate. He reached in and carefully picked up the crystal.

George rotated the crystal slowly for a moment and then mumbled, "That looks kind of familiar." He dug into a pocket and brought out a small magnifying glass. The crystal grew large under the lens. He could clearly see that it was composed of dozens of six-sided tablets, piled up like leaning cards. He could also see tiny triangles on the surfaces and that was all he needed to see. George knew what mineral it was and even where it might have come from.

"That's Polybasite, Lauren. Where on earth did you get it?"

"Well," she grinned, "it's not actually mine. It belongs to my boy-friend, or should I say my ex boy-friend. He dumped me and that's all he left behind."

"I don't think you'll ever get rich on it," George advised, "but maybe you're better off with this specimen than the other one."

She gave a small smile but then her demeanour turned serious. "But I still have to find him!" she exclaimed. "Oh, I don't want him back but I want something of mine that he took with him."

"So who is this guy?" asked George.

She harrowed her handbag again and came up with a photograph. "This is the man," she pointed out as she handed over the picture. "His name is Ray Santo."

George disliked him already.

Ray was having a good time. He was sitting on a deck chair, surrounded by a battalion of bottles and what appeared to be kindred spirits. He looked Latin, with a fine sharp nose, good cheek-bones and deep-set dark eyes. A thatch of thick hair waved its way back from a high forehead. He grinned at George triumphantly. Who wouldn't after being in bed with her? George had met men like that before. They always seemed to be ladies' men, he thought sourly. In the background was a large wall-type clock set in a battered wooden box. It looked strange and almost sinister in that setting. Why would such a relaxing scene be so conspicuously timed? He felt the same apprehension he had experienced when she first appeared.

"Ray is a mining engineer," she continued as she looked down and smoothed her skirt, and he travels a lot, working on contract. But he would never tell me anything about his work or where he was going. He would just disappear into the bush. It was as if he wanted to live in two separate worlds and I objected to that. Finally we had a big argument about it and he split.

"And what exactly did he steal from you?" asked George,

"Actually," she replied brightly, "it's a little statuette, exactly like the one on his card. She produced the card and handed it over. The figure was depicted on the left corner. It was of a stylized female nude. One of the legs was folded under her buttocks. The other leg was pulled up and supported by the opposite arm. The card announced, 'Barbara Mine Services' and it gave Ray's name and his urban office number.

"He used the figure for a logo," she explained. "It's a reference to Barbara, the patron saint of mining. The statue may not seem like much," she admitted, "but it's very valuable to me. "I was just thinking, Mr. MacDonnell, that since you two men are in the 'rock business', as you put it, that you might be able to find Ray. What do you say to that, Mr. MacDonnell?"

All George could see now were those earnest, dark brown eyes. They regarded him without blinking. It was unnatural. He hung on to the edge of the table for support.

"Well, I suppose I could make some inquiries, Lauren," he ventured as he massaged his chin, "but he could be anywhere, even in another country. He's going to be very hard to find."

A single furrow formed on her brown brow as she observed that George was hiding behind his hand. "I would be so grateful if you could find him," she implored. "You would be my hero."

George started to pinch the little trough under his nose. What would it be like being her hero? How grateful would she be? He looked at the logo of the nude again. _There are nudes and then there are nudes_ , he mused. An old dream had been revived.

He brightened up and declared, "I'll give it a hell of a try, Lauren!"

She produced a stunning smile as she said, "Oh, thank you so much, Mr. MacDonnell. Here is my number. I hope to hear from you very soon." And then she was gone.

The whole encounter seemed so odd and so short. George began to wonder how spontaneous it really had been. He decided to go for a beer. There was no rush to get back to the office. He didn't want any other business.

When George did get back to the office, he looked at Lauren's crystal again. He was sure he had one just like it among his dusty horde. It came from a remote silver mine that he had worked at when he was a student many years ago. George fished around and got the number. When he got through he said, "Yes, my name is George MacDonnell and I am a mining engineer. I would like to speak to Mr. Santo please."

"I'm sorry Sir," a woman replied, "but he's underground at the moment."

George felt a little bewildered I had been a real snap. He wasn't used to handling such success. He dropped everything and went out for another brew.

The next day, George felt a little anticipatory thrill as he fondled his phone while planning his strategy. He could hear himself say, "My fee for finding him is two dinners with you at the best place in town." He had to grin. But then he thought he had better wait for another day or two, just to make it look like he had put in some effort. Then when he did call, his little speech got pre-empted by a quick invitation to dinner at her apartment. He was on a roll.

The typical agent of cunning is a woman whose main instrument of will is her bed.

She was wearing a sheath. It was as simple and svelte as the classic little black dress but it was a little white one. The whiteness seemed to be as soft as her caramel skin. His heart accelerated.

"Come right in," she urged. Her eyes were strangely luminous. He felt a twinge of trepidation as he stepped inside.

Two of the walls were all glass, so right away he was looking down on a celestial-looking cityscape from the upper part of a split-level. The lower part was all white with dark brown lacquer accents. It looked pure and bloodless; like white ice.

He wished he'd worn a white tuxedo. His tweedy sports-coat was out of date and out of place. But he would never have fitted in anyway. This was her element and it seemed both sublime and soulless. He sat down gingerly at the far end of a white couch as if he thought it might bite his backside. She disappeared to fiddle with drinks, leaving him looking at a colorful painting. It appeared to be some complicated network centered by a black dot.

"What's the title of that picture?" he asked as he took a sip of stiff scotch. "I could never get on to modern art."

"Careful," she warned, "you're dating yourself. That isn't very obscure, you know, it's just a spider and her web. I just love spiders."

"So that's a spider in her web," he conceded. "I suppose she's waiting for a meal just like I am."

"Yes, probably she's waiting to kill a fly or whatever," Lauren suggested as she perched on an ottoman in the middle of the room. She sipped her Collins carefully then added, "Or maybe she's waiting to kill a male...spider, I mean."

"Now why would she do that?" George wondered.

"She would do that if he failed to give her the right signals," she explained, "if he didn't come up with what she required. So instead of becoming a lover, he would become lunch or sometimes even both." She stared at him just as she had done at the rock exhibition. It was the steadfast, stony gaze of a statue.

George blinked twice and turned to the windows. He didn't say anything. He had unbuttoned his jacket but now he buttoned it up again. He had noticed a bit of a chill.

George MacDonnell studied the face at the other end of the dinner table. It was a face that certainly had been stared at by countless other men but for now they were all excluded. "For your eyes only," he thought.

"What are you thinking about right now?" she asked as she swished her red wine and started a smile.

"I'm thinking that this is the best payment I ever got," he ventured, "so I'm feeling a bit guilty that I found Ray so quickly."

Her look became mischievous as she replied, "You're innocent as far as I'm concerned. 'The faster a job gets done the better' I always say, unless of course you're making love. But this isn't the final payment. I don't think Ray will give my statue back to me, so I want you to get it. He might have the statue with him but it also could be at a place he has up north. I'm putting all my hopes on you. You can recover my statue, I know you can."

George started to pinch the little trough under his nose. That was a lot to ask. He should just say, "Sorry, I'm a geologist, not a detective," and walk away. But he didn't say that.

She took a sip of coffee. As her eyes turned back to him, they sparkled like gems. "When we talked last, I said that you could be my hero. But first you have to slay the dragon, so to speak."

"And what do you see as my reward?" joshed George from behind his goblet.

"That's easy," she shot back, "next time I'll show you my bed."

"Get real," he guffawed as he tipped his chair backwards, "I'm old enough to be your father!"

"The way I see it, all men under fifty are just pups," she asserted, "and besides, if you have the statue, you'll be holding the whip hand."

"I'll drink to that," he replied, "I always was a bit kinky."

She laughed and replied, "Let's drink to Ray Santo instead. No doubt you'll be seeing him soon."

George didn't disagree. His reluctance had been overwhelmed.

They played an intimate round of Mah Jong before a friendly fire. His mind wasn't on the game and as he sipped his warm sake, he noticed that she wasn't concentrating either. Her brown bright eyes kept flicking up like warning lights. He began to sweat a little. He lost 20 bucks but it felt like she had taken a bit of his life.

At the door, she stood on tip-toes to brush his cheek with her warm pink lips as if to seal their bargain. His nerves were on edge after he left. The whole thing had been more of an enchantment than an entertainment. He remembered reading somewhere, 'If a woman charms a man, the man, according to convention, becomes her slave'.

He fled into a bar for a schooner of stout.

... _the hero goes forward in his adventure until he comes to the threshold guardian. Beyond (him) is darkness, the unknown and danger._

George MacDonnell awoke with the onset of turbulence. The heavy drone of twin turboprops bored into his brain like a corkscrew. He started blankly down the dim narrow tunnel with its bus-like seats and open overhead racks. He seemed to be the only passenger on this ancient airliner as it flew into the cold alien gloom. George shifted to the window and peered down through the weak light on a wild and crumpled land – like a giant fender-bender, he thought. He turned back to notice the curving hips of stewardess undulating toward him. He felt a tingle of lust like he was twenty. For a moment he couldn't remember where he was or where he was going; he could only see himself slouching there uneasy and alone. He ordered a Coke to keep him company.

The wheels slammed into sharp gravel and the plane shivered along the runway in a shroud of stones and snow. He emerged into a white forbidding world of stunted trees cowering beneath a low grey sky. Isolated knots of men huddled on the lonely airstrip, their numbers few, their voices thin in this vast wilderness. Those leaving were jovial and carefree; those returning were sombre and challenged.

He wasn't alone in feeling a sense of abandonment as the plane roared away. Then they boarded a battered company bus. He was almost nauseated as it lurched through the bleak wilderness incongruously propelled by booming, manic rock.

The star-shaped mining camp huddled on the high mountain plateau like something out of a James Bond movie. All around the frozen alpine meadow the ragged peaks and scarified glaciers glowered from a pale sickly sky. I hadn't changed all that much in all those years. It was a homecoming of sorts but it was like coming back to the gulag.

Ray Santo was really a pretty good guy, George allowed, as he sat there in a dusty office listening to a lecture on the operation, pretending to be an underground specialist. There was a rough and ready image about the big man: the thick wool shirt, the padded vest, the large soiled hands, the gruff voice, the touch of sweat on his face. Ray was apologizing.

"I have all that stuff graphed up," he explained, "But it's on my lap-top and that's underground in my office down there. That's where I spent most of my time, where the action is. But I'll show you tomorrow on the tour."

George started to pinch the little trough under his nose. He was busy trying to think of a way to mention Lauren. But he didn't want to mention the statue just yet. He had a nagging feeling that there was more to it than Lauren was admitting. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to snoop around Ray's underground office. Maybe it would be a good idea to have a little personal tour.

When George left to find a room for the night, Ray closed his office door and sat there in the darkness. MacDonnell seemed to be familiar with mining but often his responses were vague and sometimes evasive and he didn't ask real good technical questions. That was odd coming from a self-styled mining engineer. He just didn't seem quite right. Ray knew someone else like that; her name was Lauren Langston. He didn't buy her either. There was something phoney about her. She had been too available for starters. She had called him up one day out of the blue and invited him to lunch. She had seen one of his business cards tacked up on a bar bulletin board. She claimed she was a writer and needed mining information. But when they met, it became clear that she had an unusual interested in the card's statue logo. That amused him more than anything else. When he told her that he had the actual figurine and she pressed him to produce it, he was less amused. It was beginning to look like he was playing second fiddle to a statue. That disappointed and disturbed him and put him on the defensive. The statue was not available. It was at his latest mining project where he was also running a secret business on the side, a very lucrative business. He didn't want to talk about the statue, the location of the statue or any other aspect of his affairs. He had found it in that big place on the beach that he had acquired from the profits from his secret sideline. So he just laughed it off and cajoled her into another date. But even after they had begun their affair, she continued to mention the statue to his annoyance and rising suspicion. It was almost bizarre. Finally, he told her that it was at his summer cottage and he wouldn't be going there any time soon. This brought on a torrent of rage in a startling display that seemed entirely out of character. He became alarmed. It was now obvious that there was something going on that could more serious than she admitted. He apologized profusely but he had already decided to drop her. He didn't want to get involved in anything that could bring on scrutiny. He had to protect his cash cow.

And now here's this MacDonnell guy. He seems a bit off-color too, just like Lauren. Maybe they even know each other. Ray shook his head. His imagination was getting out of hand. Still, if that bozo started snooping, he would have to take steps to protect himself.

Ray picked up the phone and called his night-shift foreman. They discussed the current mining plans and then he said, "Oh, by the way, there's a visitor here who's supposed to be a mining engineer but he seems kind of odd. You'll see him in the cook-house to-night. Just keep an eye on him, will you? Let me know if you see him nosing around. We can't take any chances and we sure can't have him sneaking off underground. After all, this is the night we're entertaining our friend Mr. Baily."

Paul Baily, another recent arrival, already had a room in the bunkhouse if you could call it a room. It was more like a cell. It couldn't have been more than 20 feet square. It was furnished with a rudimentary narrow bed, a very small desk with a straight-backed chair and a cheap portable cupboard. It was quite a contrast to his sumptuous oak-panelled bedroom at home. He sighed as he looked out the small high window at the cold dark mountains. These miners seemed to be clinging to existence here, wresting a living from a harsh and unforgiving wasteland.

Paul was uneasy. He was in a strange environment over which he had no control and he would be heading shortly into still more precarious circumstances underneath those menacing peaks. But he had to go through with it. He had to find out if this was the way to his personal paradise; that state which he had vaguely glimpsed in the mists of his memory and lost in the hurly-burly of life; that transcendent state which was embedded in soaring rhapsodies, in majestic landscapes, in women of stunning beauty; that state which could be approached but hardly ever possessed. He looked again at the card a colleague had given him. ' _High Adventure Down under_ ' it announced. ' _Plumb the Depths of Your Soul_ " it admonished. He recalled the interview with Ray back in town.

"You'll have two adventures," Ray advised. "The first will be the trip underground. It's like going to another world. You'll be cut off from everything familiar, every reference point. You can't be more isolated. The second will occur when you realize there's nothing left to do but go inwards, to the underground of your unconscious, to the core of your essential being. And we'll give you something to help you get there. You may even reach a new dimension, a kind of. super consciousness. Whatever it is, it will be intensely private; nobody can say what it will be. But remember, don't panic, play it cool and you'll have the experience of a lifetime."

"How do you know that?" asked Paul. "How can you be so sure?"

"The ambiance is the key," Ray replied. "Down there in the darkness, the illumination will be profound."

Then he realized, I indeed, I am this creation, for I have poured it forth from myself. In that way he became his creation. Verily, he who knows this becomes in this creation a creator

Someone knocked on his bunkhouse door. "Time to get ready," the voice announced; "Time to go for a ride."

They were waiting for him. So was a dilapidated topless truck. He lumbered aboard in his waterproof suit like some deep-sea diver and then they were off. It was awful, it was terrible being borne by this bellowing bucking brute into the bowels of the earth. He, Paul Baily, upstanding CEO had made his pact with the devil and now this Cerberus was hauling him to hell. Down and down they fled. The thing howled as it flung itself around the corkscrew corners. The blaze of the headlamps swept the rocky curves like searchlights. The narrow beams coming from their cap-lamps swung wildly with each bone-jarring jolt. He stared at the two strangers up front. All he could see was the backs of their greasy slickers and filthy hard hats. Random spray bounced off them into his face. He imagined that they were faceless. He imagined that this was a nightmare. He looked backwards and it was like looking into the primeval void. There was nothing there but black. He was being sucked into the depths like a sinking ship.

The spiral descent was over and now they roared into an inky labyrinth. The air was alive with the staccato pounding of rock drills and the thunder of mammoth machines. Right and left they lurched until he was dizzy and utterly lost. They jerked to a halt and now they had to walk through narrow galleries like a bunch of ants. The cacophony of mining slowly died as they went down into long-abandoned musty tunnels. Fetid gumbo pulled at his ill-fitting rubber boots. He was trying his best to keep up. If they disappeared up ahead, he thought he might panic. Suddenly, they were trudging downhill inside a small decline He didn't think it was possible to go any deeper. The surface of the planet was only a memory. At the bottom there was a huge cavern. Here they had to halt and now he could see why. It was occupied by a sullen, Stygian sea. One of them was pulling up a ravaged row-boat. It looked like some abyssal alligator. They poled through the oily ooze, silent and spectral. Spears of light splayed from their hard-hats. Wraiths of fog floated upwards. He bared his wrist to check the time but found he had no watch. Anyway, he had no need of a watch. The exigencies of time had become irrelevant.

A tunnel on the other side was blocked by a wooden wall. They unlocked a small door and they went through. They had reached a secret sanctuary. Pendants of white fungus hung from the roof. The air was heavy and pungent. He sat down at a wooden table with crude benches. One of spread out a white oilcloth from a beat-up box and then set before Paul a stained silver salver and a dented chalice. Then his hosts sat down and had a smoke and few good laughs. He was astounded. These men were acting as if they were at a neighbourhood pub. They didn't seem to realize that they had left the land of the living. They were completely enclosed by acres of ancient lava. They were inside an alien volcanic world.

The humour was over. One of them went back into the gloom and when he reappeared, he carefully spooned some pale morsels into the tray and poured out a dark amber liquid from a thermos. They shook hands with Baily, said "good luck" and then they disappeared into the blackness. Paul heard an ominous rasp as they re-locked the door. He was sealed away.

Paul finally consumed the bitter food and drink. He noticed that the beat-up box had a large clock built into one side. But when he went over to examine it, he found that it had stopped. There was no way to start it, it seemed. He just sat there in the tremendous silence, staring at the useless clock. He had lost track of the flow of time, of the familiar markers of its passage. There was no morning or afternoon, no past or future here. No moment existed but the present. The concept of change was meaningless. He seemed to be suspended in eternity.

Paul began to notice that his heart was working harder. His breathing had become short and shallow, his pulse had quickened. He started to sweat and he removed his rubber suit. He felt excited but he didn't know why. He began talking to himself, mumbling about old events and he started to pace. Then he discovered another small tunnel and he moved unsteadily along it. Abruptly, it opened up into an enormous hole and he was at the bottom. The ray from his lamp leapt upwards like a rocket, gradually losing itself in the murk. He couldn't see the top and the sides were far away. Paul seemed compelled to reach up and turn off his cap lamp. Instantly, the darkness was total, was almost thick enough to touch. He imagined that he had completely dissolved in it. Then he noticed a burgeoning glow and suddenly he was looking along a hallway of white arches extending as far back as he could see. The arches were obliquely illuminated by an ethereal light which caused their curved shadows to spill across a scintillating marble floor and to band huge vases of vivid tropical flowers. The edges of everything were razor sharp against the black background. The whole scene seemed to have the impact of a metaphysical painting.

At once he was inside that magnificent mall, moving through section after section, following a sparkling pathway that seemed to have no end. Each arch was the threshold to an exotic salon of exquisite appointment. The décor of each one gave rise to a serenity and splendour that seemed to intensify as he advanced. He glanced into a chamber that was a study in immaculate form. He was startled to notice a seated woman in there, facing the far wall. As he entered, she rose and without turning disappeared through French doors. He quickly followed but instead of catching up to her, he found himself floating in empty space.

Far below he saw a prodigious panorama that sprawled out before him in all directions. He soared like a sea-gull above a pure white precipice which fell away to a fantastic plateau. Its rocky surface scintillated with reflections from myriad crystal forms. Its depressions shone with a low ground cover of saffron and magenta hue and its higher slopes were carved up into sparkling crescents ringed by remnants of dazzling snow. The surrounding lowlands were inset with strings of glistening sapphire lakes and in the middle distance a shining sinuous river wended its way between dark-columned palisades, finally reaching into a bow-shaped valley of utter seclusion. In the background, vast verdant uplands climbed into brilliant alpine meadows and further still, staggered ranges of serrated peaks stood stark against a sublime cerulean sky. And still, above and beyond everything, He could barely make out the ghostly spires of an unearthly metropolis, a secret supernatural city.

He knew at once that this entire vision had been there always, floating just out of sight, obscured by the flow of time. He knew that it would be there at any moment because that moment was eternal. But the strangest experience of all was the dawning belief that he was watching himself, that this radiant and wondrous world was part and parcel of his very being, that he had an identity with this idyllic scene. Moreover, he was certain that over those distant mountains and through each of those elegant salons lay vistas of still greater glory and that he now possessed the power to release them from their long held limbo. He, a desk-bound executive would break free of the limitations of space and time. He would invoke other regions, other worlds, other universes and he would be at one with them all.

They found him asleep on the table. They did not ask and he did not describe what had taken place. On the way up he realized that all his life he had been looking for his promised land, for an ineffable but essential destiny. Now he had found it. Yet it had not been attained by his years of search but by a single opportunity for self-discovery. He had allowed himself to be assimilated into the hidden realms of the unconscious and to be at one with the longings of his very being. He was the author of this odyssey. He was the creator and the creation.

It had been a very expensive experience but it was worth every penny. It had been a discovery worthy of reverence. Moreover, he had a strong conviction that he would be compelled to return to that timeless dimension again and again no matter what the cost. It was a secret place he had always yearned for and now he had found it. It was a place he would visit as long as he lived. It was a place where his soul would dwell after he died.

And always, after the first thrills of getting underway, the adventure develops into a journey of darkness, horror, disgust and phantasmagoric fears.

The bunkhouse room was small and Spartan. George MacDonnell pulled the thin curtains across the window against the gathering storm. Low black clouds were enveloping the camp like a blanket. In his role of 'research engineer' he was supposed to inspect the mine the next morning. But he had other plans. He dumped his duffel bag on the narrow bed and began to put on his 'diggers'. He was going 'into the hole' to-night.

A four-wheeled, fat-tired bike toiled up the sharpstone switchbacks like a fantastic bug. And on that bug was saddled the intrepid MacDonnell swathed in yellow rubber against the hard-driving nocturnal squalls. The bike bounced to a halt before massive wooden doors set in a shattered primeval cliff. George MacDonnell resolutely marched through those creaking portals into the maw of a murky mine.

The sharp, white beam from his cap-lamp stabbed through the black tunnels like a laser, briefly illuminating cold, sweaty walls as he advanced. The familiar pounding of rock drills reverberated in the distance. There was a peculiar smell of old explosions and the chill and fog invested his skin. He wasted a grin. The early days of underground adventure had returned. Then his enthusiasm had transformed this dirty, dangerous mine into a fantastic hidden world: a place where a vast network of passages mimicked the neural pathways of a giant collective brain; a place where mysterious ladders stretched down into the bowels of the earth and up into the very heart of the rocky peaks; a place where the next dynamite blast could reveal riches beyond wildest dreams, released at last from eons of entombment. He tried to recall the pattern of the mine tunnels. It was like trying to resurrect the details of a complicated dream.

For a while, the old mental map guided him unerringly through the dark corridors like a Cretan thread. But it wasn't long before he became unsure of his bearings. The mine had been extended in all directions since he had worked there. As he continued onwards, the background noise of mining began to fade until there was an unusual quiet. He slowly began to realize that he had walked into an abandoned part of the mine. He tried to retrace his steps but it soon became evident that he had no idea where he was or where he had come from. He had blundered into a deserted decaying maze. Rusty pipes and chains hung askew. Tumours of hairy mould invaded the walls, humps of rock falls impeded his progress. The air was stale and smutty. Old tunnels leaped into his light like gaping mouths. He felt a rising anxiety as he quickened his steps. His shortened breath shot thick white plumes into the chill endless night. There seemed to be no way out.

Abruptly, he was confronted by a crude wooden barricade bearing a battered sign the warned, 'Danger, Keep Out'. He took the lamp off his cap and let the light shoot through the cracks into the unknown. It looked like there was a vast void in the far distance. But just where the tunnel seemed to meet it, there appeared to be the head and shoulders of a man, like he was climbing out of the abyss. But he wasn't moving and he had no light of his own. George's "halloo" boomed out into the silence but the figure remained immobile and unresponsive. George shivered as he waved his lamp wildly at the apparition. Again, there was no response. In a moment of fear, George turned and started to retreat but then he checked himself and came back to the barricade for a second look. This time, the body was fully exposed and it was closer, but it wasn't moving. He could make out the lighter shade of an indistinct face. He shouted, "hello, hello there," into the vast stillness but to no avail. The distant shape was as dark and silent as the grave.

It was too much. George jammed the light back on his helmet and fled down the nearest passageway while in his ears sounded the rhythmic beat of something behind him splashing through cold filthy seepage. He gasped as he came to a dead end. There seemed to be no escape. But then he happened to notice an old wooden trap-door set in the floor. A splintered sign read, 'Manway Closed'. He had no choice. He went ahead and raised the hatch with much difficulty. His light shot straight down a musty shaft, illuminating skewed and rotting wooden ladders disappearing into the depths. The noise of pursuit was relentless. He started down in desperation. His descent was erratic and reckless. Many rungs broke under his weight. He would start a lurching slide until his gloves were able to grab the ladder rails with a terrible strength. He was soaked in sweat and seized by fear. His gasps erupted in explosive bursts. Small debris rained down on his hard-hat like there was someone else descending above him. Suddenly, his foot dangled into air. There was nothing below him but yawning space. He froze in terror, unable to move, unable to think of anything but dropping to his death. He dared not look down. He looked up and noticed a small opening just above. He hoisted himself up into it. It was only about 4 feet high and hardly wider than his shoulders. He crawled along the beam of his light, slithering over heaps of rubble. Loose scaly rock fell on his back as he moved. If the way ahead was blocked, he could not turn around. If more loose rock had fallen behind him, he couldn't back out. He willed himself forward. In the back of his mind he could imagine the remaining passage filled by debris. He could get caught in that dirty tube, condemned to wait for a slow, agonizing end, tortured by panic and despair. The light from his lamp would slowly fade away like the inexorable approach of blindness. He would scream vainly into the gathering blackness. He would be shut away forever in these frightful catacombs.

Suddenly the floor beneath him began to shift and drop away. "No...no!" he bellowed. Before he knew it, he was sliding down side of a rock pile, down into the deep. He started frantically to claw upwards but to no avail as the entire heap was rilling downwards like a living thing, carrying him along. The slide abruptly ended and he began a sideways swimming motion out of it. The whole place was a wall of dust. He pushed his neckerchief over his face and staggered forward.

He was in a large, low rock-strewn room stretching ahead of the lamp-beam. He turned randomly, his lamp arcing through the far corners of the gallery. Shattered rock pillars strained to hold back the squeezing pressure. Spalls of rocky megaliths leaned from the low roof like collapsing buildings. He picked his way blindly through the boulders. He stumbled on, past slimy abandoned gloves reaching out as if in despair, past torn, greasy slickers fixed in tortured positions. They were like the ghosts of old miners abandoned forever in this horrid hades. He jerked to a halt when he heard a distant rumble from below and soon what he knew to be an underground train thundered by beneath him. He had almost stepped into a hole and now he saw it and he jumped the short distance to the next level. He got up slowly, his whole body protesting in pain. Up ahead, shining silver rails faded away into the dark. The rear lights from the speeding train retreated like a comet until they disappeared around a curve. But there was still a faint glow ahead and he made for it.

He discovered that the glow came from a large cavity that had been excavated for mine offices. There was no one there. A credit card was all he needed to gain access to Ray's office. The lap-top was just sitting there, filthy and not even folded. Just off to the side was a small beige statuette. It was of a seated female nude. One of her legs was folded underneath her buttocks. The other leg was pulled up and supported by the opposite arm. So there it was! It was just like the picture on the business card. It sure didn't look special. It seemed to be an ordinary ceramic. He bent to pick it up.

It was a good thing he moved when he did because a blow just glanced off the external occipital protuberance of his head and didn't cause unconsciousness. As it was, it sent his hat flying and himself sliding across the desk, crashing into the chair and ricocheting to the rocky floor. He rolled onto his back just as a large hand hoisted him up by the collar but he was able to cock his left leg and send it smashing into the solar plexus of his assailant. The man staggered backwards into a file cabinet and roared as its steel corner stabbed into his right kidney. But he recovered in time to absorb a collision with the charging MacDonnell and at the same time he brought his right hand around in a knuckle blow to the sternocleidomastoid of the neck. George sprawled across a large drafting table, the stabbing pain signals from the vagus nerves rocketing into his thalamus. He felt a rising panic as he straightened up just as the man launched a right hook. The swing missed George by inches as he reared back and it caused the man to lunge awkwardly sideways. George then delivered a vicious jab to the temple area, slightly above the outer socket of the right eye. The man went down without a sound.

George pulled himself together and looked around for the statuette. It was in a million pieces on the floor. He got to his knees and brushed the pieces with his hand, not knowing why. There was nothing unusual about the thing. Suddenly, he felt sick and he got out of there. He followed the rails back to one of the mine portals, wincing all the way.

The next morning Ray Santo sidled up to George as he was soothing his spirits with a heap of scrambled eggs. He had searched George's room just minutes before and he had found Lauren's cell number. He knew already about the break-in and the loss of the statue. Now he knew that he would have to deal with both of them. MacDonnell could probably be scared off but the girl would be a more difficult problem. He would have to find out what she was up to by any means necessary.

"I don't know who you really are or why you're here," he growled in George's ear, "but don't come back, not ever. It wouldn't be good for your health. You're out of here on the next flight." George didn't react. He never missed a bite. Then Ray made a phone call to an unlisted number. "I've got a serious problem on my hands, Carny," he advised, "and I could use some help. It could get nasty, but I know you won't let me down."

Loyalty...is the result of basing one's life...on the realizing of a metaphor...that we are all members of one body

Carnell Williams was a miner of the old school. His home was a bunk-house cubicle and his possessions could fit into a battered valise and a duffel bag. His work was dirty and dangerous but there was good money to be made, very good money for those who could break a lot of rock. Carnell could drill and blast with the best of them but if he felt slighted or cheated in some way, especially in a monetary way, he could be off to another mine just like that. Carnell had no other life. Between jobs, he holed up in the cheapest hotel in town, swilling beer to no discernible effect and hiring the occasional hooker for a short nasty session. Long before he reached the age of 50, he had enough money. Still he went underground. That was what he did. That was what defined him. He was a high-ball miner. But gradually time was wearing him down. His lungs were becoming impaired by a diet of dust and smoke. His knees were becoming arthritic and he had never fully recovered from a long lay-off due to an accident. Work became onerous; his production lagged and so did his paycheque. One day his favourite boss, Ray Santo, called him aside and suggested that he pack it in. Ray even offered another job. He had bought a big place on the water and Carny could go there and look after things: be the watchman, handyman, caretaker whatever. Carnell declined. Not enough to do. But after he had another accident, he took the job after all.

It's funny how adaptable people are, especially when they have to adapt. Carny changed from a hired gun into a major domo. He roamed the villa like a lord, supervising renovators, presiding over the green-house and keeping everything in good order. Hands on hips, he would stand guard on the parapet, his fierce frown probing the approaches against the slightest threat. He wasn't a high-ball miner any more. He was the consummate lieutenant.

Carnell Williams wasn't stupid. No mining engineer could hold on to such a place. He knew there was something else going on. He knew that it had to be highly successful and that it was a secret. And he felt that he was included in that closed circle if only indirectly. He sensed that he was protecting that operation as well as the property. He was prepared to do just that.

... _the ageless...secret helpers and instructive figures are...still encountered and in their forms we may see reflected not only the whole picture of our present case, but also the clue to what we must do to be saved_.

George MacDonnell was at his desk that morning but he didn't feel like working. He felt battered and bruised and he eyes wouldn't focus. He swivelled his chair around to the window where he could commune with the pounding rain. He felt like some Hitlerian defective who had been leading his life into inevitable defeat and disgrace. And now, burrowed in his bunker, he could only stare out vacantly and fuss about another failure. His quest had been queered. The hero, like the statuette, had disintegrated. He hardly reacted when a small voice meekly inquired, "Pardon me, but are you Mr. MacDonnell?" George sighed and got hold of himself. He hadn't heard anyone come in. He swivelled back to face the woman. But it wasn't a woman. It was a man; a very small man, a very little man. George imagined that a good stiff breeze might blow him away. He sported a fedora from the forties and bell-bottomed flannels. He was saying something but it didn't register. George was watching the tiny jaw bobbing like a bolo bat. He had a sudden urge to hoist him up on his knee and do a Charlie McCarthy routine. Instead, he invited him to sit down for a chat. The chair seemed to eat him up. George sat stiffly over his desk in case his visitor might disappear from view.

"Snappin' old garters!" said the squeaky voice, addressing the walls. "I see you like maps!"

"Can't get enough of them," George said woodenly, wondering when they were going to get down to business. But he was speaking the chair. The little man was already over there, caressing the cartography. It was strange that he hadn't seen him move.

"Maps are wonderful things," piped the pipsqueak, "they have reference points so you can find your way. Wouldn't it be nice if everything was like that?"

"You bet," said George without much enthusiasm.

"I don't know exactly where this is," twittered the troll, "but as I look at all those mysterious mountains and lakes, they all come to life in my mind's eye." He tweaked his rimless glasses and stood on tip-toe. "It's like I'm flying over it in a balloon and it all comes up in 3D." His toy hand glided over the contours.

George gave a polite little cough. Flights of fancy left him completely grounded. "That's the cat's ass," he agreed, "but I'm sure you have other things on your mind. Have you got a good property?"

"Property?" the little man exclaimed as he did a neat pirouette, "property? I'll tell you about a property all right! A very important property! No, I haven't actually found the property. I want you to find it. The location is on a map just like one of these. All you have to do is find the name of the right map.

"I think that finding a good property is a little more complicated than that," advised George sarcastically as he massaged his forehead. But when he looked up, the stranger was back in the chair. Funny, he hadn't seen him come back.

"Oh no, it's not!" insisted the imp, "and I can give you something to go on. I can put you in the picture." His eyes widened and his eyebrows shot up.

The elf handed over a photo. George was startled to see that it seemed to be a print of the one Lauren had produced. Maybe Ray gave them out to all his friends.

George started to pinch the little trough under his nose. This wasn't your usual situation and this dude wasn't your usual client. This guy was unreal in more ways than one. George decided to play dumb until he found out where this session was going.

"The name of the guy in the centre is Ray Santo," declared the dwarf. "Ray has some cabin in the bush, a sort of retreat. That's the place I want you to find. By the way, Mr. MacDonnell, have you ever noticed that there is a secret place everyone wishes to find?"

"I hadn't really thought about it," mumbled George. But he was already thinking that he wouldn't mind finding this place. He still hadn't given up the hope that he could salvage something from his botched adventure.

"Oh, it's true, all right," assured the midget. "We all want to find a special place where we really ought to be, a magical, secret place. We're searching for it all the time and we're looking for guidance, looking for the name of the right map to show us the way. And if we get there, everything will be all right, no matter what happened to us in the past."

"So how's this bloody picture going to help me find the name of the right map?" demanded George heatedly. He had no penchant for psychology.

"All you have to do is put two and two together," replied the runt. "That's the name of the game."

George looked up quickly at his client. Speaking of names, who was this little shrimp anyway?

"I'm sorry, I didn't get the name," he inquired.

"Harold Hills," replied the sprite, it's got to be Harold Hills."

Why has it got to be, George wondered as he jotted down the name. As far as he was concerned, it might just as well have been Jack Spratt.

"Anyway," continued Harold, "that particular property is probably hard to get to and harder to get into. Only an exceptional person could pull it off, a real hero. That's why I've come to you."

George could hardly suppress a rueful smile; the hero thing again. He had already tried to play hero and the dragon had won. But he could still put on an act, so he gave Harold a steely gaze and intoned, "And what am I supposed to do when I get there?"

"Find the naked truth," pronounced Harold like an oracle.

"It isn't a small nude, is it?" George inquired ingenuously.

"Well," chortled Harold enigmatically, "small or large is not the point. What is really important is to find the one with the secret inside."

"What secret?" asked George, a little too loudly. He was becoming a trifle exasperated.

"How we may be redeemed," whispered Harold.

Something snapped inside George MacDonnell. He leapt out of his chair, leaned across the desk and lifted the little fellow by his wide lapels. He was as light as a feather.

"Don't give me that damned dramatic crap!" George brayed. "If you've got a job for me, then let's hear about it in plain English!" He let go and Harold plummeted back into the upholstery, his hat askew.

Harold seemed completely unfazed. He tipped his fedora back and said slowly and evenly, "Listen to me. I came here to offer you an opportunity to make your greatest find. You've got a chance to make a big discovery, bigger than a ton of gold. You can uncover the biggest secret of all. I call you to this challenge. I strongly advise that you heed the call. Don't forget that with the aid of Harold Hills, you can be a hero!"

The guy was sounding like some bloody mystic. George sighed and hung his head in frustration but when he looked up, Harold wasn't there. George was surprised that he hadn't heard the titmouse take off.

George MacDonnell was nonplussed. He just sat there in a trance with the back of his hands supporting his chin. He tried to remember everything Harold had said. _"Find the one with the secret inside!"_ That statuette had nothing inside. There was nothing there but a jumble of fragments. But now at least he understood its strange allure. They were chasing a mirage: the treasure at the end of the rainbow, the Holy Grail. And the little man was trying to beat Lauren to it. This guy was fixated on that mysterious place in the bush. Just maybe there was something to it after all. The nude with the secret inside might still be out there. Maybe it was at Ray's place. He had to find out.

George looked at Harold's photo of Ray and his friends once more. Then he retrieved Lauren's photo and compared the two. He grabbed his magnifying glass. There was a difference after all. In the one Lauren had given him, the strange clock read '4:35' but in Harold's picture the clock read '6:15'. Otherwise the two pictures were exactly the same. Yet he could distinguish which one was which because of the clocks. They were like the reference points on maps, just like Harold had mentioned. This one was 435 and that one was 615. _"all you have to do is put two and two together"_

George shrugged and sat back with his feet up on the desk. He was staring at his shoes and they were pointing at a set of two contiguous maps on the wall. The inside margins had been folded inward so the topography would fit together. He got up and went over to the maps. They were the usual green with the usual elevation contours all over the place and the usual information on the right-hand margin. There were some symbols there and a title which said, 'Universal Mercator Grid'. Then it said 'Example of method used to give a reference to nearest 100 metres'. The method resulted in a six-figure code which designated a certain place on the map.

George returned to his desk and looked at the two photos. 435615. That was putting two and two together. That was six figures derived from time. Maybe time could be turned into space. Maybe clock readings could be turned into coordinates. It was just a hunch but hunches were standard equipment for an exploration geologist. And if that were the case, all he needed now was the right map, just like Harold had claimed. It was beginning to look like that little bugger knew a lot more than what he was admitting. He was playing a little game. Well, George didn't feel like playing along. He would grab that guppy by the scruff of the neck and shake it out of him, all of it.

... _excessive action...which is the result of...a situation so maladjusted that prudent or temperate action is impossible_.

'H. Hills' was in the book. He picked up the phone.

"Hills here," announced the soprano voice. "How can I help you?"

"You can help me by getting your ass back over here right now!" George roared. "We're not finished our little session just yet, not by a long shot!"

"Listen, Sonny," said the voice, "I've done my best for you and I've stopped doing house calls. If you don't like what I had to offer, then screw off!"

Dead silence ensued. George listened to it for a while. He could feel a little stirring in his stomach and he knew he was starting to 'lose it'. He was usually a fairly calm person but when he was given the run-around, he could be rambunctious. He looked up 'H. Hills' in the book again. Then he bolted for his battered old Buick.

There was a small brass plate by the side of the door. It simply read, 'H. Hills'. It looked like this was a business address but what kind of business? Nothing about this Hills experience was normal. When the door finally opened, George didn't say a thing. He began to pinch the little trough under his nose. He had been all ready to give the little man a blast but it wasn't a little man; it was a little woman. Her hair was cut severely short and she regarded him with black beady eyes. Her left hand squeezed the edges of a rumpled housecoat and she seemed to be out of breath. He had interrupted something, it seemed.

George was caught off-guard. The biggest surprise of all was that George was sure that this person was a dead-ringer for Harold Hills. And it was more than a family resemblance; it was more like a clone. George was speechless.

"Well, what is it, Buster?" the female fumed. "I work by appointment only so it you want to be a customer, then you can give me a ring. Right now, I'm busy!" Before George could reply, the door started swinging shut. MacDonnell's reactions were still fast, even after all these years. His foot blocked the threshold before the door could close and his big hand pounded the portal open again. The swinging door spun the woman awkwardly into the wall but she recovered with a curse. Her coat yawned wide open. She was wearing a shiny black leather teddy and matching long boots. Her arms and legs were unusually well-developed.

"You damned lunk, get lost!" she yelled as she slammed the edge of her left boot into George's shin. He fell backwards to the floor in a plethora of pain but staggered up shouting, "You son of a bitch, Harold! You don't fool me! I'm sick of your little games! You're going to tell me everything right now. No more secrets!" he screamed.

"This guy is a nut case," mumbled the woman as she took off down the hall and into the back kitchen. George gave chase but he was delayed by a flying frying pan. In the next instant, his quarry had bolted out the back door and mounted a red Kawasaki. Hazel Hills roared off in a cloud of smoke and stones, the housecoat rippling behind. She looked like some sort of bargain-basement Batman.

George limped back into the house and looked around. He scrambled up the dingy staircase to find three closed doors. He opened the nearest one.

There was a man in there, a beefy, bare-naked bald one. His arms were pinioned to the small of his back and his buttocks were blotched with welts. George wondered why he didn't turn around.

"Please finish me off, Hazel," he pleaded. "I can't stand it any longer!"

"Tough luck, Buddy," said George, "she flew the coop."

The man jerked and stiffened. All his muscled tensed up. He didn't say anything and he still didn't turn around.

George went up for a close look. The man stared straight ahead at the wall. His features looked like he belonged in the executive suite; authoritative and distinguished. There was a noose around his genitals. The other end was attached to the wall.

"Well hung," thought George with nasty levity. George stepped back and regarded the scene. He didn't know whether to snigger or to sneer.

"Please cut me loose" pleaded a strangled voice. "I'll make it worth your while, believe me. Please don't leave me here!"

"Where do you think she went?" asked George, ignoring the request.

"I've got no idea, really I don't," replied the man.

"Well, so long, Bud," said George. "I'm going out to find a camera."

"Wait a minute!" shouted the man; I know who you can ask. See Aura at the Delphi."

"Watch your ass," said George as he freed his arms ,"it's a mess."

_Such oracles have a curious double-edged quality: they are supposed to be accepted uncritically and yet contain a riddling, teasing quality as well, with the element of a bad joke_.

"Delphi!" barked George as he piled into a cab.

"I don't do Greece," quipped the guy up front.

"Don't be a smart ass with me, Buster," George complained, "not if you want a decent tip."

The car careened off into the unknown. George thought he knew this town: all the crowded concourses, all the seedy side-streets, all the lonely freightways. But this ride was turning out to be a mystery tour. He didn't recognize a thing. He suddenly noticed that the car was negotiating a series of switchbacks, gaining altitude quickly, yet he couldn't recall any nearby heights. Elegant villas flashed by. Opulent resorts hid behind lush greenery. Columned estates bordered the boulevards. It was like going back to a more classical time. The car rounded a curve and stopped on a wide terrace.

"That'll be sixty bucks," announced the driver. "I charge more for going that extra mile."

"Looks like you went a bit farther than that, Bud," George shot back as he stepped out. "Looks like you went beyond the pale."

"It's all in your imagination," called out the cabbie as he sped off into the night.

George stood in the middle of drizzle and fog. The blinking 'Delphi' sign turned the precipitation into a garish glow. He seemed to be all alone. Funny, there didn't seem to be any other traffic. He went over to the wall at the edge of the terrace. Far below, twinkling lights outlined a curving shore. He couldn't place the scene. It was all Greek to him.

He walked slowly toward the Delphi. It wasn't very impressive. It wasn't a tall building; in fact it was downright squat. "A meeting-house for midgets," he thought. "The perfect place for Harold Hills." But he didn't have to stoop at the entrance. The stairs went steeply down. He seemed to going underground all over again, to a place where anything could happen. It was almost as dark and it too was redolent of fumes, yet not heavy and acrid but savory and sweet. He paused at the bottom and then pushed his way through a barrier of beads.

It was crowded. Everyone seemed to be talking but there was little sound. The bartender eyed him suspiciously as he came over. His favourite highball appeared on the bar before he had a chance to order it. Nobody else paid the slightest attention to him.

"I came to see Aura," he explained to the bartender.

"Don't they all," he drawled and pointed to the back of the room. A woman was there seated on a high three-legged perch. It was hard to see her clearly. Curtains of vapour floated upwards all around her. A waiter reached up to her with a message. After reading it she seemed to become completely immobilized as if she were in a stupor. She stared straight ahead and her pose was unnatural. All the patrons stared back at her as if in anticipation. Finally, she got to her feet, downed a large drink and sauntered toward the crowd. She started to sing in a low, sensuous register. It was a melody of mystery and beauty but not one that George had ever heard before. She lingered for a moment at each table, singing directly to that group. They seemed to be completely captivated. Finally, she stopped before a customer on whom she lavished the remainder of her performance. She brushed his back, massaged his neck and stroked his hair as he sang. He never took his eyes off her but instead of showing pleasure at her attention his face expressed deep concentration and concern. The song ended and the woman returned to her chair amid stormy applause. The man drained his drink and scribbled something on a serviette. The he quickly departed the scene.

George ordered up another drink and took off toward the woman. But just as he got close, a massive masher blocked his progress.

"I want to ask her something," George blurted out in protest.

"Take it easy, friend," warned the watchdog, "she only takes notes."

George extracted an old business card from his wallet and wrote on the back, 'can you help me find Harold Hills?'

The big bruiser gave the card to the woman as he pointed to George. She appeared to take no notice and finally George retreated to the bar in disgust. He decided to make a night of it, so he ordered another drink and settled in.

Before he realized it, she had started into one of her strange songs. She had begun to sidle through the crowd as before, but this time her route was different. It took her close to the bar. George studied her as she advanced. Her hair was a deep mahogany colour and as it reached her shoulders, if flared outwards to caress her smooth skin. George imagined himself stroking that rich mane, moving it gently to one side and brushing the back of her neck with his lips. It didn't bear thinking about. Her chocolate eyes curved gently upwards along the line of her cheek bones. George watched them flit over each table in turn, deciding where next to concentrate her charms. He found himself wondering when they would turn in his direction. It was not long before he found out.

She regarded him with her head tilted slightly back so that her slanted eyes were half-covered by her long-lashed lids. She stepped toward him and her hand stroked the stubble alone the line of his chin. She turned his chair around so that his lap was available. Then she sat down. There was scattered clapping and a few whistles from the crowd. The presence of her buttocks on his thighs made George tumescent. She squirmed a bit and that made it worse. His breathing became very shallow. She put her hand on the back of his head and drew him closer. For the first time, he started to pay attention to her song. Her lips loomed large as they formed the words 'our love' with exquisite precision.

" _Our love we will both sow_ ," she sang,

" _Our love will live and grow_ ,"

George smiled sweetly, willing the words to be true.

" _Our love can bloom and fill"_

" _The valleys and the hills,"_

She rose and allowed her voice its full volume.

" _Our love can reach the hills_.

She retreated amid heavy applause after a parting smile and a miming of 'our love'.

Somebody bought George a drink. He bolted his booze and swiping his sweaty forehead, he made for the door. Cool gusts brought him back to reality. He staggered over to the terrace wall and began to reflect. He hadn't learned much. Come to think of it, he did want to 'reach the Hills'. But in the end he decided the whole thing was just an act. It didn't mean a thing. He walked over to a lonely pay-phone to call a taxi. He had to push the buttons carefully in his rather degraded state. His eyes strained to focus on the numbers. The corresponding letters kept getting in the way. He realized as he progressed that the first three numbers could also spell out the word, 'OUR' and the next four numbers could represent a four-letter word, though not a word that made sense. He told himself that there must be a number that corresponded fully to 'OUR LOVE'. He dialled up that number. He got connected to an answering machine with a very familiar voice; it was his own.

It was surprising that the cab turned out to be the same one that had brought him here. It was like it had been on standby all along.

"Wither away, Sirrah?" called out the cabbie in high glee. "Shall we now sally forth to lands unknown?"

"Let's do lands known for a change, Bud," George grumped, "and don't dally." He gave him the address of his office.

"What a woman!" George marvelled to himself as they lurched along. And not only that, she was telling him that Harold Hills was back at the office. " _Our love will reach the hills":_ Harold Hills. He was lurking there in the office but the bugger wouldn't answer the phone. There was no reason to doubt her. He was anticipating the second meeting with that midget. Or was it the third?

But Harold wasn't there. The place was locked up tight. He dripped a batch of coffee and started to pace around the room, the steam from his Styrofoam cup streaming back from his train of thought. His progress was rudely interrupted when he stepped on a map-tack. A blotch of black coffee burst on to the floor accompanied by a curdling curse. He angrily yanked the tack from his shoe and reached up to place it back on the map. It happened to be one of the two maps that had been joined. The lack of tack had allowed one of the folded margins to partially reappear. George saw something there that made him hastily straighten the margin out fully, for on that margin was printed the name of the map. It was 'Harold Hillls'.

George slowly slid down the wall to the floor. He sat with his back against the wall, his legs pulled up to his chest, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He brought his hand slowly up to his face. He had embarrassed himself. He was a real dope. Harold Hills wasn't the name of a person. Harold Hills was the name of a map.

" _You have to find the name of the right map,"_ that little leprechaun had said, whatever his name was. That map was right there, all along. And that goofy gnome had virtually told him so.

It was time to play his hunch about the six-number code. He shot up and found the pad where he had noted it. There it was: 435615. Using the Mercator grid, he located the corresponding place on the map and marked it with a large 'X'. It was right beside a deep bay. Hopefully, that was the spot. All at once he began thinking of another spot, a soothing little bar. He left in a hurry. He had a humongous hankering for a Heinekin

Beauty and the Beast

Carnell Williams, unlike the other deplaning passengers, didn't look rumpled, haggard or out-of-sorts. He had been fitted into an airline seat for many hours but he wasn't nearly as strung out as most of the others. For one thing, he never took a drink in the air and for another his character was grounded in an implacable resolve to master the situation at hand whether it meant difficultly and danger in mining or discomfort and boredom in flying. He looked good and he felt good even though he had a very unusual assignment. Ray Santo had told him to go and meet Lauren Langston, "escort her to the house" and keep her there until he had a chance to come up himself. Carnell Williams had never "escorted" any woman. His relations with females had been a lot more direct, a lot less subtle. He was more inclined to besiege than defend. But this wasn't a sexual encounter, at least on the surface. It was strictly a business trip and he was going to treat it as a mission to be accomplished. He looked like an old football player as he muscled way through the crowd. He noticed a few furtive glances from ladies past their prime.

Lauren Langston was a creature of habit. When she got off work, she drove down to her favourite pub and she always had a Tom Collins and zoo sticks. She always sat over by a window, in a raised and balustraded portion of the floor where she could look down into the softly-lit interior. It contained the long bar, a couple of pool tables and a scattering of the faithful. They were used to seeing her up there. It was only rarely that she had to fend off eager supplicants.

But this time her table was occupied. There was a large middle-aged male over there clutching a black-looking beer. She went over to the other side of the room. She didn't actually admit to herself that she was sitting as far away from him as possible, but she was doing just that. It wasn't long before she saw him rise and go over to the washrooms. She was annoyed with herself for watching him, so she deliberately turned away and stared out the window at the deserted patio. But when she finally turned back, he was standing at her table, looking big but benign.

"Ms. Langston?" he inquired before she could react. She nodded guardedly. "Pardon me," he continued in a deep voice, "you don't know me but I work for Ray Santo and I have a message to give you. Can I sit down?"

She was immediately interested. "Please do," she replied.

The waitress came along and he ordered another beer. He offered to buy her one too but she declined. "Ray would like to talk to you," he began. "He's got very important things to tell you. He wants you to come up to his place on the water for a week or so. It's quite a place and I know you'll love it. Ray's not there right now but he will be very soon. His time is limited, so he would like you to be there. It's very important to him. I run the place, so I can take you there. What do you say?"

She tried to look calm but inwardly her mind was racing. "It's quite a place" and "on the water" sounded like it could be Anton's mansion. Ray had told her the statue was at his "summer cottage". She could not possibly pass up this chance.

"Oh, I don't know," she fussed. "I don't think I can get off work that long. It's very short notice. I'll have to think about it."

"OK," Carny replied taking a final swig of beer, "but don't delay too long. Here's my number. I think it would be worth your while, no matter what you have to do." He tried on his version of an earnest smile. "You don't have to be worried about me, you know, I'm quite harmless."

"You don't look harmless," she observed but she was smiling at the same time.

"You can call me Carny," he suggested as he shook her hand and departed. He hoped like hell he wouldn't have to get more aggressive but he was prepared for anything.

She watched him lumber away. It seemed that he was telling the truth. Still, she was worried about taking a trip with a big dude like that. Would there be just the two of them waiting for Ray? She didn't have much choice if she wanted to get back there. It was a good thing she got hold of a small silver pistol a long time ago. She had intended it for Anton or any other male who had weird ideas. She was all packed before she called him. "I've got a week," she advised. "I hope that will be enough."

"I'm sure it will be all right," Carny replied, not knowing if it was or not. The next day they were off.

_Bluebeard (is) considered here because these stories present...the motif that as a test of trustworthiness, the female must not inquire into the secrets of the male_.

It was weird returning to the villa. Nothing had changed. All the same furniture was still there. It was like going back in time. She had no problems with Carny. He even produced some simple meals until she took over. They would sit at each end of a table like two characters from a gothic novel. "Beauty and the Beast," she thought as she regarded that shiny bullet head from afar. Carny was friendly but not familiar. Most days she lounged on the beach alone but occasionally she took the opportunity to have a couple of swimming lessons from him. She was getting to like him. He was older, congenial and big; big enough to give her a sense of security. He didn't make any advances. In fact he would disappear for hours on end.

And when he was absent, she was free to roam the rooms, desperately prying into cupboards and drawers, searching with a fanatical intensity. She couldn't find the statue but she found keys and she used them to enter the penthouse office. The oppressive memory of that place was still so strong that she had to summon up all her will-power to press on with the search.

Suddenly, a thick forearm encircled her neck and pulled her away her away from the desk. Then, for a moment, she was freed but as she turned a stinging blow to the jaw sent her unconscious body sprawling across the floor.

_Childe Roland to the dark Tower came_.

The big fitful moon bathed everything in a pale yellow pallor: the ragged racing clouds, the giddy, churning waves, the battered, resisting bluffs. Angry surf invaded a strip of sand and the rest smashed into the craggy ramparts of the bay. The soft ghostly glow intermittently revealed the sharp geometric forms of a large modern mansion which not only sprawled above the cliffs but also spilled over the precipice in a graceful cantilevered leap, leaving it partly suspended above a private beach. It was the only structure on the bay. It seemed as awesome as that wild mysterious shore, dully gleaming in the dead of night.

George MacDonnell was not dreaming that night. He was in the bush and he was raring to go. He might have been 53 years old but right now he felt 23. His energy was up and his body was champing at the bit. He was committed and totally focused. The blustering wind braced his senses; the bizarre landscape piqued the cockles of his male heart. He felt alive.

It was uncanny; he had seen this place before but that was in a dream. He felt like his whole past had been a dream. Now he was awake. It was time for action. He stowed his binoculars and wrested a dark green kayak into the waves. He paddled like a maniac through the maelstrom.

His voyage ended with a jolting boost onto the sands of an isolated beach. He looked up at the monster villa. It soared above him like some forbidding tower. He felt insignificant beside its bulk, yet excited by its challenge. He sensed that it guarded the statue that she so badly wanted; the statue that probably had more significance than she was letting on. The statue, according to the little man, that had the secret inside. He reminded himself that she was counting on him, that he could still be her hero of he could only pull it off. There was still time.

"Some cabin!" he muttered as he examined the hanging balcony high above him. The beam from his small flashlight revealed a folded ladder nestled between the center girders. A short tour along the beach convinced him that the cliff was insurmountable. He would have to examine the dangerous area further along the bay. But just then he heard a scraping noise. The ladder was starting to hinge downwards. He darted away and swiftly glided his kayak to the end of the beach. He turned to see someone carefully descending. The moon came out and revealed a stocky figure, a powerful naked figure. It looked like a phantom in the ghostly yellow light.

The wind whipped a white froth on top of the waves but the man plunged in without hesitation. Only short glimpses of his head and arms appeared as he sliced through the swells with an energetic crawl. He seemed to be an excellent swimmer, seemingly unfazed by the wild water. His progress was rapid. It was hard to see him anymore.

George took a deep breath and keeping low, he sprinted toward the ladder. With a leap, he was on it, climbing up into the night. His head popped up into the patio like a balloon. It was staring at the slightly-raised living room, stark and shadowy behind its girdle of glass. He scampered to a partly-open pane and stormed inside. There was a door ajar at the far end. He scurried through it and raced down a dim corridor between a lush conservatory and a teak-panelled wall. He grabbed a door handle to stop himself and barged inside. It was a library. Mahogany shelves chock full of books lined every side right to the top. He took a little tour. Shiny tables and leather chairs were scattered about. There were paintings and sculptures but no statuette. George dallied a bit. Libraries always fascinated him.

A shadow flitted across the polished surface of a book-stand. In one motion, George grabbed ' _Explosive Volcanism',_ wheeled and hurled it at a wet and bare barbarian. It sailed over the heavy's head as he ducked and it went crashing into a partly-filled shelf. The effect was dramatic. Texts cascaded down. The goon lunged forward and a shot rang out but he missed. George heaved ' _Impact Cratering: Processes and Products'._ The treatise hit low around the genitals. The pistol went flying and the hood fell to his knees. But even then, he was able to pick up ' _Fuzzy Logic with Engineering Applications'_ and sweep it up in a scythe-like arc as George came on. It struck him on the upper lip. George's head snapped back and blood spurted from his nose. He staggered backwards into a heavy wing-chair. The skin-head now surged forward but stomped on a splayed copy of ' _Traces of Catastrophe'._ His ankle buckled and he careened into a heavy lectern supporting ' _Man and Beast: Comparative Social Behaviour'._ Everything crashed to the floor. George dashed forward and he brought the side of his hand smacking into the base of the scalawag's skull. His head bounced like a rubber ball, his eyeballs rolled up and then he was still; raw, naked nature amongst the wisdom of the ages.

George was bleeding and breathing heavily. He examined his foe and thought he might be dead, but he wasn't going to take any chances. He clutched his assailant by the ankles and dragged him out to the patio, raised the ladder and let him drop. He stepped back in disbelief. A simple request by a pretty girl had come to this. There was no turning back. He went back to the library and kicked some books around until he found the pistol and stuck it in his belt. He couldn't help sinking wearily into a chair. But there was a book on the seat. He jumped up with a curse, grabbed ' _Chaotic Dynamics: An Introduction Based on Classical Mechanics'_ and flung it blindly behind him. Then he sortied out the far door.

He was in the back corridor. On the opposite side was a dim stairway. He made for it and emerged upstairs. He hurried down a side hall and turned at the first intersection. On his left, he was looking at the conservatory. Bougainvillaea and Passion Flowers pressed against the glass cover. He opened the next door on his right. It was the spacious main bathroom. He ducked under cold water and continued. At the far end of the passageway, he entered a dimly-lit bedroom. He seemed to be sinking into a sea of syenite, so polished were the terracotta tiles. As he proceeded across a short antechamber, he could see a red bed against the far wall. It was set on a low dais whose two shallow steps were outlined in tube lighting. To his right a fireplace was surrounded by plush easy chairs and a chaise lounge. To his left stood a small bar and a large wall-mounted television receiver and a doorway. He went into an adjoining bath which was itself divided. The inner half opened into a weight-room and in one corner was a vertical chrome ladder. He ascended to the roof.

Up there he found a small penthouse. The door was locked. He peered around at the window. In the gloom he could just barely see the outline of a huge L-shaped desk and a big telescope in the corner. White moonlight suddenly spot-lighted a bed against the far wall. And on the bed lay a naked woman. She twisted her light brown body on ice-blue sheets, drawing her free leg upwards as she moved. A single black band secured one of her ankles to the barred bedstead. As she turned on her flank, her bound wrists were reflected in a wall-mirror. George shot out the door-lock and rushed inside.

Lauren Langston was petrified with fear but then she cried out in recognition, "Oh, Mr. MacDonnell, is it really you? Can you help me?" George's heart was pounding. He didn't want to help her. He wanted to whip her. He wanted to lose control. She would be his sex toy. He would ravish her. For all his life he had been stalked by the spell of sadism, by the secret thrill of whipping a woman. If only he could make the fantasy come true, he might be able to break free at last. But suddenly he pressed his hands to his head and with a great effort of will he blurted out, "Don't worry, Lauren, everything will be all right." He had no idea what 'everything' was. He retrieved his pocket knife and cut her loose.

Clouds plunged the room into shadows. Instantly, he saw how lovely she was, how completely beautiful. She was the apogee of all desire. He had come to find a clay woman but instead he had found the real thing and come to think of it, he had done everything right for a change. He had accepted the challenge, he had followed the quest. In the depths of the earth he had battled the enemy and exposed the statue as a false hope. At the top of the tower he had killed a dragon and rescued a maiden.

He was a real live hero. It seemed that his life had been transfigured. It felt like a resurrection.

She groaned and sat up slowly, massaging her wrists. And then she folded one leg underneath her buttocks. At the same time she brought the other leg up to stroke the ankle where the leather strap had rubbed it red. George was dumfounded. The statue was looking at him, as large as life.

George started to pinch the little trough under his nose. What had that little guy said about nudes? _"Small or large is not the point. What is really important is to find the one with the secret inside"._ There was no doubt that Ray's statuette had a special allure, some kind of tantalizing promise. The pursuit itself gave credence to the hope that its recovery would reveal a secret of essential importance. But all that was only the stuff of myth. Now George had a chance to bring this dream into reality. The 'real statue' could contain a real prize. The "secret" the midget had mentioned was not hidden inside Lauren's likeness but was latent inside her very being. That was the real secret. She didn't need to search for the answer, she needed to imagine it. It was an illusion to think that diligent search would lead to success. If only he could make her see that!

"Listen, Ray's pal is here and he's armed!" Lauren warned. "We've got to leave!" She seemed oblivious to the fact that she was naked.

"No...no, we don't have to run. I've taken care of everything," George replied triumphantly. "I've got rid of that goon and I've got his gun right here in my belt! We've got all the time in the world." He was in a special zone now; he was in a secret place of his own making. He wanted to stay there forever, breathing in the rarified atmosphere of victory. He was transfixed.

"What's the matter with you?" she yelled out, "let's get out of here!"

The spell was broken. His eyes opened wide as he studied her nut-brown nudity. He felt himself being pulled away from the threshold of Nirvana down into the temptations of time. This was the moment that must not be lost. He hero must have his reward.

All he was thinking about now was the dim bedroom below, of her brown curves on those scarlet sheets, of losing himself in the infinite bliss of endless love. First, there would be an exploratory session in the shower. After lathering each other, their glistening bodies would entwine in a healing circle of sensuousness. He would drink from her most intimate parts and feel the excruciating thrill of postponed penetration. While she dried off and pampered, he would kindle a boisterous fire and they would pause with hot toddies, each enveloped in pilfered robes, each immersed in the luxurious comfort of plush loungers. They would touch each other with their eyes and they would plumb the depths of mutual desire, anticipating the pleasures yet to come. Then they would cast their robes aside and luxuriate on the chaise lounge, stoking the fires of foreplay until at long last he would carry her up to the summit of passion on the red bed. George could hardly wait. An old flame was about to be rekindled. An old dream would become reality.

She seemed to sense his thoughts and quickly wrapped herself in the bed sheet. She jumped up and exclaimed, "Did you find it? Did you find the statue? What are you doing here?"

"Oh yes, I found it," he said gently, "but it got smashed. But that's all right because it was no good anyway."

Suddenly she stiffened and yelled out, "What do you mean you smashed it? I've got to have that statue. There's something inside it. It's a secret that will show me the way. My whole life depends on it! I was sure you would bring it to me! I won't take 'no' for an answer!"

"But I'm bringing you something much better, Lauren," George insisted. "I'm telling you that you don't need to wait for outside help; that you can get there on your own. That's the real secret! It doesn't matter that the statue was destroyed. There was nothing in it anyway. What's real right now is that you're beautiful and I want to love you. We'll get there together!"

This seemed to enrage her. She dropped the sheet and charged, flailing her arms wildly. George fell back in confusion and as he did so, Lauren grabbed her .38 from his waist. Her eyes seemed to devour him. "I get it now," she hissed as she pointed the gun, "you found the secret but you're not going to tell me, not just yet. First I've got to be fucked! Then you'll show me the way. It's just like the last time! You're just another Anton!"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" George protested, lifting his hands disarmingly. "Listen: that was just an ordinary statue. I saw it before it got smashed and I saw it after. There was nothing inside, I tell you! But just now I figured it all out. The statue was just a stand-in for you! And that means that you are the only one who knows the way. It's anywhere you believe it is. You are in control! So you don't need that statue, but I need you!"

"What a crock!" she screamed. "I've had my fill of you dirty old men!" and she fired repeatedly. The shots sent George reeling backwards, hurling the telescope through the window. He trembled for a moment as he lay in the glass. The shards were framed in blood.

She stepped over the corpse as if it were clutter and went out on the roof. Rivulets of rain explored her naked body as she raised her arms to the storm and screamed in defiance. Far below the roaring waves shattered and died against the shore.

Cool, clammy gusts beat the white curtains into frenzy. She charged back inside and covered herself again. She scoured the rooms below for her clothes and when she found them, she searched once again for the statue. This time she was unrestrained, shouting and scattering and smashing as she went, trashing the whole place. But it wasn't there, not even in fragments. She was shaking and she was furious.

Finally, she sat down with a bottle of scotch. After a while the booze started to work on her and she felt better. It was clear to her now that he was just stringing her along, waiting for a chance to screw her. So he had thought up that crazy story when he realized he couldn't come up with the statue. Sure, she had freaked out when he told her the statue had been destroyed. Who wouldn't have? It would have meant the end of her dream. That would have been unthinkable but there was still time. There was no need to panic. That burnt-out bum didn't have a clue, so he made up a story instead. She had made a real bad choice but now that was in the past. They were all expendable.

What she needed now was a bright young buck with plenty of zip. She could make a guy like that jump through all kinds of hoops. She could make him work his butt off just to please her. And when he did come up with the goods, she would leave him just like that, holding the bag and his balls. She got up smiling and hurled the highball into the hearth. Then she stalked out into the stormy night. Behind her, the mansion of death loomed out of the squalls like some forlorn Titanic.

She had found keys in her wanderings. Now she found the big Hummer and sent it smashing through the gates. It charged down the forest trail like an enraged beast.

_What harder fate than to be a woman? She makes and unmakes her man_.

John Saunders had plenty of police training but he didn't want to start out being a cop. It was too damned restrictive. There were too many rules. No, he had the guts to set up shop on his own, be his own boss, live by his wits. He was brash and he was confident that he could get it done. He went first-class right away and borrowed enough to get a plush office in a high-rise. He knew how to make a good impression. But now this client was making quite an impression on him. She wasn't a classic beauty but she was still very attractive. She seemed to spill over with femininity, the kind that makes men perturbed and protective at the same time. He wondered how long it would take to get her in bed. Not long, if he played his cards right and he was a good player. She had given him a picture of an old boy-friend. He was supposed to find him somewhere in the bush because he was in mining. He might as well have been on Mars. He was supposed to have some little statue of hers.

John didn't believe her story, not really. It was probably just a myth. But he would play along and somehow he would find this guy because he had to keep her on the string. And after that, well, the rest would be a bloody snap.
NOTES

PREFACE

_At the bottom is a memory_...

Frye, Northrop "The Secular Scripture" Cambridge, Mass : Harvard University Press, 1976, p.183

_One must either adopt the way_...

____ , "Fearful Symmetry" Princeton, NJ : Princeton University Press, 1969, p.55

SECTION HEADINGS

_All the gods, all the heavens_...

Campbell, Joseph, "The Power of Myth" New York, NY : Doubleday, 1988, p.39

_At the bottom is a memory_...

Frye, Northrop. "The Secular Scripture" Cambridge, Mass : Harvard University Press, 1976, .,18 _____,_

_One must either adopt the way_...

_____, "Fearful Symmetry" Princeton, N.J : Princeton University Press, 1969, p.55

_All the gods, all the heavens_...

Campbell, Joseph. "The Power of Myth" New York, N.Y : Doubleday, 1988, p.39

_The sexual Quest_...

Frye, Northrup. "Words With Power" Toronto, ON : Penguin Books Ltd., 1992, p.222

The ascent to love and beauty...

____, Words With Power" Toronto, ON : Penguin Books Ltd, 1992, p.218

The average reader...secretly feeds the hope...

Eco, Umberto. "The Role of the Reader" Bloomington, Ind : Indiana University Press, 1984, p.108

_She was the cosmic power_...

Campbell, Joseph. "The Hero With a Thousand Faces" Princeton, N,J : Princeton U. Press, 1973, p.115

_The typical agent of cunning_...

Frye, Northrop. "The Secular Scripture" Cambridge, Mass : Harvard University Press, 1976, p.183

_The hero goes forward in his adventure_...

Campbell, Joseph. "The Hero With a Thousand Faces" Princeton N J : Princeton U Press, 1973, p.7

_Then he realized I am this creation_...

____, "The Power of Myth" New York, NY : Doubleday. 1988, p.45

_And always after the first thrills_...

____, "The Hero with a Thousand Faces" Princeton, N J : Princeton U Press, 1973, p.121

_Loyalty...is the result of basing one's life_...

Frye, Northrop. "The Great Code" Toronto, ON : Penguin Books Ltd., 1990, p.99

_secret helpers and instructive figures...are still encountered_...

Campbell. Joseph. "The Hero with a Thousand Faces" Princeton, N J : Princeton U Press, 1973, p.101

_excessive action which is...the result of_...

Frye, Northrop. "Words with Power" Toronto, ON : Penguin Books Canada Ltd., 1992 p.282

_Such oracles have a peculiar quality_...

____, "Words With Power". Toronto, ON : Penguin Books Canada Ltd., 1992 p.251

Beauty and the Beast

Bettelheim, B. "The Uses of Enchantment" New York, NY : Vintage Books, 1977, p.303

Bluebeard (is) considered here

Bettelheim, B. "The Uses of Enchantment" New York, NY : Vintage Books, 12977, p.p.300

Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came

Browning, R. "The College Survey of English Literature" New York, NY : Harcourt Brace, 1951, p.1004

_One must adopt either the way of imagination_...

Frye, Northrop. "Fearful Symmetry" Princeton, N J : Princeton University Press, 1947, p,55

_What harder fate_...

_Graves, R._ "The White Goddess" London, WC1 : Faber and Faber Ltd., 1961, p.317

BIBLIOGRAPHY

M.F. Sheridan, F. Barberi (Ed) _"Explosive Volcanism"_ New York, NY : Elsevier Science Pub. Co. Dec, 1983, 482pp

G.R. Osinski, E. Pierazzo, _"Impact Cratering:Processes and Products"_ New York, NY: Wiley-Blackwell, Dec. 2012, 330 pp

T. J. Ross, _"Fuzzy Logic with Engineering Applications_ " New York, NY : McGraw-Hill, 1995, 600pp.

B.M. French _, "Traces of Catastrophe"_ Houston, TX : Linear and Planetary Institute, 1998, 120pp.

J.F. Eisenberg, W. S. Dillon (Ed) _"Man and Beast: Comparative Social Behaviour,_ Washington, DC. : Smithsonian Institute Press, 1971, 401pp.

T.A. Tell, M. Gruiz _"Chaotic Dynamics:An Introduction Based on Classical Mechanics_ " Cambridge UK Cambridge University Press, 2006, 412pp.
