 
Reader Comments and Reviews for Jack Dey's Books

"Mahina is a fantastic tale involving multiple storylines from both historical times and the present... beautiful and complex, like the threads of fine tapestry... a memorable and well told story, full of adventure and romance... Someone should turn this book into a motion picture. You should read the book." Kathy Olson

"Paradise Warrior is an amazing book. It makes you laugh, cry and reflect. It is a book that when you finish you wonder about life around you. God's plan in our life... amazing gift..." Fernando M.

"...I cry & I laugh & I don't want to put my book down... I loved reading "Mahina" on my iPad.... BUT.... I absolutely LOVE having it in BOOK FORM now.... to have & to hold.... forever mine!" Gwennie Simpson

"I've finished THAT BOOK and will now have to do something constructive!!!... if book number three is as riveting as the other two, I will need pulse-reducing medication. I can't believe the depth of all that he was able to bring in to that story!!! (I'm thinking that I will have to stick to "Little Women" and "Heidi" in future.)" Maureen

"Mahina is a brilliant novel that I've read with great pleasure The Author is very smart to describe the human heart in his various characters. I enjoyed also how sincere faith and love for God are lived by some of them. My favorite, Aunty Rosa is especially appealing; it really makes you want to meet her!" Dominique

"Mahina is a great read. I really enjoyed Jack Dey's writing style... weaving a fictional tale through real historic events... that show how... events, people or actions in the past can profoundly affect the present. More importantly, how God can redeem stories that sometimes start generations before... A great first novel by Jack Dey. Can't wait for the next!" Gary James

"...Mahina... Finished!!!!!! Loved it!!!!!" Marie

"MAHiNA... engaging and informative. It is hard to put down a novel when the characters are intriguing and the storyline incorporates a variety of threads. Aunty Rosa was the one character that I was especially drawn to; her wisdom and sensitivity were authentic and endearing... And the ending was superbly done; tying in each of the real life issues in a clever and perceptive way." Susan

"...amazing, delightful, absolutely intriguing, WONDERFUL book... PARADISE WARRIOR!!! I can't put it down..." Gwennie Simpson

"Paradise Warrior... You certainly know how to keep the reader hanging for more! Great work! I'm going to read it again!" Corinne

"...a very talented writer... how much I enjoyed reading Aunt Tabbie's Wings. I laughed, cried, and just kept reading, reading and reading. Couldn't put it down. You have captured what it means to forgive and have that agape love for other people that our Heavenly Father has for his children..." Becky and David Poole

"...Mahina. The story draws you in chapter by chapter. Thoroughly enjoyed it..." Craig

"After reading Mahina, I looked forward to discovering... Paradise Warrior! The Author is able once again to describe how God works and change the lives of those who put their trust in Him... thrilling fiction. It's quite impossible to close the book before the end. And when I finished reading it, I've read it a second time to enjoy even more all its subtleties, this for the first time in my life...!" Dominique

"Jack Dey... writes a rollicking good yarn, that man..." Shelley

"...the depth of emotion that Aunt Tabbie's Wings awakens. How can you not thoroughly immerse yourself in the warmth of the Savior's love demonstrated through real-life characters? I was touched by the storyline, the surprises and the figurative language, "...as the sun yawned away the darkness..." January 1, 2015—the day I read a page-turner from cover to cover. Thanks Jack." Suz

"Aunt Tabbie's Wings is fascinating reading. The stories of the various characters seem to be so real... the reader will be moved by the true love of God showed in a family, which is used to change a ruined destiny. What I have particularly loved in this novel is the genuineness and pertinency of the relationship among the figures and with God. I can recommend this good novel to those who want to be closest to their Heavenly Father and be motivated to spread His love around them." Dominique

"I LOVE it !! I wish I knew Aunt Tabby !" Gwennie

"...Aunt Tabbie's Wings... once you start, you won't want to put it down." Elspeth

"...Aunt Tabbie's Wings... loved it so much... I could not put it down..." Trudy R.

[Mahina] "I was up reading half the night last night..." Kathy

*~*~*~*

# THE LEGEND OF ATANEQ NANUQ

# by

# JACK DEY

*~*~*~*

SMASHWORDS UPDATED EDITION

PUBLISHED BY:

C.D. & A.R. Day at Smashwords

COPYRIGHT 2015-2017 C.D. & A.R. Day

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means–electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or otherwise–except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the owner of the copyright.

Original Cover Design: C.D. & A.R. Day

Cover images: pixabay.com

Cover image of couple: L. & S. Parrish

SMASHWORDS UPDATED EDITION, LICENSE NOTES

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with others please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is also available in print.

(paperback)

For further information please contact:

URL: http://jackdey.com

Email: jackdeyauthor@gmail.com

*~*~*~*

Dedicated to: Papa

For Your Honour and Your Glory

*~*~*~*

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 10

Chapter 15

Chapter 20

Chapter 30

Chapter 40

Chapter 50

Chapter 60

Chapter 70

Chapter 80

BONUS / END NOTES

Author's Note

About the Author

Connect with Jack

Discover Other Books by Jack Dey

Mahina

Paradise Warrior

Aunt Tabbie's Wings

The Secrets of Black Dean Lighthouse

The Valley of Flowers

La Belle Suisse by Dodie La Mirounette and Jack Dey

Exclusive Preview of Jack Dey's New Novel – Zero

*~*~*~*

Important Note from Jack

_The Legend of Ataneq Nanuq_ is a signature Jack Dey mystery novel, designed for people who enjoy a seemingly disjointed but unpredictable cryptic read with a rewarding ending. The theme may disturb some sensitive readers as it visits areas of the faith-walk few Christians take seriously, or at least are willing to acknowledge. Yet it is vital that we understand who we are in Christ and more importantly, who Jesus Christ is. There are horrifying forces we don't see or understand waiting to destroy us and when we deliberately and innocently dabble in areas of the supernatural, these seemingly innocuous activities have mammoth repercussions for us as mere human beings.

However, the man or woman fully sold out to the Lord Jesus and active in prayer in His name, sends intimidating shockwaves through the darkest parts of the supernatural world. _The Legend of Ataneq Nanuq_ is a chilling read but the reader who perseveres and takes the time to endure to the end will be rewarded with a rich, unforgettable journey and hopefully it will leave you with burning questions that will keep you on a truth-walk, searching for the real Jesus and His answers.

This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, incidences, places or events, past or present, unless otherwise stated, is purely coincidental. Poetic licence has been taken in writing this fiction.

I hope you will enjoy reading it, as much as I have enjoyed writing it.

Jack Dey

*~*~*~*

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the following for their tireless support in bringing _The Legend of Ataneq Nanuq_ from a thought to a finished work.

Papa God, for allowing me to be a pencil in His hand.

My wife, the Editor, for turning my full stops into commas, encouraging me to keep going and using words like 'disturbing' to keep me on track. Constantly filling my cup with tea and love.

My Assistant Editor, the very charismatic Phil Hollett, for never letting me get away with anything.

My friend, Lenny, using his unusual life as an example of Christ's love and actions to build Cutter's character.

The ever vigilant prayer team.

Finally, you, the reader. May you never forget the journey you are about to take and judge everything against what Papa tells you.

Jack

*~*~*~*

# THE LEGEND OF ATANEQ NANUQ

When injustice and fear collide it has a name... Ataneq Nanuq. A disturbing mystery.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 1

PRESENT DAY

A crisp command silenced the dogs as the weathered, leathery face pressed hard against the fractured window; a legacy from last winter's trials. His faltering gaze followed the rocky shoreline of the bay through the broken glass and from the confines of the tired, dishevelled hut, keeping his aging outline pressed against the wall and trying to stay out of sight. His panicked hot breath steamed the pane, partially obliterating the view while two milky brown eyes, bloodshot and squinting from too many years exposed to the glaring icy landscape, traced the small ship's progress as it entered the deepest part of the wilderness of Scoresby Sund.

A worried frown settled across his wrinkled brow. It had been nearly two years since he had glimpsed another European and by his reckoning, that wasn't long enough. The fear rose into his chest and threatened to freeze the scene into a long buried moment in history he'd worked so hard to forget. In the isolation of the wilderness, there was no one to impress or be judged by. Being alone was sometimes lonely, but it was far easier than feeling hunted by his own kind and required to perform or give an account of what he had done. There just wasn't a plausible, easy explanation for what had happened able to satisfy him, let alone a _civilised_ European court. He had evaded his hunters for well over fifty years, vanishing like a shy Arctic fox into the tundra and beyond the reach of their prejudiced form of justice.

He was bitterly aware, maybe even more so today than the day it happened... he was a fugitive: a wanted man.

Dwarfed by icebergs, floating lazy and majestic in defiance to the seasonal thaw and towering rebelliously against the smoky-blue backdrop of the late summer sky, the tiny ship appeared insignificant by comparison. The remnants of the winter sea ice, now scattered and breaking up over the surface of the warming water, playfully nudged the steel hull of the white ship as she pushed closer to the shore and his hut. The ship's movement through the Sund created ripples that disturbed the tranquillity and betrayed the ship's intended direction. As it came closer, he could make out the Russian name: _MV Multanovskiy._

Momentarily distracted, his eyes diverted from the vessel and focused on a nearby berg. Desperate thoughts chased around his mind. _Surely the Russians couldn't have an interest in my history or a reason to pick a fight with me._

Just to be certain, he stayed well out of sight anyway.

Surrounded by a backdrop of rugged snow capped mountains, the tortured old hut stood on crumbling brick pillars just one metre above the rocky tundra floor and only a stone's throw from the Sund. The floor timbers sagged with age, complaining bitterly with every step the old man took while the fire had finally gone out in the old fireplace. He had used up the last of the seal blubber fuel and the gaps in the stone chimney let the windblown chill into the hut, something he would have to fix in what remained of this summer, before the ice storms of January. The roof above him was the strongest part of the hut, strengthened to support the weight of dense winter snow and the turbulent gales of the long Arctic night. It wasn't the Ritz, but it was home.

After the summer thaw had advanced and defeated the winter pallor, Salix glauca turned the once-white snow covered tundra into a rich red, giving the illusion of a living welcome mat sprawling across the landscape and leading to the rocky shores of the Sund, testifying that the long winter had indeed retreated and the short summer was now in command.

As he gauged the ship's position once again, a sense of irony struck him. In the depth of the endless Arctic night, he had driven his dogsled clear across the frozen Sund on an ice shelf two metres thick to fish through a drilled hole in the ice, close to where the ship now cautiously picked its way across the fluid summer sea and towards his home. He watched in surprise as the ship executed a wide arc and came within fifty metres of his old dwelling. Seemingly convinced there were no signs of life, it turned unexpectedly and steered again for the entrance to the Sund, picked up speed and silently slid out of the fjord, bringing a sigh of relief from the old man. From his position hidden within the shelter, the aging eyes struggled to focus on the departing vessel as it vanished from view.

The dogs began to whimper, eager to get back outside into their natural environment and leave the confines of their hiding place. He cautiously surveyed the scene outside the window, sweeping the barren landscape for any threats. His searching stopped abruptly, while his blurry eyes pressed shut and open again in an attempt for clarity, trying to focus on a large granite boulder some distance away. It was still there after so many winters and summer thaws, perched lifeless on the granite mound, weather bleached and staring in the direction of the fjord where Nanuq had slaughtered him: the skull of a muskox.

The hapless creature had wandered into a two-day standoff between the old man trapped inside his hut and a hungry nanuq, keeping the human pinned down. The dogs had alerted the old man to the presence of the dangerous male polar bear, while Nanuq had watched every move from his hidden position, his fur camouflaged perfectly against the white winter environment. Unwittingly, the muskox had sacrificed his life and meandered into Nanuq's patient trap, ending the ordeal for the old man. Nanuq struck with such stealth and ferocity, driven by hunger. His agile and powerful 600 kilogram frame, standing 2.7 metres tall, launched with deadly accuracy as his voracious, tearing jaws crushed the life from his victim. It was doubtless the muskox even saw him coming.

His hunger then satisfied, Nanuq, the powerful male polar bear, had turned toward the hut and tossed his head and sniffed the air in a warning toward the old man. Nanuq's dark eyes had set a deliberate challenge, daring him to do battle in a future time. One last huff and Nanuq had sauntered away into the depths of the polar winter, leaving enough of his conquest as a sign of his rank and stature among the polar bears, allowing the smaller, hungry subordinate bears to clean up after him.

After the altercation with Nanuq, the old man had left the skull of the muskox where it lay, as a chilling reminder and evidence of the ruthless fight for survival in a hostile and unforgiving frozen wilderness devoid of friendly human contact. One lapse in concentration in a powerful winter storm—where the temperature plunged to in excess of minus twenty-three degrees Celsius—or an unguarded moment flaunting his life in front of a hungry, prowling nanuq away from the safety of his shelter, could prove fatal.

Still, he was more at home in the cruelty and isolation of the tundra where man, beast and the environment fought to the death only for survival purposes. When hunger and the depths of winter no longer threatened, man and beast lived together in an uneasy cohabitation, keeping a close, wary eye on each other. Unlike European society, where a fatal blow constantly lurked in every corner and every human being was an enemy and a target in a relentless drive to conquer and dominate each other. He shivered as he imagined society closing the door on his troubled freedom and trapping him in a crowded man-made nightmare.

Sensing the threat had passed, Akiak's warm muzzle pushed into his empty hand, forcing his thoughts back to the present and reminding him his dogs needed to get outside. She was his faithful dogsled team leader, wise in the things of the tundra, saving his life more often than he cared to remember. He stooped to ruffle her thick fur and then opened the hut door, the dogs bursting out into the warm sunshine, excitedly barking and enjoying their sudden freedom.

The temperature this time of year was an exhausting one degree Celsius and there was much to do before the relentless winter night once again descended on his world, plunging him into the crippling freeze. The old man felt different in the bright polar sunshine, lighter in spirit and even a small sense of hope pervaded his thinking. A noticeable freshness drifted across the polar tundra, leaving the threats of winter far from his mind while his old enemy, Nanuq, had migrated further north following the food source associated with the permanent pack ice of the extreme Arctic pole. For now he was content and an uneasy peace settled over his soul.

As he ventured outside, he bent to investigate the sled lying unused in the protection of the crawl space under his hut. He stiffly drew it from its resting place and examined its condition. The shaped timber skids had dried and split, but it was still solid and usable. The tow straps the dogs wore were stiff, but would soon become pliable once the dogs had worn them in again. A shrill whistle from the old man called the dogs to the sled and away from the serious play they had engaged in. They came barking and running, excited at the thought of pulling a sled again.

Today he would venture onto the edge of the vast tundra away from the hut to trade Arctic fox furs he had trapped during last winter. His buyer, Katu, lived fifty kilometres away and his store was an outpost for the remaining trappers living deep in the wilderness. He would trade for supplies for the coming winter and learn the grave news of the outside world. Katu was a native born Greenlander with no apparent interest in the history of an old European fugitive. The round trip would take two days and he usually stayed the night with Katu.

The old man peered over his shoulder at the hut from his position standing at the back of the sled, a sick feeling rising in his gut as if he was saying goodbye to a trusted friend. With a pile of furs lying in the passenger well of the sled, he breathed out a nervous sigh, turned and mushed the dogs on toward Katu. The dogs barked with excitement as the old wooden sled jolted forward and sped across the Salix glauca effortlessly.

Two hours into the journey, the old man spotted a strange sight in the distance. He called the dogs to a halt and tried to squint to clear his vision and focus. The fear rose, marshalling his senses to high alert at the outline of a large nanuq prostrated on the ground as if he was preparing to pounce.

Thoughts flashed through his mind and then reason took over; all nanuq should be hundreds of kilometres to the north by now and if this particular bear was a threat, Akiak would have surely warned him. The old man trusted her implicitly; her senses were sharp, always testing the environment around her for threats and she missed nothing. From her position at the head of the stationary dog team, she raised her snout again to taste the air in the direction of the nanuq, wary of the deadly menace. Convinced Nanuq offered no threat, she turned to concentrate on another distraction and contemptuously lost interest in the hulking, motionless form.

The old man stepped from the sled and reached for his rifle, then cautiously measured his ground till he was almost on top of the predator. The smell of decaying flesh assaulted his senses and a gasp filled his lungs. There had been a momentary struggle before this large, three metre tall, male nanuq had succumbed to a single, brutal force that had stolen his life. The old man prodded the dead beast with his rifle butt and estimated the nanuq to be close to 700 kilos, then searched around till he found the footprint of the culprit, perfectly preserved in a mud puddle created by melting snow. He dropped to his haunches and examined the massive pad print, then compared the huge male bear's paw lying dead before him.

It was nearly fifty millimetres bigger.

He swallowed hard, the fear bristling the hair on the back of his neck and out of habit he searched the surroundings, gripping the barrel of his gun tightly. After all these years, his old nemesis was still around somewhere. The last time he saw a track like this he was only a boy, nearly sixty years ago, and the memories of that horrific day etched forever into his young mind, shaped his life and as a fugitive, drove him deep into the wilderness.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 2

SUMMER 1994, AMMASSALIK VILLAGE, EASTERN GREENLAND

Aalik Egede stood peering through the solitary window in the family home perched high on a hillside above the town, watching his seventeen-year-old daughter, Aanasi, walking down into the village accompanied by a girlfriend. The two girls stopped suddenly and their attention turned towards a distraction, a distraction that Aalik didn't approve of.

"How many times must I make my feelings known to Aanasi? That boy is bad news!" Aalik's agitated voice bounced off the window and carried across the room and collided with his wife's hearing while his angry gaze bored into the young man who had no right to be talking to his daughter at all.

"You make too much of his attentions, Aalik; she is just finding out that she is an attractive young woman and is enjoying the interest from young men. Leave her be and she will make good decisions."

Aalik let the words of his wife fall to the ground at his feet as if she hadn't spoken. "She is promised to Romaanaq; their wedding has been planned since their infancy!"

"The young like to choose their own matches these days; besides, what woman would want to be saddled with such a walrus as Romaanaq?" the wife retorted, watching her husband's incredulous, open-mouthed gaze turn from the window and fall upon her like a derailing locomotive.

"He is my cousin's son and is a fine..."

"Walrus!" the wife once again interjected. "He has no sense or tact, and given the choice of his handsomeness or a walrus', a prospective bride would take the walrus! Do you seriously propose to tie our beautiful daughter to such a cold blooded creature?!"

"If she wants to remain my daughter, she will do as she is told!" Aalik's words set like concrete as he turned back to face the window. Trouble was brewing on their near horizon.

"Ack...! Word is, among our relatives, that Romaanaq has eyes for another of his cousins."

Aalik turned around abruptly and shot his wife a stare that would melt an iceberg. "Who?!"

"Evnike, that's who!"

"Evni... Evnike! She is a narwhal of a girl!" he shot back.

"Then the two will live happily together under the sea," Aalik's wife was losing interest in the battle.

"Do you not see the benefit we would gain by such a marriage? My cousins are well-to-do and some of that would come our way when Aanasi marries Romaanaq."

"Now I see the greedy heart exposed before you! You have no interest in your daughter's happiness, only your own gain."

"Happiness! What is such a word?! Our marriage was arranged by our parents and we have survived," Aalik boasted.

"There is a big difference between surviving and living, Aalik!" she retorted, a hint of sarcasm floating above her statement.

"What is good for Aanasi's parents is good for her! It is time she was taken as a bride and I intend to make the arrangements before she ruins our lives with an improper choice."

Aanasi's mother waved her hand in frustration at her husband and then walked into the kitchen to escape his babbling.

*~*~*~*

"May I walk with you ladies?" Nikkulaat's rich, baritone voice teased their ears.

Aanasi's heart did a skip, as she and Elona giggled at Nikkulaat's greeting. Elona knew all too well Aanasi's coy feelings towards the tall, handsome Nikkulaat and to some extent she was envious of the obvious attention Nikkulaat focused on Aanasi. Aanasi folded her arm around Elona's in a protective reflex. She wanted to be alone with Nikkulaat, but she feared being alone with him at the same time.

"You may, Nikkulaat," Elona answered, understanding her friend's dilemma while Aanasi bashfully glanced down at the ground, her cheeks aglow with shy admiration.

"Are you well, Aanasi?" Nikkulaat's adoring gaze was directed straight at her.

Aanasi's eyes were flashing and full of innocence as she lifted her glance and met his stare, giving him a smile that melted Nikkulaat on the spot. "I am well, thank you, Nikkulaat."

Nikkulaat's breath caught in his throat as if he had been winded. The soft voice carried across the summer day and tantalised his senses with its sweet perfume. Another stolen glimpse caught the sheen of Aanasi's long black hair glistening in the warm sunshine like rich, deep black velvet hanging enticingly down over her back. Her beauty mesmerised him and he fought to tear his eyes away from another admiring gape, narrowly avoiding her eyes catching him in the act.

"We were going to walk up on the mountain ridge to the Valley of Flowers. I am told it is carpeted in blooms after the thaw," Elona offered, breaking the awkward unspoken game so obviously playing out between Aanasi and Nikkulaat. "Why don't you join us, Nikkulaat?" Elona added.

Aanasi glanced shyly from Elona to Nikkulaat and when he consented, a smile lit Aanasi's face like an unfolding rose bud. Far below the mountain ridge, the village dwindled into insignificance as the path meandered past swiftly flowing waterfalls and streams. Ahead, the trail cut through two rocky peaks blanketed in a patchwork of melting snow and delicately adorned with fluffy white clouds hanging lazily over the high summits. Time seemed to stand still as they ambled up the path between the two peaks into the valley, laughing carelessly at nothing and talking excitedly about everything.

In an unguarded moment, Nikkulaat bent to the valley floor and picked a small bunch of purple flowers and nervously handed them to Aanasi. "These pretty flowers can't compete with your beauty, Aanasi," his anxious voice faltered slightly.

She smiled at the gesture, her eyes dancing in delight and she took his offering willingly, but a chance meeting of his hand on hers while she accepted his gift made her heart jump and her cheeks flushed red, betraying her feelings. Then without thinking, Nikkulaat closed the gap between him and Aanasi, his heart pounding in his ears. Aanasi had overpowered him and he was drifting aimlessly in love, like a ship without a rudder about to crash headlong onto the jagged rocks of desire.

Aanasi floated into a dreamland, fearful of her first kiss and wanting to hide, but hypnotised by her feelings and riveted to the spot by expectation. Her heart rate increased as anticipation wrapped around her, her breath hot with yearning, feeling like she was going to faint. As Nikkulaat's warm lips softly touched hers, her breath escaped in a delighted sigh and her knees buckled under her, collapsing into his arms and filling her body with blissful passion.

Elona was waiting for a cue to leave Aanasi with Nikkulaat, and that moment had just come. Without saying a word, Elona slipped unnoticed from the couple and left them to discover their new innocent love.

*~*~*~*

The sounds of bitter conflict echoed out over the village from the Egede house punctuated by the heartbreaking sobs of a young woman begging to be released from her father's business deal. Aanasi pleaded and pleaded against the marriage to Romaanaq, dropping to the floor at her father's feet and weeping in a bitter, crushed tirade.

"I don't love him, Father, and I never will! My heart belongs to another and if I can't be with him, I don't want to be with anyone!" The emotional tears and despair mingled in a crumpled body laying heaving and sobbing on the kitchen floor.

"I knew that boy was no good!" Aalik spat the words at his wife, who was kneeling next to her daughter, trying to comfort her. "Leave things alone and she will make the right decisions, you said. Now look what your nonsense has brought! You will obey me, Aanasi, and you will marry Romaanaq!"

Aanasi's violent sobbing increased at her father's words. She was destined to a life of misery, separated from the only man she would ever love.

The door to the house slammed shut as Aalik left the women to their grief and come to terms with his wishes. Aanasi cuddled into her mother, crying, sobbing and trying to talk at the same time.

"Shhh, Aanasi, calm yourself. There will be a wedding as your father expects and you will marry that day. It is done. Now prepare yourself to be a bride."

*~*~*~*

Reverend Emil Rasmussen checked the church registry for the coming Saturday: there were to be two weddings in close proximity to each other, one straight after the other. Two consecutive weddings in the church was nothing unusual, but what was unusual, both Inuit brides had decided for a traditional European wedding service, complete with white dress and matching veils instead of the traditional long pants, fur boots and colourful jumper.

Weddings had a sombre tone when an arranged marriage was in progress.

*~*~*~*

Aanasi dawdled in a desperate state of procrastination, hoping she could put off the inevitable, but as she stared at her white gown and her haggard face in the mirror, she felt lifeless and doomed to a future as a machine. She shuddered at the thought of Romaanaq touching her, while the memory of her first kiss that afternoon with Nikkulaat sent her spiralling into deep despair again.

Her mother startled her as she entered Aanasi's small room and spoke. "Aanasi, these things have a way of working out," she tried to console her daughter.

Aanasi wiped the tears from her eyes and tried to speak. "They didn't work out for you, Mum."

"Ah, not so, Aanasi. If I hadn't done my duty to your father then I would never have had you."

"How did you cope with your life, Mum? It must have been horrible."

"You learn to adjust. I have a request that you will have to trust me with."

Aanasi stared at her mother. _What now?_

"Don't lift your veil to your husband until you are alone with him. Now, it is time to go."

Aanasi was about to ask about her mother's strange request but she was ushered out into her waiting transport instead.

*~*~*~*

The blood ran cold down into Aanasi's feet as she stood facing the entry to the church and the back view of a suited man waiting for her to join him at his side. The music started and she began a sombre walk, a sickening feeling growing in her stomach and she glanced through the church windows, looking for a mode of escape. She turned to face the front again, dawdling slowly towards the waiting man and her desperate future. The seat beside where her mother stood was empty and that puzzled her; her father was absent. Finally she stepped up to the man standing beside her and she nearly fainted.

Nikkulaat's beaming smile greeted her.

Confusion played across her face and she peered across to her mother. A stern finger held up to her mother's lips begged her to play along. Suddenly she understood. Two weddings were happening today but the brides had been swapped, and now the veil request made sense. Evnike and Romaanaq were being married straight after, but Aanasi and Nikkulaat would be far away before her father ever knew what had happened.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 3

WINTER 2004 – REMOTE WILDERNESS CAMP, SCORESBY LAND, EASTERN GREENLAND

It had been ten years since Aanasi's shock marriage to Nikkulaat and each day had been like an endless honeymoon. Aanasi could only guess at the price her mother would have paid for her role in the deception of her father, but she was grateful for her mother's sacrifice and the life she now had. Nikkulaat adored Aanasi and she in turn, returned his feelings.

Aanasi felt complete and alive in the arms of her man, but it soon became apparent that something was wrong and she couldn't conceive. The pain and shame she felt at an empty womb drove a wedge between her and Nikkulaat, and she often wondered whether they were being punished for deceiving her father by her marrying Nikkulaat instead of Romaanaq.

Nikkulaat and Aanasi loved the peace and rugged beauty of Eastern Greenland. It almost seemed like they were the only two people left on the planet and that God always appeared close and inviting, walking in a frozen wonderland with two people He loved dearly.

That night they huddled, sitting together on a bearskin rug laid on the open ice and under the playful sky, watching the northern lights weaving its beauty between the myriads of stars while their igloo home sat behind them, reflecting the green cascading lights in its white, icy structure.

Nikkulaat wrapped Aanasi tighter in his arms, pulling her against his chest. "I love you."

Aanasi cuddled into his warm embrace. "I love you, too," she whispered.

"It doesn't matter if we can't have children. You are all I want."

Nikkulaat's confession brought Aanasi hope, and she cuddled closer into him, even though she still wanted to give him a child.

Nikkulaat suddenly stood and pulled Aanasi up with him, kissing her with a deep, fiery passion, melting her freezing lips and igniting desire within her. They walked together and crawled into their igloo home, entangled in tenderness until the fire of passion subsided into euphoric exhaustion and peaceful sleep overcame them, refilling the cup of love once again.

Aanasi awoke to find Nikkulaat had already gone to hunt for food and check the traps he'd set the previous day. She felt relaxed and complete, longing for Nikkulaat to return and express his love for her once again. In her morning activity, a peculiarity pervaded her body and she wondered about the strange happenings, convinced that something was different and unusual. In a matter of weeks her suspicions were confirmed, setting a deep, fulfilling glow around Aanasi.

She would bear Nikkulaat a child.

The winter months held grave dangers for anyone trying to survive in the deep Scoresby Land wilderness. Hungry nanuq could appear at any moment, and Aanasi had to be ready to defend herself while Nikkulaat was away from the shelter. At Nikkulaat's insistence, Aanasi became proficient at handling a rifle; there weren't any neighbours to rely on and survival was solely on their own shoulders.

Nikkulaat wanted to send Aanasi into the closest village of Ittoqqortoormiit to get trained help for the delivery of their child, but a late autumn storm blocked their path for days and Aanasi gave birth in their igloo shelter instead, aided by a very unprepared and shaken husband. Siimuut's first cries flooded the icy residence somewhere in the tundra of Scoresby Land; their baby had arrived without incident and his parents adored their son.

*~*~*~*

A small dogsled team topped a rise in the landscape and the man standing on the back of the sled whistled a shrill whistle, calling the team to a halt. The frozen tundra lay before him, spread out from horizon to horizon bordered by a lonely, aqua-blue sky. He had seen the tracks of another hunter only yesterday, but he wasn't looking for company and pushed on, further away from any chance of a meeting. An Arctic fox had broken out of one of his snares, escaping injured across the landscape but leaving an easy trail to be found. Arctic fox brought great interest from buyers of furs on European markets and at present, the pelt of an injured fox was worth the trouble of tracking. Hungry nanuq would be prowling, looking for an easy meal too, and an injured fox would be a great appetiser but the bear had no concern for the precious fur pelt, making it a necessity to find the fox before any nanuq did.

Bjarni Kleist grabbed his rifle from the sled and climbed down from his position at the back, then with a determined gait he strode for the dog team and bent down beside his lead dog and untethered her from the team. He rubbed her soft ears and then ruffled her fur, peering deeply into her intelligent husky eyes. In a sense the dog understood her master and knew what was coming; she enjoyed the hunt just as much as the man and the two together were an efficient team. Desna was Bjarni's favourite dog; as well as a treasured companion, she knew his every move and every mood, keeping him from succumbing to isolation madness. She was wise in the ways of the tundra, keenly aware of the wilderness' changing temperament, with a sixth sense for hidden danger.

As Bjarni gestured with his hand, Desna put her head down and began to track the injured fox, leaving the other dogs tethered to the sled and waiting for the two to return triumphant with their prize. The tracks were becoming more defined as Desna closed in on their prey with Bjarni only a few steps behind her.

Desna suddenly stopped and tasted the air, then a low growl – her warning – halted Bjarni in his stride. He knew the snarl meant a nanuq was near and he began to search for signs; then from close by, a rifle shot rang out followed by a desperate high-pitched scream. As he searched the frozen landscape, his gaze settled on a woman trapped against an igloo by an attacking nanuq, leaving him wondering how he had missed such an obvious landmark.

Without warning, Desna sprinted towards the desperate scene before Bjarni could restrain her. Seconds later, Bjarni ran into the tense standoff, aghast at a mother separated from her injured and distressed baby by a threatening nanuq. He aimed his rifle at the bear but the gun jammed, leaving him no time to repair the fault. In a blur of commotion, Bjarni positioned himself in the path of the angry bear, shielding the child with his body while Desna lunged with snarling bared teeth, biting down hard on the flailing bear.

A huge paw swiped a crunching blow at the attacking dog, breaking her grip with a yelp and sending her bouncing heavily into the snow. The nanuq then turned its attention towards Bjarni, intent on regaining the injured child as part of its meal before devouring the man and then possibly the woman, too.

The big bear reared up and was just about to pounce, when a rifle shot rang out from a distance away, causing the nanuq to fall backwards until it became still in the grips of death.

Seeing the bear's destruction, the hysterical mother screamed, " _Siimuut!"_ and then swooped in to comfort her injured child while another man, carrying his rifle, hurriedly entered the crazy scene and comforted the woman.

Bjarni searched the unmoving figure of his beloved Desna. The snow around her had turned crimson red and her body convulsed as Bjarni dropped to his knees and drew the dying dog into his embrace and wept long, broken sobs of despair, rocking on his knees in pain-filled anguish.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 4

PRESENT DAY

Akiak drove the team relentlessly, her constant barking encouraging the other dogs to run hard and keep pace with her–making the safety of Katu's outpost and a well earned rest on her mind. She seemed to be aware that the old man's stamina was waning; he required constant stops to straighten his stiffening frame, stepping down from the standing position at the rear of the sled. Akiak knew the changing landscape well from Scoresby Land to Jameson Land, crossing numerous mountain streams and skirting the shoreline of the Scoresby Sund in an effort to cut many tedious hours of granite hopping and mountain climbing off the journey. If anything happened to him, the old man was confident Akiak could find her way to Katu without his guidance. The dog team had made this pilgrimage many times in the last twenty years and at the same time of year, so Akiak was familiar with the seasonal routine and had slipped easily into the position of head dog soon after learning to run as a pup. The lead position was in Akiak's blood; she had inherited it from her mother, Desna, just over ten years ago following her untimely death, a death that affected the old man severely and he mourned her like a grieving spouse.

Finally, after eight hours of interrupted running, Katu's outpost came into view. The familiar wood and tin structure stood like a jewel, unaffected by the passing of time in the treeless and undulating, barren tundra landscape bordering Jameson Land and Liverpool Land to the north. Ittoqqortoormiit, the largest civilised centre for the locality, was a further ten kilometres to the northeast, located on the mouth of the Sund, but the old man would never go any closer to it than Katu's outpost for fear of being recognised. The small village of 500 people still had a wiry, older population who remembered the incident so many years ago all too well and feelings would still run deep.

A shrill whistle called the dogs to a halt, their tongues hanging tiredly from their mouths, sweating profusely in the one degree heat wave. They were eager to feed and rest and spend time released from their harnesses before returning the same route they had just traversed–tomorrow–but this time, pulling a heavily loaded sled. The old man searched the outpost perimeter and then glanced to the endless horizon; the tundra appeared like a grey, flat, empty desert without the presence of snow. The sun was low in the sky, painting pink streaks on the high wispy clouds. At this time of year the sun wouldn't set completely, seemingly bouncing off the earth and beginning its relentless journey again, climbing high into the sky like a restless sentinel guarding the tundra and never allowing the darkness a chance to cast its troubles upon the wide open land.

"Bjarni...! Bjarni Kleist, good to see you old friend!" a familiar voice called.

After so many months devoid of human company, the old man struggled to recognise his own name, but he attuned himself to Katu's welcome immediately and it was like music to his ears as the trusted Inuit man with his round face and dark eyes engulfed him in a warm Greenlandic hug.

"Katu, it's good to see you again too," Bjarni replied, the sound of his own voice seeming raspy and strange to his own ears.

"I have been expecting you for many days now. Release your dogs to the shelters; I have fresh seal meat already cut so they can eat and rest while we enjoy hot tea, boiling on the stove. I guess there's no way I can convince you to stay a while longer than just overnight?" Katu teased, but he knew his plea would cause angst for his esteemed visitor.

Bjarni gazed around, feeling the weight of his friend's request and his troubled eyes displayed his answer.

"Of course you can't. You think I would learn. I ask the same question each year and each year I can see the conflict in your heart and the longing to be back in the tundra."

Bjarni was about to try and explain, but Katu held up his hand to silence the grief. "Come inside and complete your business, then we can relax and talk about our year since we last saw each other."

Bjarni released the dogs from their harnesses and pointed towards the kennels. They bolted at top speed, excitedly running for the mountains of food Katu always put out for them. Akiak glanced at the old man as he rubbed her thick fur; her dark, piercing husky pupils surrounded by aqua blue–deeply wise and concerned for her master–surrendered their stare when she heard his, "Well done," and then he pointed to her kennel. Akiak, now convinced he was well and in Katu's good hands, gave a contented bark and hurried toward the waiting reward.

"I see Akiak still has the concern of a well admired woman," Katu's eyes were dancing in jest.

"She is a fine sled dog, Katu, and a finer companion than any woman; she comes from good stock," Bjarni replied, distant clouds of remorse hanging over the statement.

"Yes, I see she has developed the same rich, royal black and white markings of her mother, Desna." Katu flinched, wanting to retrieve his overzealous comment when he realised what he had just said and wondered how the faux pas would affect Bjarni.

"Desna was a one of a kind; Akiak is her mother's daughter," Bjarni sighed emotionlessly, trying to leave the painful memories of Desna in the past. His sigh told Katu the conversation surrounding Desna was closed.

"Well, let me have a look at your trappings. The soft, white fur of Arctic fox is in big demand this year and is bringing good prices on the international markets." Katu hoped his change of subject would make amends for his bungling into perilous territory that had inadvertently brought pain to his good friend.

Bjarni reached into the passenger well of the sled, pulling back the muskox pelt covering his wares and handed Katu a string of white furs, carefully skinned, washed and dried.

Katu's eyes danced at the treasures in front of him and he laughed. "You haven't lost your talent, old friend. The store is yours; help yourself to whatever you need. I will help you load it."

*~*~*~*

Bjarni and Katu reclined around the warmth of Katu's stove in the middle of his kitchen and drank hot tea, an Inuit favourite. Bjarni had loaded the sled with all his incidental needs for the following year, conscious that the dogs had to pull it, and then carefully covered it for the night with the muskox pelt. Inquisitive, hungry bears wouldn't be a problem this time of year. The eight hour quest was becoming more difficult as he aged and he would use whatever strength he could muster to help the dogs over the tougher sections of the route, but he could feel his health and his strength declining and his reliance on Akiak increasing. The prospect of dying alone in the tundra didn't bring him comfort, but the thought of dying in civilisation didn't either.

_One step at a time,_ he would often remind himself.

Katu's cheerful voice broke into his thoughts. "So, what adventures has the depths of Scoresby Land brought to you this past year, Bjarni?"

Bjarni sighed and smiled. "It is getting harder to trap good Arctic fox these days; or maybe I'm just getting older and the foxes are outfoxing me."

Katu's expression took on a concerned air. "It worries me that you are getting older, my friend; being always alone in the wilderness may be not so good for an aging man. I could use some help around here if you would consider a place to live out your remaining years."

Bjarni held Katu's gaze for a long moment, until Katu broke the tension with a loud guffaw. "I can see you would no sooner give up the wilderness than take a wife."

Bjarni joined his good natured laughter before changing the subject. "He's back, Katu," Bjarni's nervous confession was almost a whisper.

The sudden segue stopped Katu in mid-guffaw, wondering whether he understood. "Who's back?"

" _Ataneq Nanuq,"_ Bjarni stared down at the floor as he offered the latest piece of information.

The concern in Katu's voice was immediate. "You have seen this _King Polar Bear_ again? The one that first started your troubles?"

Bjarni lifted his head and faced his friend, his eyes searching Katu's, looking for the mocking ridicule that had so often accompanied his statements of _King Polar Bears_ to other people in times past. He felt relief when all he saw was kindness and concern. "About two hours from my hut, I found a dead male nanuq on the trek. He was huge. He had to be three metres tall and weighing around 700 kilos."

Katu whistled. "That is a big nanuq, Bjarni. I have never seen such a creature."

"He was huge alright, but whatever killed him did it with a singular violent force. The tracks spoke of an unmatched fight; then I found a paw print in a mud puddle next to the dead nanuq. The print was almost fifty millimetres bigger than the dead bear's."

A look of horror crossed Katu's face. "Are you sure? The villagers of Ittoqqortoormiit didn't believe your story all those years ago. It possibly wouldn't be a good thing to try and revive it now."

Katu's response told Bjarni he knew of his history even if he hadn't acknowledged it in the past. A long silence pervaded the kitchen as both men contemplated the meaning of this new information.

Katu broke the silence again, a worried frown on his face. "About three months ago, I had a visit from a man asking questions about the whereabouts of a Dan Gurst."

Bjarni flinched as if he had been stung. He hadn't heard that name for over fifty years. "What did he want and what did you tell him?" Bjarni's troubled face reddened.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 5

"Mr Reece. REECE...?! What did I just say?"

"S..sorry, sir, I..I don't know."

"If you'd concentrate on what is happening in this classroom and engage with your classmates instead of daydreaming, you might not be failing this subject and wasting this school's valuable resources! Get your books and get out of my classroom!"

"I..I will listen, sir. Please, I can't get in trouble again; my father will kill me."

"GET OUT, REECE!"

Jaimon Reece's grey eyes filled with tears as he gathered his books and forced them through the broken zipper of his school carrybag, a hand-me-down from his sister. He pushed the plastic chair back from his desk with the back of his knees, gathered his belongings and stood to leave. He could feel the eyes of everyone in the room staring at him, but he didn't dare look up. His small shoulders slumped forward as he dragged the oversized bag onto his back and headed for the classroom door. The room was deathly silent; tension hung in the air and floated down upon the shocked faces trying to remain small and insignificant lest Simons' ire should find a reason to single them out and cut them down also. No one liked Jaimon, but the remaining thirteen-year-olds could feel his embarrassment, grateful Simons wasn't picking on them.

Simons gazed around at the stress radiating from the young faces and smiled inwardly. Total obedience through sudden and shocking fear – a trusted teaching aid that never failed.

Jaimon found himself banished and standing unprotected in the long empty corridor, his stomach full of butterflies, feeling nauseous. He could still hear Mr Simons' voice bellowing and echoing down the hall as he taught. From end to end it was deserted, while his lone figure was easily discernable in the vast brick and concrete emptiness, making him a target for the authorities to recognise and pick off. He was frightened of being caught out of class and the inevitable questions that would lead to his father finding out he was failing another subject. An image of the angry man crossed his mind and the memory of the thick leather strap stinging his naked hind made him wince. The last encounter had painted heavy welts on his buttock which, in moments, had developed into dark purple bruises that had taken weeks to heal. Sitting painfully and awkwardly in classes, nursing his injuries, only drew ridicule from other students while his small frame and awkward looks made him a game and a prize to the normal kids, and their cruel taunts settled him into a spectator in his own life, always watching alone from the sidelines as other kids interacted into a brotherhood of conformity.

Being different and standing out came at a horrible price.

He swallowed, dried the moisture from his eyes with his hand and tried to put the encounter out of his mind, then checked his watch. He only needed to avoid being detected for another fifteen minutes and then he could assimilate with the rest of the school population as change-of-period sounded. The halls would crowd with students as a new class started and in the mass of moving humanity, he could easily hide and descend into blissful anonymity.

A sudden protective plan formed in his thoughts: he would make his way to the library and take refuge in one of the private study stalls at the back, but he needed to pass the science room first where the principal was currently teaching. Ducking close to the ground as he approached the principal's class, he could hear his voice, low and threatening. It was no wonder none of the kids liked fronting him for bad behaviour. Red brick made up part of the classroom walls to a height of one metre and then large, glass windows stood on top of that, filling the gap to the ceiling and giving a clear view of the corridor from within the classroom, at a glance.

Jaimon kept a wary watch on the principal from a distance, safely out of sight and waited for him to turn and write on the board. His heart pounded as he measured each movement, then the opportunity came. The principal turned his back to the class and focused on the board, his voice excitedly droning on, animated by his subject. Jaimon took off running on the balls of his feet, making as little noise as possible and shot past, fully expecting to hear a baritone voice calling after him. But it never came and he made it safely to the entry of the library without being noticed.

He threw his heavy bag into a space on the bag racks outside the library and rushed in, causing the librarian to look up from her desk. Staring at the floor and pretending not to notice her, he walked determinedly to the back of the library, grabbing a book from a shelf as he passed and sat down in a vacant booth. Sweat was beading on his forehead and he was breathing heavily, but at least he was safe, for now.

Jaimon Reece laid his head down on the desk of the booth and contemplated his desperate situation. The high sides of his sanctuary formed a private barrier from the desks of the neighbouring students, adjoining his. Each private closet was in a group of four, conjoined in a square and each using the neighbouring sides to make another private cubicle. He hadn't noticed the cover of the book he had randomly snatched up, lying to one side of his shelter, until a face peered around the wall of the neighbouring cubicle.

Nick Rositer was the school tough guy, dressed completely in black. His oily, long stringy hair, yellow teeth and body odour gave him an added dimension of attractiveness, painting him a darker shade of evil. Rositer was two years older than Jaimon, but only a year ahead in classes. He had failed a year, but he didn't care; he had a reputation to keep as leader of the brotherhood of the mentally challenged, keeping the special education staff at their wits end. He was also well known to the police and the principal for his delinquent and nefarious activities.

When Rositer spoke, Jaimon jumped, startled by the voice interrupting his worrying. "Hey, freak, gimme a cigarette."

Jaimon lifted his head swiftly, cracking the bones in his neck. He hadn't spoken to Rositer before, but everyone knew who he was. "I don't smoke," Jaimon replied nervously, the fear again rising in his chest.

Rositer's face set threatening and angry, then broke into a loud guffaw, attracting attention from all over the quiet library. He pointed to the book and laughed again, drawing interest from his adoring followers. Jaimon peered down with horror at the joke, the book cover mocking him. _Applying makeup through the ages,_ stared back at him.

Jaimon stuttered, trying to defend his choice when the change-of-class siren reverberated through the building. He jumped up fast to exit the confrontation and in his haste, the chair went flying backward and sprawled over the carpeted floor. Rositer grasped at air as his lanky frame made a threatening swipe for Jaimon, but he slipped out of his reach. As Jaimon broke from the library, the doors bashed heavily against the red brick walls, sending brick dust cascading to the ground. He could still hear Rositer's laughter, interspersed with an angry librarian, chastising him and threatening him with the principal. Undoubtedly the librarian would recognise him in future and call him to account, not to mention Rositer.

Rositer wouldn't let this opportunity pass without capitalizing or maximizing the ridicule factor to his own benefit.

*~*~*~*

Jaimon's heavy bag made a _thump_ on the kitchen floor as he entered the family home, finally signalling the end of another tormenting day. The challenges at home were different than school. At school there were places to hide, but at home he could be found and trapped easily, with horrific consequences.

"Jaimon, is that you?" a voice called from somewhere within the house. "Don't walk in the kitchen; I have spent all day polishing the floors."

Jaimon could feel a situation brewing as he quietly retrieved his bag.

From behind him, another female voice called, "Too late, Mum; the runt has already sullied your hard work."

"YOU BETTER NOT HAVE, JAIMON!" the angry voice echoed from up near the bedrooms, accompanied by heavy, determined footsteps pounding down the wooden corridor to the kitchen. Jaimon's mother surveyed her work and the footprints that so obviously tracked into it. "GET OUT OF IT, YOU USELESS KID! GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!"

Jaimon faced his older sister, tears welling up in his eyes. "Thanks a lot, blob!" he retorted.

"DON'T YOU CALL ME BLOB, YOU LITTLE RUNT!" she spat back at him.

"SHUT UP, THE TWO OF YOU AND GET OUT OF MY SIGHT! YOUR FATHER CAN SORT YOU PAIR OUT!"

Jaimon rushed for his room and closed the door. He heard the door next to his room slam and the wall shook, as it so regularly did when his sister was performing a tantrum. He knew the day's dramas hadn't ended yet. His father was like a bear with a sore head when he first came home from work, taking very little provocation to light his miniscule fuse and violently striking out at the slightest misdemeanour.

Jaimon flopped on his bed, the sagging mattress covered by numerous layers of blankets, and stared at the ceiling. The blankets were his night time coping mechanism in a world filled with terror and fear. Even if he awoke drenched in sweat, the heavy weight of the blankets brought him comfort, as if a protective hand was pressing against his body and placing a barrier between him and the unseen threats of the night. Summer or winter, without the protection of the weight of the blankets pressing down on him, Jaimon lay awake, frightened beyond sleep and cowering in the darkness. His mother would castigate him, strip the blankets off his bed and place them back in the hallway linen cupboard ready for winter. The very next morning, the blankets would be back on Jaimon's bed and she would repeat the process. Finally, she would tire of the game her quirky son seemed to be playing with her and leave them on his bed.

"He can fry under the weight of them, see if I care," she whispered to herself, annoyed.

The bedroom window and blind was another protective mechanism and a contentious issue to his mother as well. She'd open the window during the day and raise the blind, but as soon as Jaimon came home he would close it and lock it against the night, pulling the blind completely closed. Impassioned by his foolishness, his mother would order Jaimon to sleep with his window open and the blind up, but each morning she would always find them closed and locked when she came to tidy his room.

Jaimon's head and shoulders ached; he tried to relax and get some rest before facing his authoritarian father who would be home in a little over an hour. He reached for the blind cord and then hesitated. He called for Caesar, but the ginger cat didn't come.

_That's funny,_ he thought. Caesar usually came to the window when he came home, wanting to be let inside. The cat was his only friend and usually slept with him; his soft fur helped to keep the intense fear and dread of the night away. The need to recharge before facing his father overcame his concern; meal times were intense with stress and he pulled the blind shut and darkened his room.

He would search for Caesar later.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 6

A loud thumping noise broke into his subconscious and dragged his aching mind back into the present. Jaimon glanced around sleepily at the darkness and for a moment, wondered where he was.

"Dad's home and tea's on the table, runt. I'd get a move on if I were you."

Jaimon recognised the annoying, squeaky voice of his sister coming from the opposite side of his closed bedroom door. She seemingly had forgotten her sulk, something that coincided with the arrival of the authority figure back into their lives at the end of each day. Panic rose and he wondered what sort of a mood his father would be in. His mother's threat was still fresh in his mind and he was certain she would carry it out. Used to the tacit warnings and then the swift and brutal retribution which followed for any unintended misdemeanour, however petty, he hurriedly prepared himself for the evening's encounter. If his father was disturbed before completing his evening meal and had to discipline anyone, the consequences far outweighed any perceived misbehaviour. Jaimon's father required absolute and immediate, submissive obedience. Even making eye contact was perceived as a threat to his authority.

Jaimon's mother was the only one who could jolly along the despot and live to tell the story. Children were considered an inconvenience and a consequence that came from preferred selfish, unguarded night time activities. The momentary gratification held a heavy price for everyone: five children, all unwanted.

Jaimon and his sister were the only offspring left at home. The rest had moved out at the first opportunity, with the not-so-subtle urging of their parents. The favourite girl, Claudine, who was the second of the three girls, looked so much like her mother and could get away with most things until the patriarch tired of her presence and erupted, sending her scurrying for the safety of her own apartment many suburbs away.

Jaimon's looks were so unlike his father's and held an uncanny resemblance to his gawky Uncle Tom, his father's brother. He was sure there was a skeleton in the family closet and that was the reason Jaimon seemed to be singled out for more than his fair share of his father's explosive violence. When curiosity had raised its head and he'd attempted to question his mother on his suspicions, perceived family pride closed ranks and silence fell with finality, like the lid on a coffin. What skeletons were there learned to rattle their bones in anonymity, gagged in the protection of family taboos.

To make things worse, Jaimon's father was a low-paid salaried worker and he resented having to work so hard to support the family he never wanted, always seemingly spending his meagre resources on his progeny. Retirement was his goal and to achieve it, the drain on his resources had to stop. Something–or someone–had to go, and soon. His future plans only included two people.

Jaimon hurried out to the dining room to find his father seated at the head of the table, already eating, peering sideways through a door into the lounge room where, twenty metres away, the television was carrying on a one-sided conversation, loudly exacting all the latest news. Momentarily, he would turn his head to face his plate and load another mouthful, aiming it at his mouth, and return his undivided attention to the television set, never once acknowledging the other people gathered and noiselessly eating around the table.

Seated next to his father, Jaimon's mother glanced up and watched her son take his place at the table, her eyes warning him not to make a sound and disturb his explosive father.

Jaimon eyed his meal. His mother was an average cook and most of her food was bland, requiring large amounts of salt to make it edible. He searched for the condiments and found them sitting at the far end of the table, guarded by the angry man. He mouthed to his mother to pass the salt. She may have been acting dumb or maybe she just didn't understand his unspoken request. Cautiously, he peered at the despot sitting at the head of the table, his eyes flashing in fear, never taking his gaze off the authoritarian. He swallowed hard and then whispered with all the courage he could muster, "Pass the salt, please."

"SHUDDUP!" the figure erupted, fuming from the opposite end of the table, spewing threats peppered with profanity.

The three people jumped in shock at the tirade, lowered their heads back to their meals and continued eating in acquiescent stillness. The television remained the only conversation entering the room, and perfect submission to the will of the man was restored.

Jaimon nervously watched his father push his chair out from the table and venture through the lounge room door, find his favourite chair and recline in front of the television.

His mother had reneged on her threat, for now, aware that she still had a tool to guarantee absolute obedience. She eyed the two children and with a gesture of her head whispered, "Dishes."

Jaimon knew the night time routine well. His mother would take her knitting into the lounge room and sit in a chair close to her husband. Jaimon's father would soon fall asleep in front of the television, until the lounge room erupted with subconscious and colourful profanities emanating from his sleeping parent. Apparently, Jaimon's dad was wrestling with his daytime foes in his sleep, until his mother gently prodded his father out of his nightmares.

Jaimon watched his mother pick up her knitting and turn for the lounge room. Carrying a pile of dirty plates over to the kitchen sink, he whispered to her as she walked by, "Mum, I can't find Caesar. Have you seen him?"

He watched a flash of red beam across her face and then he caught an unspoken warning glance stab at his sister from his mother's eyes. "No, I haven't. You shouldn't have that cat inside the house; you know how your father hates it." She spun on her heels and headed for the lounge room, ending the conversation with finality.

Jaimon recognised the taboo seal placed upon his sister from their parent, the all too familiar unwritten law that states, _what happens in this house – stays in this house._

The clanking of dishes was the only noise radiating from the kitchen. Jaimon was deep in thought until he rejected an unclean dish. "That's not clean, blob!" he castigated her in a squeaky whisper.

"Where...? It is so, you little runt, and don't call me blob!"

"Stop fighting, you two!" a hissed warning came from the lounge room.

Jaimon's sister's lip curled in an ugly pose and her nose wrinkled in defiance as a spiteful whisper spewed from the depths of her disdain. "I know what happened to your cat," she muttered hoarsely.

Jaimon's shocked gaze held hers, as if she had swiped at him with her open hand. His stomach tightened and he prepared himself for the worst.

"Last night about midnight, I heard a commotion outside my window. I pulled the corner of the blind open and I could see _her_ holding the cat in one hand and a torch in the other, while he held open a hessian bag. Once the cat was inside, they tied it closed with a wire twine and about ten minutes later, I heard the car drive away."

"You're lying!" Jaimon hissed, tears welling up in his eyes.

"Oh... am I now?! I heard the car come back about an hour later and they snuck in and closed their bedroom door, like they do when they..."

"Stop it... yuk! Please, blob, tell me they didn't hurt Caesar?" Jaimon cried.

"If you wake your father with your fights, there will be grief!" a female voice threatened again from the lounge room.

"Just wait and see. I bet the cat doesn't ever come back," Jaimon's sister hissed contentedly. "There, that will teach you for calling me blob," she spat vindictively.

Jaimon's tears clouded his vision and he felt alone. Caesar was his only friend, and now because of that friendship, he unwittingly had sacrificed his life. He felt like running for the shelter of his room to hide, but knew if he did, there would be consequences. If the man was woken from his sleep, the altercation that would follow just wasn't worth the bruises. Silently and unashamedly, Jaimon's tears fell to the kitchen floor as he replayed his sister's conversation over and over. The dishes clanked together as they were washed and dried until finally, the ordeal ended and Jaimon ran for his room and closed the door. He made a dive for his sagging mattress and the dam of emotions burst.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 7

The weight of the blankets pressed down heavily onto Jaimon's body, covering his mouth and allowing only his nose and eyes to be vulnerable to any would-be intruder. The room was dark and silent, and his body temperature rose to the point where he was sweating heavily under the mass of protection lying on top of his fragile frame. A battle for sanity raged in the narrow alleys of his reason, colliding heavily with the distorted highway of imagination.

Occasionally, a tormented groan from the cooling house settled in the darkness, crying out from a nearby exposed room, prompting Jaimon's imagination to run rampant and freeze him motionless in petrified terror. He held his breath, listening for any changes in his bizarre night time theatre, waiting, his heart hammering and expecting the tentacles of some unknown fiend to slowly work its way into his room, wrap around him and frighten him senseless. He strained his eyes, searching for the outline of his bedroom door, watching and listening intently for any telltale signs of the door slowly opening and igniting his mind into a desperate realm of unguarded imagination, acutely aware he was deserted; alone and solely responsible to fend for his own survival. His eyes felt tired and his head ached from the hours keeping terrified vigil. His only form of night time comfort and companionship had been so heartlessly ripped from his life, leaving him alone with a new and unwanted companion.

Fear.

The long desperate night ticked by slowly, each second determined that Jaimon was going to notice its passing as it spent its brief energy, adding to the countless number of its comrades that had given up their lives unnoticed to form the eons of time. Jaimon breathed slowly, not wanting his breaths to mask any sound that could be a grave threat. He guessed it was early morning and his body desperately needed to sleep, but the watchman in his mind couldn't relax and his senses were on high alert without the presence of his calming and charismatic ginger cat. A pain contorted the insides of his stomach and his mind drifted back to the description his sister had so casually entertained. She had described the callous demise of his only friend and the only one he truly loved as if she was describing a chapter in a cookbook, distant and removed from any acknowledgement of Jaimon's trauma and delighted with the crushing details of her story.

A noise, coming from the other side of the thin glass window obscured by the drawn blind, froze him in terror. He held his breath, listening, trying to identify the sound. Beads of sweat ran from his body and soaked his mattress as fear whispered in his ears again. An unidentified _something_ was on the other side of the blind, wanting to do him harm. He argued with himself: should he lift the corner of the blind and confront the threat lurking in the shadows or should he just lay there, ambiguous and protected by the blankets?

The sound of a steel outdoor chair toppling over and slamming heavily into the concrete pavement outside his window and then the heavy thudding of running feet, made him flinch and freeze in fear. His heart raced and his breathing stopped. Jaimon's terror rose rapidly off the scale and he thought he was going to pass out. He pulled the blankets over his head and shook violently until his own body heat and expelled breaths left him gasping for fresh air. He had to allow his nose access to the breathable air outside his blankets and refill his tortured lungs before he succumbed, risking whatever was out there. He felt the need to scream and raise the alarm, surrounding himself in the presence and comfort of rational human beings assuring him he was safe, but waking the man would only bring ridicule and violent repercussions.

He needed Caesar, but there weren't any signs of his friend.

*~*~*~*

A sudden hollow pounding noise alarmed Jaimon. He glanced around the darkened room, disorientated and then the door burst open. With the open door, light flooded into his room and the disapproving glare of his mother peered across at him.

"Get out of bed, Jaimon! What do you think this is?! You have school today and I have got to go out!"

His mother reached across his bed and rolled the blind up to its stops near the ceiling, unlocked the window and pushed it open, allowing warm outside air to enter his stuffy room. Jaimon peered out into the small suburban backyard vista, trying to validate the fears of the previous night with the calm, unobtrusive, sunlit scene now before his eyes. The terrors of the night had disappeared and along with them his companion, fear, had also departed.

"Did you hear any strange noises last night, Mother?" Jaimon casually asked.

She stopped in midstride, heading for the door. "Don't be ridiculous, Jaimon. That imagination of yours is probably working overtime under the duress of all these _blankets_ you insist on having on your bed."

Jaimon's mother ranted on, but he tuned out her whining voice and stared into the backyard again. His ears picked up on one word of her rant and his fear began to rise again... _Friday!_

Today, at school, was physical education for the first two periods of the day. He wasn't good at sport and his small size and awkward physique caused the other kids to bully him mercilessly. The worst torment was saved for last. Jaimon's pre-adolescent body didn't resemble anything like a developed teenager's, but the staff required all students to strip naked and shower in the open showers before their peers. Jaimon came under strong ridicule from the other kids and last time they hid his clothes, causing him agonising moments of grief as the shower room emptied and staff wandered in to herd the stragglers into their next classes. He also knew that Rositer was looking for him to settle the score for escaping his grasp in the library yesterday, a felony that would bring swift retribution.

"Mum, I don't feel too well. Can I stay home today?" Jaimon moaned.

"I don't have time to deal with your nonsense today, Jaimon. I have an important bridge game against Jocelyn Mercer's team. I owe her and she is going to get it, too! I am leaving in fifteen minutes so you will have to get yourself off to school." She threw her comments over her shoulder as she departed his room and prepared to leave for the day.

Jaimon considered staying home anyway, but then reconsidered. His mother would be livid if she found out he'd disobeyed a direct order and then his father would be pulled into the situation and things would get even uglier. He tussled with the predicament and wondered which would be the lesser of the two trials: facing the ridicule and persecution waiting for him at school, or face a violent beating at the hands of his animated father. He raised himself from his bed, tired and sweaty from the haunting night, and peered out of his window to where the steel outdoor chairs were arranged on the patio.

He froze, staring intently at a chair lying on its side against the concrete patio floor only a few metres from his window.

*~*~*~*

The journey to school was a brisk, thirty minute walk. It usually took Jaimon forty minutes but that was because he dawdled, hoping somehow the school would have disappeared. He walked through the ordered streets of the suburb, then into a dense area of bushland before coming out onto a sandy hill that led onto the outer boundary of the extensive school property. Jaimon struggled under the size of his heavy, ever-present school bag loaded with books that were required for his classes. The bag weighted him down and gave him the appearance of a tiny hunchback of Notre Dame. The only comfortable place to carry the bag was slung over his shoulders, but this obliterated his peripheral view of the surroundings. The walk was an even greater effort today, more so than usual. He was still tired from the night standing guard; and the sound of the chair striking the concrete outside his bedroom window puzzled and frightened him. He started to trek through the sandy hill leading down into the school grounds, his shoes sinking in the hungry-grey-lifeless sand, consuming more of his energy.

From out of nowhere, he was surrounded by a group of students he didn't recognise. "Hey, freak, Rositer is looking for you and when he finds you... I wouldn't want to be you, freak!" the group taunted, following him as their campaign intensified.

Jaimon stared at the ground, willing them to leave. He hitched his bag higher up over his shoulders and tried to outrun them, but the bag inhibited his escape and they continued taunting him until he reached the school buildings, breathless and exhausted from the chase. They soon melted into the gathering masses of disinterested and faceless humanity, sure that Jaimon would seek out the authority figures that sometimes lurked unseen among the pupils before classes.

Jaimon's heart was still pounding when the siren sounded, summoning all students into their tutorial classes to have their names marked off a roll and then onto the first period of regimented and institutionalised learning.

*~*~*~*

Jaimon's awkward walk drew ridicule and laughter from passersby. He had his bag over his shoulder as usual and joined the throng of ecstatic students leaving at the end of the day. His head down in embarrassment, he limped painfully to the outside boundary of the school ground and into the grey sand of the hill leading to home. An opportune towel, wrapped into a whip and handled by an expert larger student skilled in towel snaps, had struck at his naked behind in the shower room after physical education. When the whip had struck, the intense pain had stolen the breath from his lungs and immediately left a large, dark black welt across most of his backside. The change room had erupted into laughter and the towel snapper was treated like a hero. Through the tears and as he tried to hide his injury, he watched the amused face of a P.E. teacher turn and walk away... pretending nothing of consequence had just taken place.

The day had burgeoned into an agonizing trial after the event, and concentrating in classes from the pain was almost impossible. He had found the ire of his teachers at his constant fidgeting to get comfortable, disrupting the class and bringing sniggers from other students who knew the reason for his discomfort. The incident had circulated among the student body like a wildfire and drew rapturous hilarity wherever the news was received.

As Jaimon forced himself onward up the sandy hill, a large crowd of students gathered near the top. He stopped momentarily and peered up at the barricade inhibiting his route home, then he saw a tall, lanky figure dressed completely in black coming down to meet him.

A wicked smile stretched across his pimply features. "I told you, freak, I would catch up with you."

Jaimon froze on the spot and watched the crowd becoming increasingly animated, insistent on blood as they chanted, "Fight...fight...fight!" egging Rositer on and demanding Jaimon's defeat.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 8

Jaimon limped up the driveway, dragging his school bag by a broken handle. He was even too numb to cry. His face and hair wore the shadows of grey, stained by the hungry sand of the hill backing onto the school property; he continually pulled the remains of his torn shirt across his tiny naked chest, hoping to conceal his embarrassment behind the threads of his tattered clothing. Silicone grains crunched under his molars and filled his ears and eyes, a direct result of Rositer burying Jaimon's face deep in the hot sand. The altercation was as unevenly matched as a train and a car, head on and at full speed. The crowd of bystanders cheered loudly as Rositer demolished what was left of Jaimon's dignity and shredded his personal property. Other students taking the same route took a big arc around the scene, appalled at the violence but not wanting to get involved.

They didn't want to be Rositer's next victims.

Rositer's bullying ceased as Jaimon conceded defeat, repeating the demeaning words he was forced to loudly recite. As the crowd hissed with laughter and then dispersed, he gathered the remnants of his property and shook out as much of the sand as possible.

Taking stock of his personal attire, Jaimon knew his plight wasn't over yet. He hoped his mother wasn't home to see the ruins of his school uniform, the bruises on his face and the damage to his school bag. He had been warned over and over of the value and the consequences for damaging the school garb entrusted to him, and to respect the great sacrifices on the part of his father in providing for the family. He usually wore his uniform for three consecutive days and changed into his spare for the remaining two days of the school week while the washing was done. Now his spare uniform was nothing but rags. He knew all too well what was coming, but if he could conceal the damaged schoolwear for a couple of days, that would give his backside a chance to heal before sustaining another blackening beating at the hands of his enraged father.

He opened the flywire screen and nervously reached for the handle of the front door to the house. It didn't move under his attempts and was still locked, exactly the way he had left it earlier on that same morning. He sighed heavily, an anxious breath escaping his mouth as for the first time today, something seemed to be going his way.

A cheap, black aluminium pot stood on the front porch. A cactus planted into the pot threatened passersby with its gnarly long thorns, a reflection of the welcome offered by the family to unwitting visitors. Jaimon carefully tilted the pot with one hand and reached under to retrieve a hidden key, then fitted the key into the lock. The latch gave way under his guidance and he entered the deserted house. Just to be sure, he called out, "Hello?!" but the stony silence answered his unspoken question.

Moving quickly, he headed for the shower and to clean up the remnants of his nightmare. He checked himself in the mirror, trying to disguise any hint of the day's crisis. He had just finished checking the angry bruise on his backside and the deepening contusion around his eye, delicately dressing them with antiseptic and then carefully pulled on his casual clothes, just in time to hear the sound of his mother opening the front door.

She was in high spirits and called out, "Jaimon, are you home?!"

His voice cracked but he quickly regained his composure, hoping not to give away any unwanted hint of the day's drama. As he stealthily made his way into his bedroom and trying not to betray himself further, he called back over his shoulder, "Yeah, Mum, I'm home!" He quickly checked the image in the mirror again of the darkening ring around his eye before she fronted him.

Like a pirouetting rhinoceros, his mother waltzed happily into his room. "I won! I beat that busybody at her own game," she bragged animatedly. "The girls are taking me out to celebrate tomorrow, Jaimon, so I need to get the washing done tonight. Get your uniform out in the wash now," then she danced out toward the laundry.

Jaimon's horror rose as he tried to think how to sidetrack his mother away from the washing, but somehow he knew his future had just got a little darker. Jaimon painfully limped down the hallway toward the laundry, carrying the remains of his uniform and feeling an aggravated, nervous foreboding. The butterflies collided with his stomach walls and caused the nausea to rise into his throat.

His mother had her back to him, busily sorting whites from colours. "Just put it down on the floor," she instructed, humming to herself.

Jaimon threw the torn garments to the floor at her feet and waited for her response.

The humming abruptly stopped as the evidence came into focus and her voice changed just as abruptly to an annoyed monotone. "Your father is not going to be happy with you," her flat voice threatened and reverberated in the small room, like a weatherman predicting the landfall path of a violent storm.

Jaimon swallowed hard at her announcement. The fear was so intense, his tears stayed hidden in safety behind his eyes. Somehow, he knew trying to explain the circumstances was a waste of time and effort. He fell into a defeated silent stance, his head slumped forward and his heart pounding in fear, like a prisoner on death row waiting for the executioner.

There was nowhere to hide and his fate was sealed.

*~*~*~*

Jaimon lay stiffly on his bed, a pillow supporting his back, trying to raise his painful buttocks off the sagging mattress and cooling the stinging still rippling through his tender injury. He listened to his mother frantically banging around in the kitchen just down the hall from his room. He could hear her muffled voice through the closed bedroom door as she barked crisp orders at his sister to get her chores done before the man came home. Jaimon's mother was running late with the dinner and his father would be incensed at the delay. He watched the red digital numbers of the bedside clock changing, counting down the moments until the expected confrontation, while his heartbeat pounded in his chest and amplified like a drum in the quiet. His gaze intensified on the tiny numbers indicating close to the hour and then he swallowed heavily, anticipating the horrors of what was soon to come.

The sound of frantic activity in the kitchen suddenly stopped. Small feet hurriedly thudded up the passageway past his bedroom and the door to his sister's room banged shut, rattling through the wall into Jaimon's room. He strained his ears to hear the man's voice and then with great trepidation, the muffled sound of his executioner and his mother talking together drifted into his room. Something slamming into the wall echoed throughout the house and then his mother's voice rose as if she was calling after someone.

"I did tell him!"

Jaimon raised himself unsteadily from his bed to a standing position, listening to the sound of heavy footsteps pounding down the passageway and coming ever closer. He steeled himself as the footsteps stopped outside his room and then his door cannoned open and he came face to face with the angry, dark faced man. In his hands, a thick, black leather belt hung, menacing and looking to avenge its presence on someone. Jaimon's knees buckled at the sight of the hulking man standing over him, holding the large leather strap. Fear rose to boiling point as the hard face and black unmoving eyes bored into him. A sudden gush of warm water ran down the inside of Jaimon's legs and trickled onto the floor, leaving a wet stain on the front of his pants and a puddle at his feet.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 9

Bjarni's sleep deprived eyes felt like they had been clawed from under his lids and his head ached in sympathy with the early hour. The sun hadn't long ago left the late summer sky, making it difficult to judge the effects of fatigue and keep his body clock in rhythm. He was out of his routine; his old body knew it and was complaining bitterly. Katu had only just gone to bed, leaving him alone with his thoughts. They had talked for hours, but Katu's sudden reference to Dan Gurst earlier in the evening hadn't left his mind, unsettling him and provoking a panicked impulse to run. Katu, the only human being he trusted, would not have deliberately set a snare for him to fall into. Bjarni was certain of that, so he forced himself to focus, calm the rising trepidation and stay where he was.

Outside Katu's small living space, the dogs had been unsettled and whimpering all through the twilight night. Akiak's pained whining-bark alerted Bjarni to her discomfort, as if she sensed his fear and wanted to protect him. He checked his watch: it was 4am. No matter how he tried, he just couldn't settle to sleep. Dan Gurst and the horrors associated with that name kept echoing around the long, silent corridors of his fading memory and caused the walls of his imagination to close in on him. Bjarni breathed in heavily, trying to stem the tide of rising panic.

Wide awake in the growing sunlight and tired of staring at the ceiling, he finally tried to rise from his mattress laid upon the floor for him by Katu and sit upright. He glanced around at the unfamiliar surrounds from his position and came to a sudden decision. There was no need to stay any longer: the sled was packed; the dogs were rested, fed and eager to run; and Katu was caught up on the events of the year just past. He reached for the table leg, well within his grasp and began to pull himself up into a standing position.

A burning pain, intense like molten steel hit him in the chest and he gasped as a river of molten lava ran down his left arm, his jaw feeling like it was about to erupt. He fell heavily back down onto the mattress and curled up into a foetal position, breathless and willing the suffering to leave.

In the presence of intense agony, he could still hear Akiak's panicked yelps, the chain holding her tethered to her kennel whipping against the structure as she tried to break free of her bonds and find her troubled master. Akiak's commotion upset the other dogs and they began to bark loudly too, waking Katu. Recognising Akiak's yelping bark and not wanting to discipline Bjarni's dogs, he rose from his bed and entered the dining room to find the cause of the disturbance.

Katu's eyes fell upon Bjarni, curled up on his mattress and gasping for air. "Bjarni...! What is it, old friend?" Katu stooped to comfort the old man, his face reflecting the concern he felt within.

Bjarni's breaths were sharp and shallow and he tried to speak, holding his hands across his chest. Recognising the symptoms of a heart attack, Katu raced for the emergency kit and grabbed for a packet of aspirin. Taking one tablet, he ran back to Bjarni and placed the tablet under his tongue.

Within moments, the trial began to subside and Bjarni settled, exhausted and relieved, back onto the mattress.

*~*~*~*

Katu stood silently, watching Bjarni from the outpost steps, his eyes speaking volumes but he didn't dare betray his thoughts with words. Bjarni's slow but determined amble was pitiful to watch, almost dragging his tired frame to release the dogs from their kennels and hitch them to the sled. This was the action of a desperate man, trapped momentarily between two worlds and pining to be free: the world of the wilderness, lonely, empty, treacherous and vast; and then the world of civilisation, equally as lonely but desperately confining and every bit as treacherous. Bjarni belonged to neither world, walking a narrow line between both and always looking over his shoulder, watching for the fateful collision that maybe some day would come.

Katu's concern for his friend was overwhelming, but any attempt at stopping Bjarni from leaving would only complicate the situation and bring more stress to the old man. He was a loner and being alone was the lesser of the two evils. The demons in his past kept chasing Bjarni, never allowing him to rest, but people with good intentions just made it worse. Katu struggled not to show his concern; he figured silence was the best weapon and if Bjarni was to change his mind and stay, it would have to be his decision alone; but Katu knew it would never be.

*~*~*~*

The wooden steps, leading to where Katu stood, thudded under Bjarni's boots. He took Katu in a hug, knowing full well this might be the last time he ever saw him. Katu returned the hug and peered into the hunted, hollow eyes of his friend but there were no words exchanged. They both knew this was a crossroad and Bjarni had made his choice.

As Bjarni turned away and climbed aboard his sled, he bellowed a crisp command and the dogs pulled hard on the straps, struggling to get the heavy load moving. Soon the team had overcome the struggle, the skids cutting wide trenches in the tundra soil and making scraping noises as it gained speed. The dogs barked encouragement to one another and opened the distance between Katu and Bjarni.

Bjarni glanced behind at the lone figure growing smaller as the distance increased. A feeling of regret and relief battled for prominence in Bjarni's emotions as he watched Katu disappear from sight. The journey home would be long and tiring and after the frightening episode this morning, he would have to rely heavily on Akiak to get him there. He settled uncomfortably on top of the load and pulled the muskox pelt over as much of his body as possible, wondering how long his heart would last and what his future held. The jarring of the sled only added to his discomfort but the wilderness was beckoning and he had to answer the call. Dan Gurst was one of his demons and too much of a threat to remain close to civilisation. The depths of the Scoresby Land wilderness was big enough to lose any nightmares and out there, Dan Gurst was just another name.

*~*~*~*

Bjarni's face was covered in sweat even though the outside temperature had fallen considerably in the last hour. The constant jarring of the wooden sled was causing great pain, and tears of frustration were forming in the corners of his eyes. Bjarni recognised, with relief, the curve in the shoreline of Scoresby Sund in the distance. It did a sudden and sharp turn heading almost due east, identifying the border between Scoresby Land and Jameson Land. Sydkap, his home, was now only a matter of thirty minutes away after eight hours of hanging onto the sled. Akiak had been true to her royal breeding, shouldering the responsibility for getting them home and encouraging the other dogs to pull with her and follow her lead, even though she was exhausted.

A sudden, worrying development to the northwest caused Bjarni to stare at the horizon. Thick storm clouds hung like a sentinel, low over the mountains, blocking the path to their final destination and moving at great speed over the landscape. Late summer whiteouts weren't uncommon in the Arctic, completely burying the landscape in metres of fresh snow and turning the familiar into the unfamiliar. People have been known to get lost, confused in the absence of landmarks and perish, frozen to death in the adverse conditions, only hundreds of metres from safety.

Akiak had seen the trouble too. The storm was moving fast and the mountains were becoming unrecognisable under the heavy mantle of cloud descending precariously onto them. She led the sled on a sharp right hand turn, barking furiously as she beckoned the team to follow. The wooden skids groaned at the sudden change in direction, throwing Bjarni perilously to one side. He hung on tightly, wondering what on earth she was doing and was just about to pull her up when he saw a rock outcrop, standing like a protective hand against the approaching storm. The sled came to a stop in the lee of the rocky outcrop just as the temperature plummeted dramatically and the fury of the storm hit, completely engulfing the surrounds in an unrecognisable white maelstrom.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 10

Bjarni's teeth chattered, even under the warmth of the thick muskox pelt that covered him. He lay motionless atop the sled while his supplies dug uncomfortably into his back and his breathing was laboured and deliberate. After many uncomfortable hours sheltered under the fur covering and listening to the intense screaming of the wind, a sense of relief flooded his stiff and cold frame as the wind finally subsided and died away, leaving his ears straining at the deathly silence of the open tundra.

He slowly lifted the covering from his face and could see a thin, fresh blanket of snow lying across the barren landscape in all directions. In places, where isolated rocky monoliths had broken the wind, the barren tundra soil remained unaffected by the snowy blanket and the Salix glauca defiantly displayed its red colour, still loudly proclaiming summer's rightful presence. In the shelter of the crag that Akiak had found just before the storm hit, the ground was a mixture of Salix glauca and interspersed with long streaks of wind-driven snow, indicating the ferocity of the storm and the protection that the crag had offered.

Bjarni called Akiak from her position curled up on the ground. She, along with the other dogs, had positioned the thick fur coat covering their backs against the wind, protecting them from losing precious body heat. She jumped at his command and stretched her harness against the restraint of the other dogs, eager to draw alongside the old man. The other dogs were forced to leave their sheltered positions curled on the ground when Akiak, desperate to reach Bjarni, pulled mercilessly against their tangled tethers.

Bjarni reached over the sled and rubbed her muzzle. "Thank you again, my wise and faithful little friend."

The final thirty minutes of the journey back to the hut appeared to be easier. The sky was harrowing and lonely; high wispy clouds hung in the disturbed blue grey, giving the impression it was cowering after witnessing some catastrophic and horrifying event. The fresh snow seemed to lubricate the skids of the sled, taking up the shock between Bjarni and the tundra soil. The dogs barked excitedly; their load, too, had been eased with the new snow and their pace increased considerably.

As the hoary wooden hut finally meandered into his line of sight, a disturbing, unfamiliar imprint on the familiar landscape alerted Bjarni and he called the dogs to a halt, hushing their animated barking. A hunter's intuition bristled in his nerves, agitated by adrenaline and drawing his senses on to high alert. The sled glided to a stop one hundred metres short of the hut door. Bjarni reached for the cold steel of his rifle and withdrew it from under the pelt, his eyes fixed on the landscape as his hand searched for the barrel. He pumped a cartridge into the breech and unsteadily climbed down from the sled. Swaying momentarily on his feet, his nervous gaze dropped to Akiak at the head of the sled, watching her tasting the air. She had picked up on something too, but it didn't seem to be concerning her too greatly. He moved cautiously, peering around at the landscape and sweeping the barrel of his rifle, keeping in time with his gaze and identifying every part of his world as if he were completing a checklist.

After the storm, snow had settled precariously on the tightly raked roof and dropped into piles on the ground directly under the roofline. His eyes settled on sled tracks, carelessly left by some intruder, almost a calling card inscribed in the new powder. Faltering footprints led up to the hut door and then tracked in all directions around the hut, even over to the nearby waters of the Sund as if they were looking for something–or someone.

Bjarni stooped to examine a smudged footprint. They were small, like that of a child or a woman and there was only one person. Maybe someone else had been watching, concealed on the sled, hoping not to leave additional footprints to alert Bjarni's suspicious mind. The tracks showed only a small team of dogs and the sled appeared to be light. Maybe it was a coincidence; maybe they had sought shelter from the storm or maybe it was deliberate and they were looking for him.

Almost to the door of the hut, Bjarni's concern piqued when he noticed little drops of crimson red mingled with the snow. Cautiously, he turned out of habit and glanced back to examine Akiak's behaviour. She stood quietly, unperturbed at Bjarni's actions, giving him confidence to enter his hut. He pushed the door open with the barrel of his gun, not knowing what to expect and guardedly stepped inside.

Glancing around, everything appeared to be as he had left it two and half days ago; whoever it was had departed without disturbing his environment and left a small trail of blood drops. He followed the little droplets outside again and it led him to the waters of the Sund where they had tried to wash. Blood stained the snow, similar to water soaked up into a dry sponge, colouring areas of the white into a smudged pink. The stained, diluted effect told Bjarni the visitor had been gone many hours and he felt unsure of what to do. He was tired and weary after his long journey and wondered at the wisdom of roaming the wilderness to find the injured party, maybe to his own peril. He finally convinced himself the injury wasn't a significant threat and if they were strong enough to travel, then they were strong enough to survive.

Bjarni flicked the safety back on and pointed the barrel of his gun to the ground then returning to the door of the hut, he whistled. The sled jumped forward and the dogs ran barking toward him, coming to a stop directly in front of the door. Bjarni released the dogs to their kennels at the back of the hut, rewarding each one with tender words and a brisk coat rub. He stacked their food bowls with dried salmon and left them to their hungry feasting and a well earned rest.

Bjarni tried to relax, sitting on the uneven deck at the back of his hut, wondering about his unannounced visitor and what their intentions were. He flexed his tired frame, feeling the stiffness in his joints, pondering the fate of the injured person. Unloading the supplies had taken him hours longer than normal and now he was exhausted.

Akiak had followed him around as he laboured, her deep probing eyes staring with concern. She hadn't touched her food and Bjarni was worried about her. As he sat on the dry, tortured wood covering the deck, Akiak nuzzled his gnarly hands with her warm muzzle as he gently stroked her head and played with her soft ears.

"I am getting older, Akiak, but I am not done with life yet, girl," he tried to convince himself as well as his closest companion. She seemed to accept his confession and laid her head in his lap, enjoying the attention. "Now go and eat your food and rest; tomorrow we will start preparing for the winter."

He watched Akiak happily wander over to her kennel, seemingly understanding him and his assurances and then hungrily devour her food, one eye watching Bjarni. The late summer sun was close to the horizon and twilight gathered around the old man. He figured it was well after midnight. He stared up at the sky; the telltale signs that the long night was fast approaching were everywhere. Soon the land and sea would freeze over again and daytime temperatures would plummet well below zero. He had a lot to do before then but now, he needed to rest and get some sleep. His familiar bed was beckoning.

Bjarni's head only just touched his pillow as the delicious feeling of restful unconsciousness flooded his tired mind. His almost silent, deep drawing breaths punctuated the atmosphere inside the hut for many hours. The wonder of the human body's natural ability to repair itself during deep sleep was hard at work, until a momentary change in the tone of the old man's breathing signalled he had entered a new phase: he was dreaming. His breaths became shorter and more laboured as the theatre of his dreams intensified, until a choking snort violently interrupted his subconscious and he yelled desperately.

"N-o-o...! Get away!"

Bjarni's eyes sprang open in fright, his legs flailing, trying to kick off the attacker. His bearskin cover took the brunt of his agitation, tangled around his legs until he finally broke free, sending it tumbling harmlessly to the hut floor. Confused and agitated from trying to protect himself from the foe lurking deep in his subconscious, he searched desperately around the hut, looking for any signs of his nemesis.

He relaxed when he realised he was safe in the confines of his home. Trying to settle again, another familiar sound disturbed his rest: Akiak's growling alarm brought the panic back to his mind. He lurched out of bed, stumbling as he grasped at his rifle standing propped against the door frame, the place he always left it for instances just like this. He slipped the safety off, pumped the breech and wrenched the door open, taking aim at the foe agitating Akiak.

He lowered the gun again when he saw her locked in a battle with a larger male Siberian husky, the lead dog of a sled team that had appeared out of the isolation of the wilderness.

"Akiak!" he called, wondering what had caused her to engage in a battle with another unknown sled dog. This wasn't like her. As he shuffled stiffly out to the unfamiliar sled and stopped just metres from his hut, his instincts were on high alert at Akiak's behaviour. Maybe she could sense something he couldn't. Akiak broke off the fight and slinked over to the old man, giving him a clue that her conduct was about territory and not danger.

"What's gotten into you, girl?" He rubbed her fur tenderly and checked her for injuries, bewildered by her unusual behaviour.

Bjarni cautiously approached the small sled, eyeing the lead dog as he drew near. The dog had calmed after Akiak's tirade and his demeanour seemed to be asking for help for his master. Not sensing a threat, Bjarni turned his gaze from the dog and his eyes settled on a figure dressed in the white fur of a polar bearskin and lying face down across the sled.

As he came closer, he could see small streams of blood spilling over the side of the sled and staining the skid crimson.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 11

Bjarni cautiously approached the small, unmoving figure lying face down across the sled, always conscious of the Siberian husky watching every move he made. Akiak offered a low growl from the old man's side, signalling she was ready to defend her master no matter what.

"Steady, girl, he's not a threat; he just wants us to help his master," Bjarni calmed her with a quick rub of her fur.

He gently lifted the little frame into a sitting position, watching the big husky and talking soothingly to him with every slow movement. The head of the figure rolled forward, its chin resting on its chest at Bjarni's movements. The fur hood slipped back and long, black hair drifted lazily onto the woman's shoulders and tumbled to her waist. Her face had deep scratch marks running from her eye to her mouth and fresh blood trickled down her chin.

"Well, at least she is alive," Bjarni's words filled the tense air.

He stooped down and placed his arms under the woman, ready to lift her off the sled. A low growl from the big husky warned Bjarni and he abandoned his attempts. He leaned his rifle against the sled in an act of surrender and then crouched to the ground a few steps from the lead dog and held out his hand.

"I'm not going to hurt her," Bjarni's voice was low and calming. Slowly Bjarni approached the suspicious husky with his hand held out to him. He spoke softly and moved fluidly, trying to gain his confidence.

Before long, he had his hand within millimetres of the dog's face and his aggressive jaws, letting him smell his scent. Akiak growled a warning close by, but Bjarni silenced her gently. Bjarni was close enough to feel the dog's breath on his skin and to see the intelligent eyes calculating his intention, and then come to a verdict.

In a moment of decision, the game became desperate. The old man's hand touched his muzzle. The dog could inflict a terrible wound if he decided to take a sudden dislike to him. Huskies were very territorial and defended their masters to the death when they felt they were in danger. Their owners had to first earn the dog's respect, but once they achieved this, they were loyal to the end.

Gently, Bjarni stroked the side of the dog's face and spoke softly at the same time, never taking his eyes off the dark retinas boring into him. The dog remained cautiously rigid, but when he didn't object adversely, Bjarni patted his thick fur coat and then slowly moved to release him from his tethers; the Siberian then would be in a more dominant position when Bjarni attempted to lift his master again.

Once the big husky was released from his harness, he immediately went to the woman unconscious on the sled and licked her face, whimpering at the same time. Bjarni followed him, with Akiak shadowing every move her master made. He knelt by the woman's side and again attempted to lift her. This time the big husky didn't object, allowing Bjarni to carry her inside his hut. He left the door open so the dog could follow and see that his master was safe and she wasn't in any danger. Akiak also followed and growled at the presence of the bigger dog in her domain. The male dog didn't seem to notice the threat; he was only interested in the well-being of the small woman. Carrying the woman's body in his arms, Bjarni eased her through the hut door, kicked the bearskin blanket from his path and with great effort, stooped to lower the unconscious woman to his bed, with a groan.

He dodged around the two concerned dogs following his every move and positioned a small, blackened pot onto the stove to boil water. Placing a large slice of whale blubber into the open stove front, the embers sizzled, quickly caught and the flames burst into a busy yellow dance. Bjarni then closed the iron grate, sealing the fire safely inside the furnace, directing the warmth to complete the work of boiling the water and radiating comfort inside the hut.

Bjarni placed the pot of boiling water on the floor near the unconscious woman, then dabbed a clean cloth into the pot and gently traced the wounds on her face. As he cleaned the gouged flesh, the depth of the injury became evident: she would have a permanent reminder of her ordeal. He lifted her head and tenderly checked for further indications of trauma; a large bump at the back of her neck spoke of the depth of her troubles.

"My, what happened here?" Bjarni peered across to the Siberian husky, still cautiously watching his every move. Akiak growled low and nuzzled closer to Bjarni, reminding him he was _her_ master and the intruder was just that–an intruder.

Bjarni ruffled her fur and gently stroked her ears. "This big Siberian has really upset you, girl, hasn't he?"

The old man finished cleaning the woman's wounds and now he had to tend to the remaining dogs in her team. He checked her breathing and pulse, satisfied she wasn't in any further danger, then made his way outside. The big Siberian watched the old man leave through the open hut door and sidled up closer to the woman's sleeping form, settling on the floor within easy reach of her. Akiak threw the Siberian a threatening glare and then shadowed Bjarni.

Bjarni knew the Siberian wouldn't leave the woman's side and he figured he would also have Akiak as a companion inside the hut too, keeping a close eye on her territory. Under the circumstances, Bjarni surmised Akiak would be a suitable deterrent should things turn for the worse and the big Siberian subsequently attacked. His solitary life had made a sharp turn up an unusual street and now he was surrounded by company on all sides. His kindness may have been presumptuous and ill placed in the light of history, once the woman regained consciousness and Bjarni understood her reasons for seeking him out. The tiny figure of the woman didn't seem to be threatening at the moment, but stranger things have happened. He would have to wait and see what her intentions were.

Bounty hunters took on many forms.

Carrying a fresh supply of dried salmon, he dropped the fish in front of the newly untethered dogs. They quickly devoured the food, famished by their travels amongst the great open spaces of the tundra. There didn't seem to be any animosity between the woman's dogs and Bjarni's dogs while they played together in a boisterous game among the kennels, getting to know each other. Akiak wasn't amused by the new additions to her world and turned her head to peer back at the hut, seemingly annoyed at the childishness being displayed all around her.

Bjarni approached the woman's sled and started to search through the meagre supplies contained upon it. The absence of a firearm baffled the old man; only a fool or a despot would enter the tundra without any form of protection. A thought played with his mind. _Perhaps the injuries deeply scarring her appearance were a direct result of a lack of fire power. Or just maybe she'd lost her defenses in the fight with a large creature that had inflicted the wounds on her face._

He wasn't finding answers to his deepening questions, searching through her belongings. In fact, the questions were becoming more disturbing as he searched. She had little food and apparently no means of trapping it and little protection, excepting for the big Siberian that now guarded her unconscious form. Bjarni was becoming more suspicious of this strange woman's journey and why she had ventured so deep into the Scoresby Land wilderness seemingly so underprepared.

A loud, pleading bark coming from the direction of the hut made Bjarni look up in concern. He dropped the objects of his search back onto the sled and turned to follow the direction of the alarm as quickly as his old body would allow, wondering what was perplexing the big Siberian husky.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 12

Katu relaxed in a chair on the covered, wooden deck attached to his outpost store overlooking the red and white patchwork carpet of the expansive tundra, stretching treeless to the distant and barren, mountainous horizon. In the long winter, the small covered area offered visitors and clients a shelter from the snow to dust off the cold before entering the shop without their wet, soggy boots. This time of year he had many customers, some from the deep wilderness bringing furs to trade for essentials and many from the little settlement of Ittoqqortoormiit just ten kilometres to the east, looking for hard to get treats.

Katu's dealings with a large exporter in Denmark made sure he had a full stock of unusual catalogue items, items not usually available to the run-of-the-mill store in the village. The wilderness trappers required some strange hardware to keep their lonely existence safe from the long winter. Katu's experience and knowledge of the landscape and the quirky hunters made him a one-stop convenience, identifying and stocking fancies and needs that weren't easily available deep within the isolation of Eastern Greenland.

Supplies came into Ittoqqortoormiit by container ship generally, but when the fjord froze over and aircraft couldn't land, the people went without or risked a visit to Katu. When this happened and supplies in the little village diminished, Katu's store could be relied upon to carry even the strangest of requests and many villagers considered the ten kilometres–sometimes in hazardous conditions and deep snow–a worthwhile trek to fulfil their requirements.

The small, icy hamlet of Ittoqqortoormiit depended mainly on hunting for its existence: narwhal, muskox, seals, walruses, Arctic fox and polar bear were still in plentiful supply. The thick, soft-white pelts of Arctic fox were high demand items in the fashion stores around the world.

Katu peered out unblinking from his relaxed position on the deck, the profound silence of the tundra cathartic in its whisperings and his mind lost in many thoughts. The evening twilight had a deep chill in the air as the sun tipped over the horizon, signalling the long Arctic night wasn't far away. He reached down to the deck floor and grasped for the cup of strong tea steaming by the side of his chair, the wispy clouds of condensation giving testimony to the intensifying cold. He took a cautious sip, pondering the coming day's activity.

He had ordered a container load of stores from Denmark and it was due to arrive in Ittoqqortoormiit in the morning aboard the _Arina Arctica_ , one of the Royal Arctic Lines containerised supply ships. This would be his busiest time and the least cherished part of his year, a necessary chore that would take him in and out of Ittoqqortoormiit many times, ferrying needed stocks back and forth into his isolated outpost. An early storm had deposited an icy blanket of snow across much of the landscape, forcing him to abandon the idea of quad-bike-and-wheeled-trailer to transport his goods and adopt his winter alternative. He loved the thrill and freedom of his motorised snowmobile in winter, but towing a heavy wooden sled over the patchy ice and hard ground of late summer jarred his bones and his supplies, tying the ten kilometre trip to a snail's pace until finally, the shelves were stocked again.

The quiet and softness of the tundra evening caressed Katu's mind and his nostalgic thoughts drifted carelessly back several decades into a hidden place he seldom dared to venture. Nigaq's clear green eyes danced before his mind's eye and mesmerised him just like they did when... her beautiful face turned over and over in his thoughts, and his heart reached out to the image in a futile attempt to make contact. He whispered to himself, " _Nigaq_ ," the beautiful sound almost too sacred to speak. She was his rainbow–the meaning of her name–bringing bright and warm colour to his humdrum, grey world. A renegade teardrop slid unexpectedly and without permission from the corner of his eye and plopped onto the wooden deck. Katu wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, recognising the signs and tried to direct his thoughts to another, safer place before the crisis that usually followed thoughts of Nigaq crippled him again.

Katu turned his musings to Bjarni instead, quickly shutting off all thoughts of Nigaq and wondered whether the old man was still alive. Then he recalled the hapless, lighthearted comment, a gesture aimed at Bjarni to bring laughter but had brought a deep, unspoken rebuke instead.

" _I see Akiak still has the concern of a well admired woman._ "

Katu remembered with regret.

And then Bjarni's pained reply. " _She is a fine sled dog, Katu, and a finer companion than any woman._ "

Katu dwelt on Bjarni's reply and then wondered about the old man, too consumed with the fear of his past to live in society and choosing the unstable friendship of the wilderness over humanity. To a lesser degree, Katu had followed Bjarni's lifestyle, alone with the haunting memories of a beautiful woman that refused to leave his thoughts untangled and in peace.

*~*~*~*

The snowmobile bucked and weaved under his body and the heavy sled bounced over every dip and corrugation, pulling relentlessly against the tether holding it chained to the snow vehicle and making Katu's journey even more distressing. Cresting an icy-granite rise in his path, the stark, eye-gouging colours painted on the small wooden buildings of the tiny hamlet of Ittoqqortoormiit and lightly dusted with snow finally came into view, bringing a sigh of relief to Katu. Some structures were painted all deep red, some green, some blue and some yellow, standing like brightly painted dolls' houses in cold contrast against the barren tundra landscape. He hadn't seen this sight for almost a year now and from his position overlooking the fjord, he could see the deep red paintwork of the _Arina Arctica_ peacefully at anchor in the tranquil waters of the Sund. The landing barge was already busy at work, ferrying the containers and cargo from the ship to the rocky shore while the glassy waters of the Sund stirred, disturbed by the presence of the propeller wake from the work vessel.

The sky was a troubled grey umbrella hanging over the village like a prophet of old, warning of dire times in the not too distant future. Katu shuddered and a sense of urgency drove him forward. Bristling with desire to end his chore, he opened the throttle a little too wide, causing the sled to bounce uncontrollably behind the snowmobile, teetering precariously from skid to skid, threatening to end Katu's journey in disaster. Realising his folly, Katu backed off the throttle again, allowing the downhill grade to settle the sled and restore obedience to the commands of the snowmobile before entering the periphery of the village at a more sedate pace.

The familiar faces of the village folk stared at the one-man convoy making his way into town along the defined track. As he passed the buildings on his way to the container storage area on the waterfront, recognition played across the features of the people and they waved vigorously at Katu, hailing a hearty welcome as he motored by. Returning their animated greetings, Katu approached the church situated directly in his path.

As he steered around the larger building, a pair of unseen eyes followed his movements and bored into his soul, the deep lines and weathered features almost as ugly as the unspoken thoughts they harboured. Katu felt an uneasy chill grasp his spine, so intense he searched around the buildings expecting to see the formidable source of his discomfort, as if it was something tangible and hiding somewhere close by.

A child's voice interrupted his search with a grin full of teeth and a wildly waving hand. "Katu...!"

He smiled and waved back to the handsome child. Katu's stature in the village was like the arrival of a rock star and he quickly forgot the chilling experience.

As he pulled up to the container area, the word quickly spread and a large group of villagers gathered around him. Many more streamed from the surrounding houses, greeting the welcome but unusual sight. After many consuming Greenlandic hugs the villagers dispersed, returning to their routine and leaving Katu to his work.

A familiar face waited for the crowd to diminish and approached him. Katu recognised his hulking friend, Nikkulaat, and rushed forward to greet him, the sound of vigorous slapping of backs as the two men hugged.

"Nikkulaat...! It is good to see you."

"Yes, Katu, it has been too long, but I am afraid I must be the bearer of words of warning," Nikkulaat's expression turned his face a pale grey.

"What can be so distressing to you, Nikkulaat?" Katu felt nervous.

"A week ago, a strange woman not known to the village has been asking questions of villagers about Bjarni Kleist and another man, Dan Gurst." Nikkulaat waited for the gravity of his statement to sink in.

Katu's eyes were round in disbelief and he gasped as if he had been punched in the stomach. It was obvious Nikkulaat knew something of Bjarni's past, and his friendship with Katu, too. "Who was she and what were the people telling her?" Katu's shocked response was expected.

Nikkulaat shrugged. "People who can remember Bjarni generally won't talk about him, but some of the elders have an axe to grind and would give aid to any bounty hunter searching for him, no matter who they were. No one seems to know of this other man though. The woman appeared to be in a hurry and left the village the same day by dog sled, and I was told she was heading directly north for Liverpool Land."

Katu's expression was one of shocked silence. He remembered Bjarni's poker faced reaction to the name _Dan Gurst_ had been one of silent recognition, trying not to give away the fear it brought; but Katu had seen the momentary flash of concern just before Bjarni had steered the conversation onto a less threatening topic. After Nikkulaat delivered his disturbing revelation, he invited Katu to spend some time at his home further up the village mountainside, once his business was complete.

Watching Nikkulaat disappear, Katu sighed. This had been a strange morning and he was beginning to long for the solitude of the outpost. He searched the row of containers, still unsettled with his encounter with Nikkulaat. He stopped in front of a red coloured container and then checked the insignia of his supplier on the side to confirm it belonged to him. Satisfied its ownership had been established, the final test would be the special key he now held in his hand. Fitting the key into the lock, he unlocked the door. His supplier had demanded it be locked with a special lock before it was taken aboard the ship in Denmark and then had sent the key separately to Katu. Just as he began to engage in the tedious work of unloading the supplies from the container to his sled, he was interrupted by a stranger's voice.

"Katu?" the man beckoned almost apologetically.

Katu looked up and peered at the unfamiliar face, eyeing cautiously the thinly built white man before answering him. "How do you know my name?"

"It is hard not to. You are very popular with the villagers," the stranger offered.

His statement made sense. "What can I do for you, Mr...?"

The stranger smirked. It was obvious Katu didn't trust him. "My name is Carl Bruun and I would like to spend some time getting to know the wilderness of Eastern Greenland. I need a place to stay and I believe you could use some _free_ labour in exchange for room and board."

Katu's unmoving gaze started to unnerve the stranger. "The wilderness is not a place to play and wander around if you are not used to its violent moods. Non-Inuit people need a permit to enter the national park anyway and how did you know I needed an assistant?" Katu chided.

The stranger held up a national park entry permit and then pointed to the ship, as if the gesture would put Katu's mind at ease.

Katu finally relented. It was well known aboard the Royal Arctic Line's vessels of his need for an assistant and the thought of an extra pair of strong hands was too good to refuse. "Do you have a rifle, Mr Bruun?"

Katu's question caught him off guard. The stranger shook his head vigorously.

"I do–and I know how to use it!" Katu's steely warning hung like black clouds in clear blue sky.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 13

A myriad of colours danced around the room in a kaleidoscope of confusion. Blues and greys melted into waves of black and then burst into reds and greens. Someone was talking in echoes and it sounded funny. A gurgling laughter bubbled up and ricocheted off the floor then splattered on the ceiling, wobbling like a giant, bursting water balloon. Someone else had entered the chamber and their voice was echoing, too. The face elongated as it moved, like peering into a distorted amusement park mirror: one moment it was fat and all teeth and then it was skinny like a snake, the long nose and bulbous eyes staring, while the hideousness of it stopped the echoing laughter.

"Hey, freckle, what are you doing here?!"

A steady, annoyed voice entered the scene but couldn't be seen. The voice didn't seem to come from any of the strange images cascading in front of him.

"Who are you?" he found himself asking, his own voice echoing around the chamber. The bulbous eyes of the snake came close again, intrigued at his speech and peered directly into his face, only millimetres away. The snout-like mouth was moving but nothing was coming out.

"Just as I thought! Another prying tourist trying to have a gawk! Believe it... you're crazy, freckle!" The spiteful voice was indignant, flat and didn't echo in his chamber.

"Tourist...? Crazy...?! What do you mean?" his voice reverberated around the chamber again.

"You'll find out soon enough. The real fun hasn't begun yet and you're trespassing! So now, freckle, it's time for you to get your nosey beak out of here and re-enter the _fish bowl_."

The room began to stretch into focus as Jaimon's senses registered strong pain in his neck and shoulder. The image of the bulbous eyes of the snake contorted and quivered into the gaze of his mother standing over him.

"He's coming around," she announced.

"I hardly touched him! He cowered like a little girl and wet himself. I only gave him one lash and then he collapsed," the disgusted voice of his father tapered off and exited the room, leaving Jaimon's mother to clean up.

"Go and have a shower, Jaimon. If you flaunt the rules of this house, my boy, you have to expect swift consequences. Pulling a stunt like this, reverting back to a two year old, will only make your father–and I for that matter–despise you. What of your family? You haven't even considered the shame you are bringing on us with your selfishness, Jaimon. Think of the family pride!"

Jaimon just stared up at the woman, his head and neck throbbing and he could feel an angry reverberation shudder deep within his tangled psyche. _What about me!_ he thought, trembling, wringing his hands into tight fists and clenching his teeth together, only just managing to keep the lid on his stretched emotions. The strength of his passion scared him and he forbade the tiny tear droplets trying to fill the corners of his eyes to form.

Jaimon pushed himself unsteadily from the floor, unaided by any outside help and wobbled into a standing position. Gathering his balance, he dodged around his mother and limped down to the shower, using the passage walls to steady himself. Closing the door, he removed the soiled clothes, reached in and set the shower jet to run slowly. A dark, angry bruise leading from the base of his neck, across his shoulder and down his arm testified to the force of his father's blow. He cautiously stepped into the shower, being careful not to let the debilitating water fall directly onto the injury site. Washing away his shame, he then dabbed the wounds with a fraying towel and dressed the lesions on his shoulder and his buttock. With the towel wrapped around his skinny form, he painfully limped back up the passage and returned to his bedroom, quietly closing the door after him.

Behind the closed door, tears of frustration fell in streams. He was trapped in a mind-numbing prison, powerless to defend himself, his captors given right over his every move solely because he was unfortunate enough to have been gestated by this woman he called mother. A sick feeling settled over him. The road into the future strung forever before him in an endless, tormented maze of loneliness and abuse. His mouth went dry and his trapped, tortured mind looked for a way out, but found nothing.

*~*~*~*

No words were spoken over breakfast, just a continual clattering of plates and a constant, frenzied movement coming from behind Jaimon as he sat uncomfortably at the table. His mother was still upset at him and was making a point of letting him know, in a sullen and silent standoff. She was punishing him by withdrawing any verbal contact. Jaimon felt a knot forming in his stomach while he reached for his school bag, exchanging his domestic torment for another. He flicked his eyes at the woman trying desperately to avoid him, and then turned and walked out the door to begin another day hiding among his peers.

The broken handle of his school bag and the pain radiating from his shoulder made it difficult to carry his nemesis. He considered dragging it behind him, but reconsidered when he mentally measured the consequences. By the time he'd mounted the top of the sandy hill overlooking the school grounds, his anxiety had shifted into overdrive. He scoured the surrounds, looking for either Rositer or his followers. Just below him was the scene of yesterday's terrors that led to his dramas at home. He pulled in a deep breath and began to descend the slope nervously, ever vigilant for sudden, disturbing changes to the landscape around him.

"Hey, champ."

A squeaky voice beside him made him jump. Jaimon's head snapped around, searching for its owner. As he turned in a complete 360 degree circle, he almost walked into it and had to stand on the balls of his feet to stop from running it over. A small, unattractive, redheaded girl stared straight into his eyes, defiantly holding his gaze. The dark pupils bored into him only millimetres from his face, making Jaimon turn away in eerie discomfort. Her deep orange hair was tied at the sides in pigtails, hanging like spaghetti over her ears. Her face was heavily freckled and she carried a school bag similar to his, while her uniform hung like a bag over her small frame.

"Who are you?" Jaimon panicked.

"Well, that's original," the girl shot back. "You ain't so bright, are you?"

"Look, I've got enough people dumping on me. If you won't tell me who you are, then I'm going." Jaimon pushed around her and started walking into the school grounds.

"Steady on, precious!" she called after him. "I was just trying to be friendly. It's my first day at this... place." She scanned the vast school grounds and walked towards him at the same time. "I don't know anyone here and I was hoping you might show me around."

"Look...!" Jaimon stumbled for her name.

"Salena," she filled in the gap.

"Salena...! I am not the most popular kid in school, so if you don't want to be branded a freak and be picked on mercilessly, you had better find another tour guide." Jaimon nervously peered around the school perimeter, looking for signs of trouble.

"Sounds like fun, Bob." Salena searched his frightened eyes, a twisted smile exposing her gappy, decaying teeth.

Jaimon turned from his nervous searching and rested his gaze on Salena. "Bob...?! My name is Jaimon!"

"Bob...Jaimon, it's all the same to me."

"Hey, freak, what are you doing in my way?" an angry voice called down from the top of the hill.

Jaimon spun around to face the owner of the voice. "Well, Salena, you are about to find out firsthand how popular I am." He grabbed her arm and began to run for the school grounds.

A loud guffaw followed.

*~*~*~*

Shayden Glenn buzzed around her grandfather, making sure he was comfortable before she made the journey to the bus and her first day at her new school. Her grandfather was her last relative still alive and she had moved with him from across the country so he could attend the University Hospital. Shayden had been a popular girl at her previous school, but Pa needed specialised care, care that her hometown medics just couldn't provide. Conscious of the sacrifice she had had to make for her ailing grandparent, she did it without a second thought. Homecare nurses were due any minute; they would stay with her Pa until she came home at 4pm. Nerves played with her stomach as she pulled the front door to the apartment closed and walked to the end of the street to catch the 8:45 bus to school. Entering a new school wasn't easy any time, let alone midterm, even if she was Pa's brave thirteen year old.

She didn't have long to wait at the bus stop. Soon the lumbering giant squealed to a halt in front of her and a rowdy chorus of school kids met her gaze as she boarded and paid her fare. She sauntered toward the back of the bus, looking for a seat. An older student had her bag on the only vacant chair, blocking anyone from joining her. Shayden smiled at the girl and in a moment of acceptance, the girl moved her bag to the floor and Shayden took the seat.

"Thank you," Shayden offered, but the girl went back to her iPod, lost in a private world of heavy rock music.

The bus drew alongside other vehicles busily dropping kids off to their daily fate. Shayden waited for the unruly mob to disembark, searching the vast school property and then drew in a breath. A heavy feeling of nerves flooded her body as she grasped the seat in front of her and hoisted herself into the aisle. A momentary dizzy spell hit her and she flopped down into a close by seat, hoping her tilting world would settle again. "Not now...! Please, not now!"

The bus driver eyed the girl in the rearview mirror as she was sitting with her head in her hands. "Are you okay?!" he called out to her, his voice echoing in the empty bus.

"I... I just need a moment. It's my first day and I'm feeling a bit nervous, that's all." Shayden glanced up at the impatient face framed in the rearview mirror. His look was urging her to get off so he could keep an already tight schedule. Her knees felt weak as she willed herself to stand, then she reached for her bag and somehow managed to exit the bus and slowly walked into the foreboding unknown.

The bus impatiently roared off just inches from her struggling form, the exhaust pipe pointing directly at her as it passed, covering her in a cloud of thick, black diesel smoke and making her feel even more miserable.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 14

Salena pulled her skinny arm from Jaimon's grip. The heavy school bag and her oversized uniform made it hard for her to run without great discomfort. "Hey, Bob, you really are a spooky dude!" Salena barked, forcing Jaimon to halt his escape and then she straightened her uniform. "Just what I needed: a workout before entering the halls of horror," she quipped sarcastically.

"Well, I did warn you I'm not the most popular kid in school," Jaimon defended.

Jaimon and Salena walked sedately down into the crowded grassed quadrangle, the area the student body gathered every morning to meet their friends before they were called to classes by the Nazi war siren. Strange stares followed Salena and Jaimon as they passed crowds of students gathered close by. Salena didn't seem to be fazed by the quirky glares, but Jaimon was looking for a place to hide.

"That the _House of Commons_?!" Salena suddenly interrupted Jaimon's rising fear, pointing towards the office.

"What...?!" Jaimon retorted, glancing around at the faces staring and pointing at them.

"The office, dude, you know, the office! I gotta book in and pay my fees!" Salena was getting annoyed at Jaimon's preoccupation with the staring crowd. "Look, dude, I'll catch ya later! Thanks for the exercise!" Salena hoisted her bag over her small, unattractive shoulders and walked towards the office.

*~*~*~*

Shayden still felt shaky, though she had managed to find the office and pay her school fees. Using the map the office lady had drawn her, she found the left wing. Entering a long echoing corridor that abounded with a solid wall of students noisily mingling around and aimlessly dawdling to their first classes for the day, Shayden had a few minutes to locate the locker that had been allocated to her, drop off her unneeded books and find her first class, some distance away. As she made her way through the mass of humanity, she was bumped and jolted by students, seemingly not seeing her and walking straight into her without even an apology for their misdemeanours.

Eventually she came to an alcove about halfway along the corridor with lockers set around the curved wall in a semicircle. Excusing herself, she pushed her way through a barrier of students parked in front of the lockers, loitering and challenging anyone to defy their territory. Finding locker 2030, she slipped the key into the lock and the door gave way under her hand. She dropped the heavy bag to the polished floor and bent down to unload it while trying to find the book she needed for her first class. As she stood, she could feel the room tilting again and panic gripped at her mind. She held onto the open locker door and waited for the room to settle, but a bilious feeling rose in her throat instead and she had to work hard convincing herself to force it back down and not make a scene on her first morning.

The loud wailing of a war siren drifted through the halls and students responded with a collective groan while the sea of stationary teenagers began to slowly dissipate in all directions. Shayden's nerves were tattered as she tried to regain control of her body. She forced herself to finish emptying her bag into the locker and then checked the map again to find her class. She turned to join the tide of bodies and as she did, she collapsed to the floor and sprawled across the path of the moving mass.

As she lay there, teenagers stared at her as they stepped over her body and continued on to their classes, occasionally staring back at her unmoving form and seemingly unconcerned at her predicament.

Shayden's eyes momentarily flicked open, watching the legs of passing students walking by and stepping over her. Her body seemed like a ton weight and her head ached. It felt as though her body's vital organs were shutting down. She tried to move and call out to the crowd, but her body just wouldn't cooperate and her lips wouldn't move while her mind kept begging, _Help me, please!_

But they just kept walking and gawking back at her, watching, unconcerned as her life slowly ebbed away.

As the busy hallway emptied of students and quiet descended on the building, Shayden remained where she fell, teetering on the brink of unconsciousness, the mass of humanity cruelly unconcerned.

*~*~*~*

The door swung open at the end of the hall and a tiny figure ran towards his first class–late, as usual. He had been hiding, waiting for the bullies to enter their classes before making his move. As he ran down the hall, his eyes settled on a little body lying in the middle of the locker alcove. He checked the clock hanging in the hall and conceded he was seriously late. Simons had warned him about his tardiness, viciously aware of the fear Jaimon held for his father, and Simons used it like a weapon.

Next time he was late to his class, a note would be sent home to his parents.

Jaimon stooped to examine Shayden's unmoving form, still panting from his panicked run. He shook her and called, "Hey, are you all right?!"

Her eyes flickered and settled on Jaimon for a moment, then flickered closed again. He glanced up at the clock, imagined the lash stinging his flesh and ran as fast as he could towards the office and help.

*~*~*~*

The ambulance pulled away from the school grounds, its siren bellowing. The speeding vehicle was watched by thousands of gawking teenage eyes through large classroom windows, until their attention was diverted back to their studies again by the classroom authority.

Jaimon's heroic actions were praised by the office staff and he asked if they would keep him informed of the girl's situation.

*~*~*~*

Jaimon nervously peered around the doorway to Simons' class and tried to catch his attention before entering. There wasn't much left of the period and he wondered whether he should just wag the remaining time but before he could make a clean getaway, his gaze fell on Salena sitting next to his empty desk and smiling at him. She beckoned him to join her, but Jaimon had already made his plan and a furious mimed argument developed between them from his position at the door.

Before long, the eyes of the class were distracted by Jaimon's mime and diverted to his animated play, stamping his foot in frustrated defiance to the redhead girl. A sudden ripple of laughter erupted over the classroom and Simons turned at the disturbance, following their gaze to the door and soon, Jaimon was trapped.

"Reece, you are in big trouble, boy! We will see how funny you are when your parents get my note."

Jaimon flinched at the threat, his eyes full of fire. He mimed, _Thanks a lot, Salena_.

She giggled and mimed back, _You're welcome, Bob!_

*~*~*~*

It took Salena a good portion of the lunchbreak to find Jaimon. He'd found a deserted hiding spot behind the manual arts building, a place where the student body weren't allowed to go.

"You still sulking, Bob?!" Salena's voice made him jump.

"How did you find me and no I'm not sulking?!"

"Don't half sound like it, dude. That Simons is a bit of blast, ain't he!" Salena began to laugh.

"Yeah, real blast! And that's what I'm going to get when my father gets his note, thanks to you!" Jaimon was still fuming.

"C'mon, Bob, is it really that bad?" Salena tried to jolly Jaimon along.

Jaimon jumped up, nearly knocking Salena off her feet, pulled the shirt-tail out of his school trousers and started unbuttoning his shirt.

"Whoa! Now you're talking," Salena teased. "I've heard about people like you!"

Salena's teasing soon stopped when Jaimon showed her the angry bruise running down his lower neck, along his shoulder and the top of his arm.

"This was for getting beaten up on my way home from school a couple of days ago and for damaging my school uniform." A frustrated tear formed in the corner of Jaimon's eye.

Salena was unperturbed. "Well, look at the bright side of it, Bob. You won't have to pay for a tattoo and I bet all the girls would love to see it. Got any more?!" Salena eyes were sparkling and she coughed, stifling a laugh.

Jaimon's mouth hung open at the ludicrous, unexpected comment and it took him off guard. Before long, they were both laughing so hard the tears began to flow. Once their laughing subsided, Jaimon sheepishly answered her question.

"As a matter of fact, I do have another bruise but you're not seeing that one."

Jaimon explained the welt from a towel whip in the boys' change rooms that had almost crippled him and left an even blacker mark.

The sudden appearance of a teacher's head leaning out of the manual arts room window stopped the conversation dead. Hurriedly, Jaimon threw his shirt back on.

"Jaimon, what are you doing out here?! And why did you have your shirt off?!" the teacher demanded an explanation, concerned something untoward was happening.

Jaimon turned to Salena, buttoning up his shirt and looking for support.

" _Awk-ward!_ " Salena whispered. "Don't pull me into this, toots; you were the one with your shirt off."

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 15

An electrocardiograph beeped in time with the heart rate of the little form lying unconscious in a hospital bed, while a tired and pained old man sat in a wheelchair keeping silent vigil over the young girl. He peered out of the large window of the second floor room onto the brightly lit car park below, watching hospital visitors coming and going into the expansive hospital complex. The news had come at a bad time, just in the middle of a treatment cycle that had to be cancelled. His carer had called the patient transport wing of the county ambulance to collect him and take him into the University Children's Hospital. His mind wouldn't settle until he had seen his brave little thirteen year old.

"Mr Glenn?" a voice from behind startled him.

The old man glanced up at the owner of the voice, his tired eyes conveying his deep concern. "Yes."

"Mr Glenn, my name is Doctor Brooks."

The white coat clad professional extended his hand in greeting. The old man took the hand offered and before Brooks could speak, Pa glanced across at Shayden and then asked what was wrong with his granddaughter. Brooks drew up a chair parked against the wall for visitors to use and positioned it in front of the wheelchair. Taking a seat, straddling the back rest, he took a breath and found his thoughts.

"Has...?" Brooks twisted in his chair and glanced across at Shayden's chart for her name. "Has _Shayden_ had anything like this before?"

Pa peered across at Shayden's unmoving figure. "No, not that I am aware of. What's wrong with her?" Pa cut across any more questions.

"Well, the blood work has come back clear and we have tested for all the usual."

Pa cut him off, angry at yet another _don't know_ diagnosis. "You have no idea, that's what you are telling me, isn't it, Doctor?!" Pa could see the young doctor becoming agitated. "I'm sorry, that was unfair of me." Pa glanced across at Shayden again. "We have uprooted from our home and travelled halfway across the country so I could get treatment for my ailment. Shayden did it without question, even though the move cost her so much and now she is suffering for it." Pa dropped his chin on his chest in defeat.

Brooks stood from his position in front of the wheelchair and placed his hand on the old man's shoulder. "I am sorry you have had such a rough time, Mr Glenn. We will do what we can for Shayden."

Pa just nodded without looking up but he didn't feel confident. As the young doctor left the room, Pa reached for Shayden's hand and gently stroked it. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, for putting you through this."

*~*~*~*

Jaimon walked slowly up towards the sandy hill on the perimeter of the school grounds. Tomorrow was Friday and it was physical education again for the first two periods. The humiliation of standing naked in the change rooms and the debilitating towel whip were still fresh in his mind. The thought of a repeat weighed heavily on him. He was lost in a world of morose thoughts when a cheery voice startled him.

"Slow up, Bob... I just about had to run to catch up. What's the hurry, anyway?"

"Oh... hi, Salena," Jaimon's glum reply dampened her own happy mood like a wet blanket.

"Who died? Oh, let me guess! The long face is about Simons' note to your father, is that it?!"

"No...! But thanks a lot for the reminder," Jaimon's mood became even blacker.

"Then what, dude?! Tell me before your sour mood makes me wanna slash my wrists!" Salena's sly smile and twinkling eyes lightened his demeanour.

Jaimon stopped to face the redhead girl and he searched her cloudy pupils for a long time. "It's P.E. first up tomorrow morning," he finally offered, not knowing whether she would remember his prior explanation or how she would respond to his statement.

She stood staring back at him for a long moment, searching his face but not comprehending the meaning of his announcement. "So... this is a problem because...?"

Then enlightenment flooded her mind. "Oh, I get it. This is where you have to show but not tell, and the kid with the towel whip. Is that about it?"

Jaimon's shoulders slumped as he turned to walk up the sandy hill. "Yeah, that's about it."

The two teenagers slowly trudged up the hungry grey sand together, both staring at their feet as they walked but neither speaking.

Then Salena stopped at the top. "It's been good sulking with ya, dude, but I gotta go. See ya tomorrow."

Jaimon continued staring at his feet for a moment. "Yeah, see ya, Salena." He was just about to add an apology for his melancholy mood when he gazed around in surprise, just in time to see Salena disappear down another bush track.

_Boy that girl can move,_ he thought.

*~*~*~*

Jaimon's night passed in a furore of terror at the knowledge of an another impending and distasteful situation in P.E. class at school. His mother was still playing games with his head and his father hadn't even acknowledged him.

He opened his clothes drawer, located his sports clothes and folded them into his school bag, all the time his nervousness growing and a sick feeling rose in his throat. He walked out to the breakfast table carrying his school bag, but couldn't stomach the thought of breakfast. The school lunches were already made and on the kitchen counter, the place his mother liked to store them. He reached for his lunch and placed it in his bag and then turned to his mother, wondering whether she was over her brood. She turned while he was staring at her back and he momentarily caught her eye before she hurriedly looked away again.

I guess – not!

Jaimon dragged his bag onto his shoulders, glanced at his mother again, then gently pushed the door open and walked off silently down the driveway.

His morose thoughts kept him company and before long, his dejected steps led him to the outskirts of his intended destination. He peered around the sandy hill overlooking the school grounds hoping to run into Salena, but she wasn't anywhere to be seen. He figured it was still a bit early, so he sauntered down onto the school property, all the time keeping vigil for Rositer and his followers.

They weren't around either.

By the time the first period war siren had roused the troops and beckoned them to their first classes, Jaimon still hadn't seen Salena. He felt strangely alone, only now becoming aware how much Salena's company had filled his day.

He managed to avoid a situation in the boys' change room for P.E. by running late, while the rest of the boys had already assembled to start their drills. A hulking P.E. teacher hustled Jaimon out of the change rooms half dressed, still pulling on his tee shirt when he joined the other boys. Jaimon recognised the face of the towel whipper straight away and tried to move away from him, in an awkward attempt at survival.

"I was getting worried, freak, that our P.E. entertainment wasn't going to show!" the boy snarled.

Jaimon backed away from the towel whipper and the open disdain of the boys standing near, trying to hide in a group of less threatening peers further away.

Red faced from the P.E. activities, Jaimon tried to regain his composure but he knew the towel whipper was looking for another attempt at stardom at his expense. He tried to hide outside the change rooms until everyone had showered and dressed, but the same hulking teacher caught him and ushered him directly into the line of fire.

Most of the boys had showered and dressed, but one was waiting for Jaimon and the rest of the boys waited expectantly. Jaimon swallowed hard and pulled off his shirt, knowing pain and humiliation was only minutes away. The towel whipper stood in his underclothes, whirling his towel threateningly and waiting for Jaimon to head for the showers.

"Get a move on, boys; your next classes are waiting!" a physical education teacher boomed and then turned to walk out.

Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a small figure in a baseball hat stood beside Jaimon, hair completely hidden under their hat and wearing shorts and tee shirt just like the other boys.

"Hey, Bob!"

"SALENA...! What are you doing in here?! This is the boys' change room!" Jaimon was incredulous, holding his towel covering his bare chest.

"Yeah, I figured it might be a little more interesting than the girls' change room but looking around, there doesn't seem to be much talent. Is that the towel whipper?" she pointed.

Jaimon stood openmouthed and dumbstruck, but Salena didn't have time to wait for an answer. She snatched the towel from Jaimon's hands, twirled it into a tight strand and aimed.

The towel cracked like a stockman's whip and the towel whipper went down in a screaming heap, all in the blinking of an eye.

"Like to stay, Bob, but I figure this is no place for a lady." Salena threw the towel at Jaimon and ran for the door. No one seemed to see the tiny figure leave in the ensuing mayhem.

Jaimon's shocked gaze followed the mischievous figure out the door and he decided it would be appropriate for him to follow her example and leave too, before anyone thought to block his exit and blame him for the attack.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 16

Sylvester Castelano's heavy bulk straddled his _Harley-Davidson Fat Boy,_ weaving in and out of peak hour traffic and drawing concerned stares from startled motorists as his motorcycle crept up behind them and roared past in blur of earsplitting noise and speed, the back of his jacket emblazoned with the words: _Jesus... Don't leave Earth without Him._

His flabby six foot two frame, dressed in black denim and leather jacket, made him appear like a bull sitting on a push-bike, with a dog's steel food bowl strapped to his head for a helmet. His huge arms protruded from his leather jacket, cut off at the armpit and exposing two powerful shoulders. On one shoulder he had a dagger tattoo running down his arm and the word _Cutter_ near the point. The other shoulder had the word _Grandma_ tattooed in big letters down his arm, with a little old lady holding a broom in a threatening pose.

Castelano had done eight years behind bars for manslaughter after a knife fight with a rival bikie gang. Four gang members had pounced on him as he'd walked a dark back alley to his parked Harley. And they were bent on his destruction. Ten hard years seemed to stretch endlessly before him at the hands of a judge who had no sympathy for warring bikie groups, regardless of the evidence.

Castelano had met Jesus in prison and cleaned up his life and in so doing, was released early for good behaviour. Even so, he just couldn't shake his nickname – _Cutter;_ it seemed to follow him everywhere and into his new life as well.

*~*~*~*

A skinny man dressed in a blue suit sat behind a big maple desk and kept peering up at the clock on the wall from his position attending to overdue paperwork. A frown crept across his features and his well-practised smile began to fade as he realised _he_ was late... again!

Then a noise, similar to a jumbo jet trying to land in the car park, echoed into his office and made the walls shake. The office phone buzzed and he tried to answer it above the noise.

" _Yes, Mrs Jessop_ **!"** the skinny man almost shouted.

The sound of a revving motorcycle engine enticed Mrs Jessop to place a finger into her unoccupied ear that wasn't covered by the phone earpiece as she shouted, " _CUTTER IS HERE, MR SLINGER!_ "

She had just spat out _SLINGER_ when the noise stopped and her last words reverberated around the foyer and prickled Mr Slinger's eardrum.

Slinger sighed. "Thank you, Mrs Jessop. I think I guessed that."

Before Cutter strode into the office, he stopped outside for a few moments in the garden and then proceeded. As he entered the foyer, his booming voice announced, "Morning, Miss Jessop," then he handed over a fresh flower he had plucked from the grounds.

Mrs Jessop beamed at his thoughtfulness and then pointed down the hall. "I hope you have a flower for the boss. You're late again."

Cutter smiled. "I bet you I can have him laughing within fifteen seconds."

"You know I don't gamble, Cutter, and neither should you! But if I did, I would win hands down."

"You're on, Miss Jessop!"

Cutter strode down towards the boss' office, leaving Mrs Jessop's mouth opening and closing, wondering what she had just agreed to. She listened intently for any noises emanating from down the passageway and the direction Cutter had gone. In a few seconds, the unmistakable cackle of Slinger's laughter rattled back towards her. Moments later a smiling Slinger, followed closely by Cutter towering over him, walked out of the passageway.

Cutter leaned over as he passed Mrs Jessop and whispered, "I win."

Mrs Jessop's mouth hung open as the two men walked out of the foyer and towards the boss' car. "Don't forget your visit with Mrs Parks this morning, Mr Slinger!" she called after them.

Slinger waved over his head, acknowledging his secretary as both men climbed into Slinger's car, laughing again.

Nancy Jessop flopped back into her office chair and wondered at their quirky associate pastor. Cutter had a way with people and on occasion, he _knew_ _stuff_ about them and their predicaments and spoke it into their lives. When the shocked individuals asked how he knew such intimate details about their situation, Cutter's comment was always the same. He would shrug and say, "Papa told me."

The church establishment had tried to change Cutter to fit the _nice_ church mould, but his flamboyant manner just seemed to spill out of the cracks and he'd seeped into the church culture instead. At first, the older church members took umbrage to Cutter's casual bikie attire but it was soon evident that Papa God loved him just the way he was and he drew unreached groups like a magnet. Cutter could slice to the heart of any situation, listening to the Holy Spirit like He was standing whispering into Cutter's ears.

Many thought He did.

It was a shaky start, but they all loved him now. When Cutter was scheduled to preach, the attendance nearly doubled. He would wait for the Holy Spirit to lead and then the church would fall under conviction as a deep sense of peace and power settled over the establishment. It was impossible not to be affected by a service Cutter led, while many individuals came to a saving knowledge of Jesus Christ through Cutter's transparency and some even claimed to have had supernatural healing.

Mrs Jessop was disturbed from her daydreaming when Mr Slinger's face appeared in front of her.

"Nancy, can you call the automobile club, please? My car won't start again. Cutter thinks it's the battery."

"Yes, of course, Mr Slinger, but your appointment with Mrs Parks is in fifteen minutes and you know how important she is to the church, and she just hates being kept waiting!"

The sound of a motorcycle engine burst into life and revved, just to clear the cobwebs.

Nancy Jessop's jaw dropped when she heard the roar. "You're not...!"

"I have no other choice. As you said, we're late," Slinger looked worried, confirming the accuracy of her account of the precocious Mrs Parks and her constant demands on the senior pastor's time.

Moments later, the sound of Cutter's Fat Boy roared up the street. Slinger's screams could be heard clearly above the engine noise, quietening gradually as the motorcycle increased its distance from the church office.

*~*~*~*

A loud cacophony of noise drew the old dowager from her sick-bed to peer out through her second storey bedroom window. It sounded like someone trying to sing falsetto above the noise of a misfiring locomotive engine. Her mouth dropped open when she saw Pastor Slinger shakily dismount from the back of a thug's motorcycle, removing something that resembled a dog's bowl from his head. Slinger's face was as white as a ghost against the crinkled blue suit.

What will the neighbours think? I bet that Harriet Gilmour is already taking pictures to send to the 'Who's Who in Style' magazine.

With her thoughts tied together in disdain, she climbed back into bed, fuming, and waited for Classons to show him in.

*~*~*~*

Meanwhile, Slinger steeled himself, trying to regain his composure after the harrowing journey and peered around at the big white mansion standing threateningly against the manicured, sprawling green of the front gardens. It was always a particularly difficult encounter with the challenging old woman, and she seemed to be demanding more and more visits from the senior members of the church. If it wasn't for the substantial donations she made, Slinger would have fobbed her off to the visitation team while he attended to more pleasing matters of church business. This week, all the other senior members of the pastorate had found other pressing issues to attend to when they were asked to accompany Slinger on his weekly mission, leaving Cutter as the only willing and available participant. He figured she had already heard them arrive and once she saw Cutter, tattooed and dressed in his bikie attire, he was sure she would have a fit. Slinger was in a desperate place. The old dowager had complained of a dire illness and demanded she be visited by at least two of the leaders of the church to anoint her condition and heal the recurring sickness.

Classons eyed the two men standing on the entry porch, his glance resting on Cutter's tattoo of grandma holding a broom and ready to pounce. "Yes, may I help you?" Classons' unimpressed and fugacious tone rumbled in his boots.

"Pastor Slinger and... er... Associate Pastor... er... Cutter to see Mrs Parks." Slinger eyed Cutter's perturbing presence, but couldn't remember his proper name to introduce him in such a formal situation.

Cutter beamed, while Classons frowned. He didn't need to speak his disapproval; it was written in the dark scowl he wore.

"This way, please."

Soon, Classons' stiff wanderings had led them up a highly ornate, semicircular staircase. From their position they could gaze out over the expansive opulent house, white polished floors, and down through large glass window panes to the large pool and gardens outside. Classons knocked three times, loudly, on a pair of white double doors and waited for permission to enter.

" _COME!_ " an older woman's voice pierced the thick doors out onto the stairwell.

"Pastor Slinger and Pastor... Cutter, madam."

The old woman waved off Classons and then her eyes bored into Slinger, dancing from Slinger to Cutter and back, from the confines of a massive king-size bed. Once Classons had closed the door, her tirade exploded, demanding an explanation for Slinger's unseemly arrival on a motorcycle and the admittance of a _street gentleman_ into her bedroom.

Cutter's face was aglow at the childish outburst and he had to force himself not to laugh.

All at once, a familiar beckoning drew his attention and he blocked out the dowager's diatribe. He had learned the ability to block out angry feminine castigation from his never-present mother, who'd spent more time in a hotel than at home, leaving his small, but very powerful grandmother to raise him.

Moments passed and the woman became more and more antagonised, frothing at the mouth while Slinger began to melt under her impassioned lecture. Cutter suddenly cut across her, leaving her speechless from the shock.

"Papa God has already told you to fix up your ongoing battle with your daughter and until then, He intends to do nothing about your illness and in fact, you will get worse. So I guess we are wasting your time, Mrs Parks, until you do your bit." Cutter's cheery demeanour turned towards Slinger. "I'll wait for you down at the... limousine," then he turned for the door and left the room.

By the time Slinger joined Cutter, the Harley was already choofing and eager to make for the open road. The intense look on Slinger's face told Cutter that his Holy Spirit revelation hadn't been received particularly well.

Slinger's voice was low and tinged with defeat, "Thanks to you, Cutter, we have lost a valuable contributor to the church finances."

"She'll be back," he assured, confident in the still, small voice that had confided to him.

*~*~*~*

The week had passed in an icy tone. Slinger was like a little thundercloud and the painted smile was nowhere to be seen, especially around Cutter. He gathered his notes sprawled over his office desk and checked his Sunday message. Since Cutter had upset Mrs Parks, he needed to fill the expansive gap her donations would create as the monthly balance sheet would have a sickening deficit, causing head office to interfere in his leadership and question his competency. He would just have to hammer the church community about giving, to fill the void.

Slinger's recollection was crystal clear. He could still see the stern dowager's face and the impassioned, " _How dare you?!_ " just before ordering Slinger out of her mansion.

He sighed heavily while listening to the gathering community in the church building next door to his office. Their joyous, unsuspecting greetings and chatter echoed into his room and made him feel even angrier towards his flamboyant associate pastor. He checked his sermon notes once more and mentally prepared himself for the service and the heavy oration he was sure would stab at consciences and loosen tight purse strings.

The all too familiar sound of Cutter's Fat Boy came thundering down the road, interrupting Slinger's intense thoughts. The motorbike engine cackled excitedly, roaring into the approaching car park in a shock wave of noise and announcing Cutter's arrival as he stepped down yet another gear. As the din increased, Slinger could feel his ears prickling and his ire growing towards Cutter at the extra work he now had in balancing the church finances.

_Things would have to change and programmes would have to be cut; maybe even the associate pastor programme._ His painted smile cracked across his tortured features at the dastardly thought.

Slowly, Slinger's smile returned for the first time since the unfortunate meeting with Mrs Parks. This was now the perfect scenario to rid him of Cutter's unwanted bungling into church business. He peered out the window in an automatic response to check Cutter's arrival, noticing he was mobbed in a rock star type greeting from adoring churchgoers, bringing Slinger a pang of envy. Maybe getting rid of the quirky ex-biker wouldn't be as easy as he thought.

Cutter was always picking people up for church on his motorcycle, giving them a thrill and an insight into life as a bikie member, even if it was a retired one. Cutter finally extinguished the giddying motorcycle engine and the church car park fell into a maladroit silence. Slinger's features contorted abruptly and he did a double take as he peered at the animated person riding pillion behind Cutter.

Old Mrs Parks peeled herself from Cutter's back, releasing a death grip around his waist and shimmied off the skinny seat. She removed a dog-bowl helmet from her head and shuffled her grey locks then in turn, shook out her church attire while beaming from ear to ear. Chatting excitedly to Cutter and the myriad of shocked churchgoers standing close by, the old lady had no sign of the dreaded illness that had plagued her only a few short days ago.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 17

Bjarni's tortured gait gave away his age, limping on gnarly limbs, arthritic and tired from too many years battling the Arctic freeze. He hurried towards the hut and the whimpering howl of the big Siberian husky in urgent need of Bjarni's presence. Akiak trailed behind him in a disinterested saunter, not at all anxious at the apparent frantic beckoning of the Siberian. The old man's bearing had a more determined urgency to it and he burst into the hut, wondering what he would find.

The small frame of the woman stood unsteadily at the side of the bed, like a trembling building just before the foundation collapsed and the structure came crashing down. Her frightened, wide-black pupils locked onto Bjarni's as he burst through the door, trying to step away from him and protect herself at the same time.

In that brief moment, Bjarni saw the abject terror imprinted so deeply on her face that it stopped him in his tracks. Before he could speak and reassure the frightened woman, she crumpled, causing Bjarni to lunge and attempt to catch her, breaking her fall before she further damaged her frail disposition. Bjarni lowered her limp body back to the bed and covered her again with the bearskin.

Confused and dubious thoughts cascaded through his mind. _These weren't the actions of a bounty hunter, but the behaviour of a desperately frightened woman trying to escape a very distressing and strange situation._ Bjarni began to feel more and more disturbed at the presence of the tiny woman.

Overcoming his concern, he started to dab at the blood flowing down her cheek as the wounds on her face seeped crimson red again. At least the bump on her neck was diminishing. Her paling face began to worry Bjarni and he could feel her body temperature rising, suspicious of the presence of a worsening fever. Bjarni left her side for a few moments and went to fetch some snow from outside to cool her rising temperature.

When he returned, her cheeks were hot and small beads of sweat hung on her brow. As he ran the cloth filled with water and snow across her brow he whispered, "What are you running from, little lady?" Bjarni's concern hung like a dark cloud inside the hut as he attended to the woman.

The Siberian nuzzled her hand drooping over the side of the bed, whining and begging her to fight on and not give up on her life. He dropped to a sitting position next to Bjarni, seemingly accepting Bjarni's presence around his master, understanding Bjarni meant her no harm.

As Bjarni turned to face the Siberian, he could see the intense concern and high intelligence reflected in the dark pupils of the big dog. He reached over and gently stroked his soft ears, intent on comforting the worried gaze but instead, provoked a low, jealous growl from Akiak.

*~*~*~*

The steps leading up to the square and expansive two storey building were covered in fresh snow powder. The structure had a boorish feeling of foreboding just from its dank, unimpressive architecture but it fitted well among the other inhospitable constructions surrounding the isolated town.

A lone figure picked his way along the twilit deserted sidewalk. The heels of his highly polished black shoes crunched the snow as he strode along the concrete path into yet another unwanted situation. New snow began drifting down on his smart, professional attire designed to keep him warm against the coldness of the day.

He stopped directly outside of the stone structure and peered up at the double doors closed tightly against the late autumn environment, while he drew in a long breath then exhaled in a nervous, visible cloud of humidity. He had nothing new to report, a situation that would not be met with enthusiasm from those within the cold, stone halls of officialdom. A special meeting had been convened and he guessed that his lack of performance was high on the agenda.

Finally, he found the courage to continue and forced his procrastinating limbs up the dozen steps, leaned against the cumbersome double doors and entered the marble-lined entry hall. A burst of warm air–heavily scented by official passageways and offices that hadn't been open to outside breezes for many months, mixing stale air and chair-leather into a pungent cocktail of oppressive authority–assaulted his senses and added to his nervousness.

Finding a coat rack attached to the wall, he removed his coat and scarf and hung them on the closest hook. Meanwhile, the entry door closed automatically behind him with a _clank_ that echoed with finality against the walls of the empty corridors. He stood a moment, contemplating his immediate future and then turned to face the labyrinth of dimly lit passageways and staircases leading in all directions.

The _Great Hall of Debate_ was a familiar arena in the voluminous structure and he strode towards his fate, his shoes echoing _click-clack_ on the polished marble floor as he walked. Finally standing before the access leading into the great hall, he drew in a breath and knocked loudly.

The heavy wooden door burst open and echoed down the passageway. The image at the entryway played with his memory until recognition settled his question.

"Good evening, sir."

The owner of the dour face just nodded, not wanting to waste energy talking to an unworthy subordinate and beckoned him inside. The big door closed with a foreboding baritone _bang_ reverberating off the walls and sealing out prying eyes.

The Great Hall of Debate was a coliseum and had a central circular floor surrounded by tiers of seats on its circumference, while aisles between seats led up a gentle gradient to the chairs at the very back near the two storey ceiling, giving those committed to the back rows a bird's eye view of the business going on far below. The hall could accommodate four thousand people tightly packed in, but tonight, there were only a handful of stiff-faced luminaries present.

He stood at a podium in the centre of the hall, the eyes of the dignitaries boring into his soul with their brittle stares from nearby seats. Unexpectedly, a bright spotlight blinked on, shining directly onto him from the back wall and momentarily blinding him. He waited nervously, squinting into the light and trying to focus on the faces whom he knew had a good view of him.

"Agent Parlo...?!" a threatening voice echoed in the icy atmosphere. "It appears that _both_ objects of your assignment have eluded you and your department... while _we_ are not any closer to finding what _we_ _seek_!"

The voice stopped abruptly and the word _seek_ echoed around the spacious great hall.

Parlo paused before he spoke, hoping to delay any form of retribution levelled at him, holding up his hand to block the spotlight while trying to recognise the owner of the disgruntled voice. Once recognition broke through into his understanding, his mouth went dry and he could hear the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears.

"Your Excellency, it is true. Neither I, nor my department, are any closer to the objectives of the council's concern. It is not through lack of effort on my part, but the task I have been set will take much longer to complete than at first thought..." Parlo tapered off as he was interrupted.

"I am not interested in your excuses, Agent Parlo! The very existence of our great nation teeters precariously in your hands and anything but success of your mission objectives is unsatisfactory to this council. If you lack the competence to complete your assignment posthaste, there is a position for you as weather observer for Oymyakon...! _Living in a tent!_ _Am I understood_ **?!** "

Parlo bowed his head in obedience to the supreme leader while two heavyset men escorted him out into the deserted corridor. The door boomed shut, closing off any chance to redeem himself any further.

He sighed audibly and then began to _click clack_ down the corridor towards the exit and retrieve his scarf and coat. The threat of living in a tent at minus fifty degrees Celsius didn't bring him much comfort.

Standing on the outside of the square stone building, it was snowing heavily. Parlo glanced back at the structure, pondering his not too distant future. He felt a crisp chill grasp at his spine and wondered whether it was the icy fresh snow or his dark future that caused the shiver. He pulled his collar up against the cold and quickly disappeared into the night.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 18

The first of the autumn storms caught Bjarni by surprise. His attention had been consumed by nursing the raging fever of the tiny figure, now peacefully sleeping in his bed. The whiteout had descended onto his small hut with such tenacity and stealth it had even taken the dogs by surprise and astonishingly, they had offered no warning.

Akiak lay sprawled out close by Bjarni's side, following his every move and keeping a watchful eye on the intruding Siberian that appeared to have designs on her master's special notice. Bjarni rubbed her thick fur, like winding a spring-loaded toy and watched her come to life. He knew she was struggling with the presence of another dog in her territory and she gently nuzzled his hand at the sudden attention, licking her property with an exuberant tongue, making sure the Siberian clearly understood her claim. Bjarni tenderly rubbed her soft ears and lifted her face to stare into her preoccupied eyes.

"You are really off your game at the moment, Akiak; this storm took us all by surprise."

Akiak seemed to understand the old man's words and turned a disdainful glare towards the Siberian, lying on the floor with his head resting on his front paws and staring, unmoving, at the sleeping woman.

As the wind howled outside, the cold was driven in through the cracks around the old fireplace, causing the chimney to whistle in an eerie, ghostlike manner. Bjarni hadn't had time to fix the hut's problems while he played nursemaid to the tiny woman, who now seemed to have fought off the worst of her fever. The old man sauntered over to the small stove that was trying desperately to counter the increasing cold inside the hut. He dropped open the grate that covered the fire's heart and fed in another big slice of whale blubber stored close by, sizzling and catching fire instantly in the confines of the hot stove while filling the hut with a pungent, oily smell.

Bjarni peered outside through the cracked window into the wintery day, checking to see that the remaining dogs had found shelter in the kennels from the storm. A thick covering of snow lay around the vicinity and a thin, fractured layer of ice lay across the unusually turbulent waters of the Sund. It was only 2pm but the twilight was already closing in, adding a colder dimension into the miserable autumn day.

Bjarni sighed at the scene in front of him; the Arctic night was fast approaching and there was still much to do. He turned to face the woman and the Siberian, wondering what her plans and intentions were. If she wasn't strong enough to travel soon, the winter would trap her here with the old man and he hadn't counted on extra mouths to feed throughout the long, cold Arctic night. Besides, it still wasn't clear why she had found her way deep into the Greenlandic wilderness alone.

To add to his woes, it wouldn't be long before Nanuq would find his way back into the fjord, hungry and looking to appease his massive bulk with any morsel that was unfortunate enough to cross his path. The few weeks after the first nanuq were seen were the most dangerous. The hungry bears would have travelled nearly a thousand kilometres from their summer refuge and hunting grounds–the frozen polar cap–consuming the stored body fat from the long journey and desperate to refill their hulking, empty stomachs. The harrowing, hollow groan of starvation was no respecter of man or beast in the wilderness and anything was fair game, including him.

His mind drifted back to the gigantic paw prints he had seen only a week ago and he wondered what the sighting meant. Ataneq Nanuq hadn't bothered him for decades and over a long absence, Bjarni had questioned his own memory as to whether the creature had simply been a figment of a fearful imagination, brought on and emphasised by the harrowing trauma of his first encounter. But after recently seeing the evidence of a paw print perfectly preserved in the mud of melting snow, he had no doubts about his experience–and recollection–of the massive creature. Any uncertainty of the legendary bear's existence was now permanently settled in Bjarni's mind.

Trouble is, why is the massive creature prowling again after such a long absence and so close to my home, too?

*~*~*~*

Glancing back, Katu felt a little guilty watching Carl Bruun bounce around on the wooden sled atop the supplies as they made the final journey from Ittoqqortoormiit to the outpost, towing much needed winter stocks. Bruun had been a God-send, cutting Katu's workload in half, speedily turning the irksome yearly chore into an easy jaunt and giving Katu much needed company on the twelve trips into and out of Ittoqqortoormiit. The snowmobile had worked hard with the extra weight but had endured the torturous trips with ease, making Katu glad he had purchased the expensive motorised machine.

Katu and Bruun had both seen the heavy encroaching cloud drifting invasively down over the mountain rim and felt the icy wind blasts that preceded the storm's arrival. Most people in the village had disappeared into their homes, preparing for the approaching blizzard and sheltering, leaving Katu and Bruun alone, hastily loading the remaining contents of the sea container onto the sled. Katu knew if he didn't move quickly and make a run for the outpost, he would be trapped by the storm and possibly spend many days snowed into the tiny village without the comforts and safety of his own home.

In the distance, the shadowy outline of Katu's store came into sight, but the windblown snow was obscuring the track very rapidly. Before long, the hazy view of the outpost had been totally obscured by the whiteout. Eventually and travelling almost blind, Katu managed to motor the snowmobile and the sled into the protected loading bay of the store and quickly slammed the doors closed against the bitter wind.

Bruun's teeth were chattering as he lay on top of the loaded sled; icicles hung from his fledgling, immature beard as well as his eyebrows and his hair. Katu helped the young man off the sled and led him, shivering, into the warmth of the kitchen through a small passageway. He stoked the fire and then wrapped a thick blanket around him, monitoring his temperature. Bruun's clothing was adequate for normal autumn days, but totally inadequate to weather the sudden dangerous squalls that lurked in the unpredictable changeover between summer and winter. Bruun's core temperature had dropped considerably. The sound of the blizzard raged outside. Wind-driven snow piled up against the windows and soon, with the aid of the outpost's warmth, Bruun had recovered from his chilling experience.

"Now do you understand something of the wilderness' bad and sudden moods, Mr Bruun? If we hadn't found shelter, you most likely would have died in that short time."

Bruun's brooding eyes followed Katu's movements. Maybe the older man had a point and his desire of conquering the wilderness was just a little shortsighted.

"I see your meaning, Katu, and thanks for..."

Katu cut him off, still suspicious of the young man's intentions to travel the wilderness alone. "Just learn, Mr Bruun. Next time you may be alone and the great wilderness might not be so forgiving."

Aided by Katu's hands, the final stocks made their way from the sled to the shelves of the outpost store. He meticulously checked the consignment schedule against his order, satisfied after many hours of work that all was present and accounted for.

*~*~*~*

Katu busied himself with the evening meal and glanced up into the darkness outside through the frosty window. The blizzard was still screaming and snow was piling higher against the store. A sudden, loud scraping noise above them on the roof followed by a heavy _bang_ , startled Bruun and he looked up in fear and then across at Katu to discern whether he should be alarmed or not.

Katu wasn't concerned and without even looking up from what he was doing, put the young Bruun's mind at rest. "Snow's getting too heavy for the high raked roof and has slid off onto the ground."

Bruun swallowed down his anxiety and tried to glance out the window to confirm Katu's reasoning. He was still wrapped in the blanket Katu had given him, seated as close to the kitchen fire as he could get. Katu placed a steaming hot mug of Inuit tea at Bruun's side and then handed him a plate of raw seal meat. Bruun's shocked expression was exactly what Katu had expected.

"If you are going to live in the wilderness like an Inuit, you have to learn to survive like an Inuit," Katu instructed.

The two men sat silently around the fire. Katu hungrily devoured the raw seal meat while Bruun tried his best to turn his thoughts off and swallow the greasy brew in front of him. After a decent swallow, a gag escaped his throat and he reached quickly for the hot tea, trying to quieten and redirect the telltale retch back into his stomach.

Katu's eyes were smiling at the lessons being learnt by the young adventurer in front of him, until Bruun took another sip of his tea, stared directly at Katu and broke the awkward silence with his clumsy statement.

"I believe there is some kind of legendary wild man wanted by the authorities hiding out in the wilderness of Scoresby Land? Have you ever seen him?"

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 19

Bjarni slumped half asleep in his old, splintered, wooden rocking chair close to the raging stove. The stove was the only light seeping into the relentless darkness through heat cracks in the cast iron, throwing eerie moving shadows on the hut's wooden wall. He had shifted his position twice already, trying to dodge the windblown chill forced into the hut through the gaps in the chimney, while protecting himself with the old muskox pelt he used to cover the passenger well of his sled. Even though the pelt was warm, his old frame just couldn't get comfortable and the draft caused by the howling blizzard outside reacted with his arthritis and added a harrowing, unrelenting throb to his misery.

Akiak was sprawled out across his feet and somehow sensing his discomfort, her eyes followed each uncomfortable move and then she shifted herself to bring her back into his direct line of sight. The big Siberian hadn't moved his position, sprawled on the floor and staring at the tiny woman asleep in Bjarni's bed since she had collapsed several hours ago. She at least seemed to be sleeping peacefully, while Bjarni struggled to get into a position comfortable enough in the old rocker to finally drift off to sleep.

He tried to figure out what must have caused the deep welts on the woman's face and shivered when he realised how close she had come to losing an eye. The woman's wounds had stopped bleeding and were healing well but she would have a permanent scar running down the right side of her face. At least the bump on her neck had all but disappeared. He sighed an uncomfortable sigh, wondering who this strange visitor was and what she was doing so deep in the wilderness, seemingly unprotected and unprepared. She appeared to be only young, and he figured the scarring wouldn't be a welcome addition to her otherwise pretty Inuit face. The more he teased his thoughts, the more questions gathered, demanding an explanation but he would have to wait until she woke before he could satisfy any of the mounting suspicions.

A low growl drifted into the shadows of Bjarni's subconscious mind. Somewhere, a warning echoed off the walls of his dreams, jolting him awake while he stared around the confines of the hut, only to be confronted by the woman holding his rifle aimed directly at him.

It took a while to shake the sleep from his tired mind and regain his composure. The silhouetted stance of the woman and how she held his rifle told Bjarni she had not used a weapon like this before. She seemed to be unaware that the breech was wide open and empty, a safety precaution Bjarni used to make sure he wasn't left facing an unfriendly nanuq wondering whether the gun was ready for use. He would instinctively pump the breech with a bullet while he was positioning to face his foe, sure that when he pulled the trigger the gun would respond with the appropriate action.

Akiak was growling a warning at the woman, ready to pounce; then Bjarni noticed the big Siberian was also growling, but not at him or Akiak, but at the unsteady woman. Bjarni eased himself from his chair, dropping the muskox pelt to the floor and stood to face her.

"Pull the trigger; it won't do you any good," Bjarni called her bluff, figuring he was safe at her apparent lack of knowledge with firearms and he decided there wasn't any way her current threat was going to do him any harm. The confused dark eyes followed Bjarni in the half light, clumsily jerking and sighting the gun at the old man.

Then suddenly, the big Siberian gently tugged at the woman's arm with his powerful jaws, urging her to lower the gun. For the first time, Bjarni heard the confused woman speak in a soft, gravelly voice.

"Shtiya...?"

The Siberian eyed the woman with his deep aqua eyes, while the confusion subsided and she recognised her faithful companion. She lowered the gun tentatively, now remembering how the devoted dog had continually guided her through the unfamiliar tundra and kept her safe from harm. If Shtiya had allowed the man anywhere near her, he had obviously proven himself trustworthy and the Siberian was convinced the old man meant her no harm.

The woman's voice was shaking as she reluctantly lowered the gun. "Y..you seem to have earned the trust of my lead dog, Sh..Shtiya. Th..that isn't an easy thing to do, mister, and I..I must apologise for my actions. I..I am just not sure who I can trust and who I can't anymore."

The woman's frank confession disarmed him, changing his mind about her intentions and softening his demeanour towards her. Bjarni approached her slowly, keeping steady eye contact with her as if he was whispering a wild animal, then he gently eased the barrel out of her hands. He sighed and his annoyance was apparent that she would take a perilous journey into the tundra with only the protection of a Siberian husky, thus tempting death from the many pitfalls with her lack of understanding of survival in the harsh environment.

"You don't know anything about firearms, do you?!" he chided, sounding a little terser than he had anticipated.

The woman stared at Bjarni, almost challenging him with her defensive expression.

"You can't fire an empty breech!"

Bjarni's unflinching gaze met her stubborn stare. Then he closed the breech, pointed the gun at the wall and pulled the trigger while the gun responded with a hollow _click_. He pumped the breech again, loaded a single bullet from the detachable clip and opened the door, then fired the rifle into the air, discharging the weapon with a resounding _crack_ , disturbing the wind's howling monotone and causing the dogs outside to bark in a boisterous complaint at the sudden sound. The loud blast from the powerful weapon echoed back into the hut and forced the woman to flinch, fearfully covering her ears with her hands and cowering with her chin pressed against her chest.

Bjarni threw the hut door closed again, satisfied he had made his point. "I usually leave the breech open to make sure there are no mistakes when Nanuq comes picking a fight. You may only get one chance with a hungry bear!" he explained firmly. Bjarni was disturbed at the woman's lack of basic understanding of firearms, the life blood of survival in the tundra.

As she lifted her head again to face the old man, he could see a small telltale tear form in the corner of her eye and the battle raging inside her head. The look of defiant desperation reflected in her dark eyes and it tore at his heart, forcing the annoyance to melt away.

"Look, I'm not going to hurt you. I have been caring for you for the past few days and if I had nefarious intent, I could have done away with you then. You need to trust someone and it looks like I am the only contender for fifty miles. Now... sit down, start at the beginning and let me in on this crazy journey of yours."

The woman ran her hand over her injured face, feeling the painful welts under a makeshift bandage and then glanced across at Shtiya.

Coming to a decision, she sighed heavily. "Alright...?"

"Folk who know me call me Bjarni," the old man filled in the gap in her statement.

"Alright, Bjarni," she hesitated and peered again over at the Siberian, amazed that the old man had captured Shtiya's trust. "You seem to have convinced Shtiya of your intentions and I guess I need to follow his example."

She unsteadily bent and rubbed his thick fur, knowing full well that his wisdom wouldn't let her down, causing her to stumble carelessly into harm's way. She procrastinated for as long as she could, desperately trying to sort out her splintered thoughts. Then she finally let her full weight down on the corner of the wooden bed and stared down at the floor for a long moment, tussling for understanding while Bjarni repositioned his rifle, breech open, by the door again and settled into the tired rocking chair and waited for her to begin.

*~*~*~*

Katu's mind did a double take as he chewed on his last piece of raw seal flesh. The sudden revelation from Bruun's clumsy statement had broadsided him, but he forced himself to continue on straight-faced and not react, as if he had just asked about tomorrow's weather.

"I know a lot of the _wild men_ in the tundra and they all have to be legendary to survive and live in this treacherous place. If they are wanted by the authorities, that isn't any concern of mine. They all have their reasons for choosing a solitary life and there isn't one of them that I wouldn't trust with my life. If you intend to wander around out there, you will find out just how impressive you have to be."

Katu was more suspicious than ever of Bruun's intentions and he had no doubt that the legendary wild man he spoke of was his dear friend, Bjarni Kleist. Katu's ire began to rise as he considered this young, foolish man stalking his friend for financial gain. Then he wondered whether Bjarni's heart hadn't already given out and beaten Bruun to the kill, somewhere out in the endless tundra.

Bounty hunters took on many forms and the idea of collecting big sums of easy money from turning in the wild men of the tundra to authority figures was like searching for gold in the winter of Alaska's treacherous Yukon River. The gold was there for the taking, but winter was a formidable foe against them and winter reigned supreme nearly all year round in the Greenlandic tundra. Most of the time, bounty hunters met an untimely fate and disappeared permanently, unprepared for the punishment the tundra could deal out even in the relative safety of the short summer months.

One slip up and it could be your last.

Katu relaxed, knowing the wily Bjarni had survived the worst the tundra could dish out for years and his time-tested experience and respect for the wilderness made him almost invisible to the likes of the foolish Bruun.

Bruun kept chewing on another piece of greasy seal meat, determined to prove he had what it took to enter Katu's feared wilderness. His head remained bowed over his plate as he tackled the disgusting meal, glancing sideways at Katu using his periphery vision and trying to gauge Katu's reaction to his question while reaching for his hot tea to wash down another repugnant swallow. There was no doubt he had learned a valuable lesson about the suddenness and changeability of tundra weather. Being caught in a blizzard with no shelter only took minutes between life and death. He just had to be smarter than the wilderness and beat it at its own game. The seal meat that Katu loved was disgusting. Surely he could survive without it, maybe carry enough edible canned food in his pack while he walked through and challenged the open wilderness.

His determination set like concrete and he wasn't going to let Katu's prejudices and fears stymie his desire to finish what he had come here for.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 20

It was little under an hour's flight from Washington D.C. to Kentucky but fighting through the masses of air travellers moving about the country and the crowded airports made air travel an unpleasant, but necessary mode of transport. A simple one hour flight turned into four hours when the tedious airport routine stretched into a constantly stagnant line of humanity snagged at security checkpoints and congested highways leading into and around the country's airports. Even with her important bureaucratic credentials, she still had to queue with the rank and file.

As if that wasn't enough, then having to endure a frustrating five hour journey into the never-never land of military security, going around in circles until she had lost her temper and rang the Secretary of Defense for some bureaucratic muscle. A direct order from him to the commander of the army base broke through the red tape and sense abruptly prevailed.

Finally, a disgruntled, but smug Senator Annette Dysart stood in between two armed infantry soldiers, assigned to her as an escort into the heavily fortified and classified file storage vaults surrounded by the army base of Fort Knox. Her stilettoed feet ached and she nervously tapped her toe on the floor, waiting painful minutes until her nemesis–time–once again decided to catch up with her important schedule. Irritated, she sighed deeply and whispered, "Come... _on_!" her voice hissing in the quiet foyer, while she suspected the army was making her wait for riding roughshod over their tedious procedures and forcefully pushing through her unusual request.

The two armed soldiers stood unmoving at her side, seemingly impervious to the woman's complaint. Unappreciative of her escort's presence, she once again peered at her watch. Five more minutes and the time delay locks to the fortified room would at last give her access to the information she needed, allowing her to mount a case with the formidable inner circle of the United Nations Assembly, springboarding her career into a lucrative position among the world's powerful elite.

Now that the military secrets associated with Camp Century were no longer of national security, it had been relatively easy to obtain permission to access information on the former secret, subterranean American army base from the cold war. The hard part was getting the military guard dogs to let go of the documents outlining the army's somewhat chequered past and to cooperate with the Defense Secretary's order. She wondered just how much of the information was still intact or how much had been destroyed over the years. But one thing she was sure of, the interpretation of the information collected had been poorly scrutinised and the cost of such an enormous operation, along with their advantage, had been squandered. Her research and collaboration with the experts assured her what the army was looking for was in fact, real and still there. They were just looking in the wrong place and she felt she could prove it, given the chance.

She sighed loudly, leaving her thoughts dangling in mid-daydream and glanced around, unimpressed by the interior of the infamous structure. The polished marble floors lining the foyer of the famous vault reflected the sunshine from two windows high in the ceiling and hurt her eyes. The large tomb-like structure echoed with every move which bounced off the thick stone reinforced walls.

Outside, the clanking and lumbering of army tanks and armoured troop carriers, muffled by the massively thick strongroom walls, still pervaded into the silent vestibule. Listening to the barely audible sounds of practised warfare and blocking out the soldiers standing by her, she drifted into a private and impassioned tirade encapsulated in her thoughts. She didn't agree with the posturing of military might at the hands of an insecure and overbearing select few, while the thought of supposed adult humans–both male and female–running around the army base of Fort Knox with real guns and yelling, " _Bang, you're dead!_ " she argued, was a waste of the Nation's resources.

Especially when _she_ was on the brink of the greatest and most powerful discovery ever contemplated.

Dysart was just about to launch into another chapter of impassioned thought on the childishness of supposed adult soldiers playing with their military toys, when a loud _clank...!_ interrupted her mental diatribe and echoed tyrannically into the foyer.

The time lock had finally expired.

"It's about time!" she sighed, not requiring a reply from her escorts.

An alarm sounded, interrupting her moan, forcing her to stare in surprise at the guard on her right. " _Now what...?!_ "

He stepped forward and inserted a security card into a slot in the door, thus fully disarming the automatic lock function with a _clunk_ and silencing the alarm. If an authorised card was not inserted within a short, set time the door would not fully unlock and the time lock would once again reset, preventing entry into the impenetrable safe for another twenty-four hours. Both escorts pulled on the heavy sixty centimetre thick obstacle, slowly drawing the large door aside and making entry into the repository possible. One soldier escorted Dysart into the crypt-like structure while the other stood across the doorway, his firearm drawn in a threatening pose with the safety disengaged.

Dysart followed her escort and walked down a voluminous hall, past many similar doors to the one she had just come through. The room appeared cool inside, obviously the contents protected by some form of air conditioning. Finally, they stopped outside one of the many identical doors along the passage and the soldier inserted his card again into the door's slot, followed by another loud _clank_ as the door gave way under the security confirmation. The soldier pulled the enormous door open and then checked a manifest he had removed from a pocket. He led Dysart into the dimly lit vault with rows of smaller, automated doors guarding classified files. Finding what he was looking for, he inserted the security card once again and a small door opened. The escort pushed the door fully ajar, giving access to a small, but solid chamber beyond and then stood aside for Dysart to retrieve the file.

She fidgeted gathering the document and almost dropped it in her excitement as she retrieved it. Once she had the information, she stepped aside for the soldier to lock up the small safe deposit box and then casually peered up at the ceiling of the fortified room. As she did, an insignificant red light blinked from a small dome mounted on the concrete roof, alerting her to the fact someone was watching every move. Nervously, she turned the file over in her hands. It was sealed with a thick, official wax emblem across the flap and had _classified_ stamped across the front.

In a bizarre reversal of the entry procedure, the two soldiers saluted the secretive tomb, assuring an unseen authority figure that the maze-like crypt of Fort Knox had been secured according to strict military protocol.

Dysart once again felt the warm sunshine of the Kentucky afternoon full on her back as she was escorted to the security building. She had spent so much time during the morning frustrated by the efforts of military security, trying to establish that she had a legitimate, bureaucratic right to the information. Now she wondered what other red tape they had devised to delay her mission.

Upon entering the security building, the escorts left her side and were relieved from their duty. She handed the sealed file to the security liaison officer while he scrutinised the document pouch and checked it against a computer screen, deliberately turned away so Dysart couldn't see it. The liaison officer grabbed up a desk phone and dialled a number and spoke softly into the receiver. Dysart heard the man whisper, "Yes, sir," then return the phone to its cradle.

A sharp envelope knife made quick work of destroying the seal across the file and the contents were emptied and quickly studied. The officer was apparently satisfied and stamped a new file with _declassified_ across its front, then inserted the documents into their new home. The officer glanced up Dysart as his temperament suddenly turned from stern and imposing, to sickly sweet.

"Here's your file, Miss Dysart, but I can assure you that there is little to interest Congress. They have already seen the contents before. Have a pleasant flight back to D.C. – oh, and happy birthday for tomorrow." A condescending smile stretched across the man's face.

The deliberate disclosure of her personal information and her intentions revealed the military security had done a thorough study of her. Through her bureaucratic position in the government she had seen firsthand the results of imposing military security checks, and had laughed along with her colleagues at the embarrassing revelations associated with the report on the people who had been victim to the prying process. They certainly were more invasive than name, rank and serial number. She swallowed hard and glared at the military man, wondering how much of her indiscriminate past he now knew. It was obvious by his behaviour, however, that he hadn't uncovered her secret and with a smug snatch, she reefed the file from the officer's hand and headed for the door, feeling his stare following her.

The journey back to the airport was a mixture of euphoria and perceived invasion of her privacy. The thrill of attaining once-classified documents had come at a personal price and she was feeling violated, but still convinced her somewhat mottled past was intact.

As she took her seat on a flight back to D.C., it took a while for Dysart to regain her composure, knowing the security officer, a stranger, would probably have a good picture of her life by now. It certainly was a belittling experience being on the receiving end of official government prying. She pushed the feelings of intrusion from her mind and tried to concentrate on the document in front of her.

Somewhere buried in the unassuming file, lay the secret key to her powerful future and no one would dare pry into her personal life again.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 21

Annette Dysart balanced a bag of hot Chinese food and her briefcase in one hand, while she tried to locate and extricate her apartment keys from her shoulder bag with the other. Finding the troublesome conglomerate, she fidgeted one-handed with individual keys until the correct half-barrel shaped metal device finally settled in between her thumb and forefinger. Balancing her load, she awkwardly pointed the key at the top lock, found the latch opening and released the tumbler with a twist of her hand then repeated the process for the bottom lock. Turning the door knob, she pushed open the door to her apartment, flicked on a light switch and then dropped her load on a nearby table. Kicking off her shoes, she turned to face the open door, threw it shut and then relocked it.

She sighed loudly; finally, she could relax. It had been a long day flying to Kentucky and back, then the runaround by military security and the unpleasant memory of being thoroughly checked out by the security officer made her frown.

The soft dancing lights of Manhattan beckoned her onto her seventeenth floor balcony to enjoy the city light spectacular, a sight she never tired of. She was a career girl and at thirty, success had danced to her tune but she had had to fight tooth and nail to get to where she was, and there was definitely no place for a man in her life just yet to complicate things. With her birthday looming in hours, she felt pensive and a slight stab of remorse at being alone on her special day. She silently chided herself: that's the price of success and she just needed to get over it.

The warm city-night air caressed the hard lines on her face, a side effect of being an ambitious and young, high profile senator, clawing her way to the top. The journey had left many rivals bruised and bloodied in her wake, with her stilettoed shoe prints embedded in their skulls as she'd walked over them and kicked them off her ladder to the top.

The smell of hot Chinese food drifted from her apartment to meet her as she peered out at the night and it reminded her she hadn't eaten since breakfast. Her stomach began to respond to the aroma and she quickly retraced her steps, relishing the thought of the refreshing meal.

As she reached for the brown paper bag, she noticed a red digital number twelve blinking on her home phone answering machine. She sighed again and reached for her ever-present mobile phone. Checking the screen, she noticed the device had shut down from a discharged battery. If her staff couldn't reach her during the day, then they would bombard her home phone, leaving her impassioned messages and demanding decisions be made on pressing issues.

She hit the _play_ button and turned up the volume while she emptied the food onto a plate, grabbed up a fork from the pile of dishes on the sink and headed for a chair on her balcony. She listened intently, forking food into her mouth and staring absentmindedly out at the twinkling lights of the city. The machine voice echoed out onto the balcony and went through each message, as each person identified themselves and the ensuing emergency they were facing. So far she wasn't impressed by the long line of enquirers and their petty requests, until the final message grabbed her attention, almost choking her as she tried to swallow and breathe at the same time.

She jumped to her feet, returning to the answering machine, wondering whether she had heard correctly. Nervously she dropped the plate containing the half eaten meal onto her kitchen table with a hollow, porcelain clatter then selected the last message again and hit the _play_ button.

"Annette, it's Parlo. Call me as soon as you can."

*~*~*~*

The lumbering Hercules C-130 made a sharp banking turn in the dark foggy approach to the makeshift airstrip of the National Science Foundation's Summit Camp experimental facility, located in the isolated highlands of Central Greenland. When the fog lifted, the moonlight of the dark, late autumn day allowed a glimpse at the far frozen horizons in all directions. The barren landscape made it difficult to tell the difference between land and sky in the flat, snowy geography.

It was unusual to have visitors this close to the dead winter months, and even more unusual for a C-130 to make the journey during the unpredictable and dangerous weather leading up to the dark, Greenlandic winter. The current ambient temperature at 3,200 metres above sea level was verging on a balmy minus thirty-five degrees Celsius and the winds were calm, an unusual weather event on an unusually warm, late autumn day.

The C-130 made a low passover, allowing the pilot to orient himself with the flares burning along the length of the dark, snow-covered airstrip, marking out the intended landing position. It was imperative to get onto the ground, unload the cargo and get airborne again before the wind came up and the temperature plummeted to minus sixty, freezing the engines and stranding them where they stood, closing off their escape route until the relative calm and warmth of summer still many months away.

The aircraft banked again, lining itself up for a final approach and lowered the landing gear. As the cavernous C-130 came in closer to the ground, the wing lights illuminated the sleds surrounding the wheels and they could be clearly seen. The sleds allowed the hulking machine to glide on top of the snow, instead of burying its wheels and cartwheeling uncontrollably into a death roll. Even with the sleds, it was a perilous situation demanding the highest level of skill and minute orchestration of the controls from the air force pilot. One mistimed move would end in disaster.

Dale Koenig, a respected solar scientist, peered out of a tiny cargohold window at the clouded lights of the summit station, throwing an eerie glow in the dark, foggy conditions. It was a risky situation to visit the station so close to winter and even a bigger risk to try and land a C-130 in this isolated place. He tensed himself as the pilot prepared the aircraft for landing and felt the engines throttle back, followed by a _bump_ as the aircraft made contact with the snow, jostling and scraping noisily along the makeshift runway. Then the four powerful engines roared with reverse thrust as the machine tried desperately to slow down on the icy surface.

Before long, the tail door opened and a biting chill entered the stationary aircraft. Personnel were donning extra clothing and Koenig followed their example, pilling on three extra layers in an attempt to fend off the extreme cold.

In this environment, an improperly dressed man could freeze and die in minutes.

As Koenig exited the aircraft, he was met by the station manager, Willy Jantz. Icicles were hanging from his eyelashes and settling on his balaclava while clouds of humidity formed from his breath and hung in the frozen air around him. It wasn't long before Koenig had been ushered away from the aircraft on the back of a snowmobile and delivered into _the_ _big house,_ a short distance away, the building where all business activities took place at the remote experimental outpost.

After entering the warmth of the station structure, both men brushed off forming icicles then Koenig and Jantz stripped off four layers of clothing, leaving a further two layers to make it comfortable inside the big house. Koenig glanced at a thermometer screwed to the inside wall and read ten degrees Celsius, still cold, but warm enough to function normally.

Jantz's welcome was interrupted by the roar of the C-130's engines, the roar gradually dying away as the aircraft safely gained altitude and disappeared over the horizon.

"Your equipment has been taken across to the maintenance shed, Doctor Koenig," Jantz assured.

Koenig nodded and under Jantz's direction, found his way into the kitchen of the big house and a steaming hot cup of coffee. Koenig heard another member of the staff talking to the pilot of the C-130 via radio from another room in the building and confirmed they had made a successful escape from the summit station.

Finally Koenig was settling in; the ordeal with the flight was behind him and everything had gone to plan. He tried to appear nonchalant in his attitude and then asked Jantz the question he had been longing to ask since he had heard about the incredible happenings here.

"Tell me about what you have seen, Mr Jantz."

Jantz pulled out a chair opposite Koenig, folded his lanky frame into it and then ran his hands through his thick, black beard. His eyes met Koenig's then he looked away, wondering how the respected scientist would react to his story. He breathed in noisily, held it for a few seconds and released it again, seemingly finding courage in his procrastination.

"Well, whatever it is seems to start around 4am. The aurora borealis flashes across the morning sky in waves of greens and reds."

Koenig was staring at Jantz, waiting for something unusual other than normal light displays caused by solar winds from the sun, and the impatience was showing on his face. Had he risked his life landing at the station just to hear a description of normal phenomena?

Jantz stuttered, trying to bring himself to describe what they had all seen and heard. "Th..then soon after that, the sky explodes from horizon to horizon in violent emerald flashes and hues, accompanied by a screeching that hurts your ears and disrupts all the instruments we have running at the time. It goes for about an hour and then disappears. The power generators stop working and all our electrical devices drop out. It takes us a few hours to get everything working again."

Jantz glanced across at Koenig to see how the scientist was coping with his description. Koenig's stone face gave nothing away and Jantz had to ask whether he understood the phenomena.

"I will have to set up my instruments before I can comment, Mr Jantz. The emerald flashes may be synonymous with, and explained by, a strong solar storm emitted from the sun, more powerful than the usual storms that cause the northern lights. Although nothing has been observed from our normal facilities scattered all over the globe. As for the screeching... I have no idea."

Jantz read the sceptical gaze in Koenig's eyes, insinuating Jantz had spent one too many winters in the isolated environment, freezing his brain and wasting Koenig's precious time with his fanciful children's stories.

*~*~*~*

The atmosphere inside the green painted accommodation block, nicknamed _the_ _green house,_ had finally settled for the night. The green house was a brisk 200 metre walk across the open, barren icescape from the big house. The whole station complex relied on the generator shed, another two hundred metres further away still, to supply power and to heat all the buildings thus ensuing the survival of all crew members living there.

The appearance of such a distinguished scientist into the remote location unnerved the caretaker crew of five people and now Koenig had taken the only spare bed, stretching the limited resources of the winter base to breaking point. The crew had been spooked by the strange happenings and were suspicious whether the scientist would believe their account or be able to explain away what was going on, once he had experienced it.

The wind was picking up outside the building, as Koenig set his alarm clock for 3:30am and pulled the heavy thermal bedcovers over his body. Even though the green house was heated, it was still bitterly cold and the temperature was dropping quickly, driven down by the howling wind outside. It didn't take long until Koenig warmed to the point where he dropped into an exhausted sleep.

It seemed like only minutes had passed when he was being shaken awake. Torches were flashing around inside the green house and a high pitched howling was screeching in his ears, distorting his eardrums.

"What's going on?" he called above the noise to the panicked people aimlessly wandering around with torches.

A voice boomed across the dark room, "This is our phenomena, Doctor Koenig." Jantz's tone was just a little sarcastic.

Koenig pulled back the heavy drapes covering the foggy window by his bed. The snow was piled up against it and obscured half of the pane, but he could see enough to watch the screeching emerald thunderstorm, listening and observing something he had never heard or seen before.

"What is it?" Jantz almost demanded.

The look of bewilderment on Koenig's face answered Jantz's question.

He sighed, feeling exonerated by the strange activity going on outside and Koenig's inability to give an answer. Jantz called to the rest of the crew members, "We will wait until the screeching stops and then get the electrical equipment and the generators going again before we freeze to death in here."

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 22

Jaimon cowered at his desk, midway up the aisle of the fourth row of seats in his science class. He felt like a fugitive just before being discovered and arrested, sealing his fate into a sordid round of retribution at the hands of his tormentors. It was one thing being the victim of mass condemnation, condoned and ratified by the silent authorities, but it was a totally different set of rules if you dared to strike back. He slouched down low in his seat, trying desperately not to be noticed but even that response was drawing some teasing stares from his classmates. He didn't care. He was hunted through the halls of forced institutionalisation and his only response now had to be survival.

And survival meant being invisible.

Miss Jenkins was busy explaining some theory or other, her face alight with passion for her subject and as a result, white spittle gathered in the corner of her mouth. Jaimon just couldn't concentrate on her impassioned monologue and looked around constantly, sweeping the scene for any impending threat and gauging the accessibility of the escape route.

He peered around the room full of thirteen year old students and his eyes rested on the empty seat of Jim Dowden. A knot tightened in his stomach and threatened to strangle his internal organs while a cloud of nervousness and panic stalked his every heartbeat, wondering why Dowden wasn't in class.

It hadn't even been an hour since Salena had grabbed his towel, twisted it into a tight whip and nailed the change room bully with vicious accuracy. The memory of the sickening sound and the immediate effect it had on Dowden as he hit the change room floor, screaming in pain, was still fresh in Jaimon's mind. Even though Dowden got what was intended for Jaimon, Jaimon still felt sorry for him and now the anticipation of impending reprisals was worse than the injury itself. His lips twisted into a passing smile and his thoughts momentarily drifted to Salena and her courage to take on the bully. He wouldn't have had the nerve to enter the girls' change room, albeit in a disguise, let alone settle a very lopsided score on behalf of a friend.

"Sit up please, Jaimon! If you need to sleep, please do it at home!"

A chorus of laughter broke out and all eyes turned to face him, shocking him back into the scene. His knees hit the underneath of the desk and made it bounce, spilling his books onto the floor in an attempt to obey the authoritarian figure represented at the head of the class. Further laughter erupted as he fought to regain his balance, arms and torso dancing like a demented clown, leaning out from his chair to retrieve his books from the floor.

"Settle down, people! There will be a test on this next week, so you had better listen carefully."

A collective groan rippled through the building while Miss Jenkins recommenced at the point of digression.

Jaimon's mind began to close out the tedious lecture and the voice droning on became a distant, subdued mumble. His thoughts once again turned to his desperate situation. The student gossip-grapevine obviously hadn't caught up on the incident in the change room but he figured once they did, he... and Salena would be picked on mercilessly. He began to fume and wished Salena hadn't interfered; at least if he had been injured instead of Dowden, then the rest of the school population wouldn't want to settle a score on behalf of one of their own.

A loud knock at the classroom door interrupted the lecture. Jaimon jumped, his heart pounding as he followed the gaze of his classmates and turned to face the principal, with Jim Dowden standing solemn and dark faced beside him. The class listened silently as a whispered conversation took place between Miss Jenkins and the principal. Once the instructions had been conveyed, Principal Bern nodded to Dowden and he limped painfully to the front of the room, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the floor and awkwardly took his seat. The stunned eyes of the class followed the injured Dowden's amble to his place at the front of a row. A murmur trickled across shocked lips, while a close by student began to quiz Dowden on his injury and ask the questions that the rest of the students were curious for an answer.

Once Miss Jenkins finished her conversation with the principal, she made her way back to the head of the room. "That's enough, class. You can ask Mr Dowden about his war injuries during recess," she reprimanded and then continued on with the lesson.

Jaimon's heart was pounding in his chest and he couldn't make sense of the situation. It was almost as if Principal Bern didn't know the facts of the incident and Dowden had kept the cause of the injury quiet.

The Nazi war siren broke into the interrupted lecture, announcing the end of class. Among a growing frenzy of students preparing to leave the science class, Jaimon threw his books into his bag and nearly knocked over the desk trying to make for the door before he was trapped.

Miss Jenkins had to raise her voice to be heard over the clatter and agitated movements of teenagers packing away their books and preparing to disembark her class. She reminded them of the upcoming test while her eyes focused on Jaimon's disappearing figure, already out of her class and running down the corridor.

A gathering of students formed around Dowden until Miss Jenkins ushered them out of her emptying room. There was just ten minutes until her next group of students arrived and if she was quick, she could grab a much needed coffee to lubricate her voice before another hour of teaching began.

*~*~*~*

By the time the lunch recess siren sounded, Jaimon's imagination was about to boil over. He couldn't understand why the grapevine hadn't condemned him, and the student body seemed uninformed or at least, unconcerned at Jim Dowden's plight. Each class he attended, his peers seemed normally aloof towards him and treated him with their usual disdain. Nothing like he had expected.

He paced around the area bordered by the manual arts block to try and gain much needed perspective. He wasn't supposed to be in the _off limits to students_ area, but it was the only place he could be alone. Jaimon strode towards one end of the yard, turning around abruptly just before a set of windows where he knew teachers were bound to be patrolling from within the manual arts building. As he turned, his gaze fell upon a tiny figure casually leaning her back against the brick wall with one leg bent at the knee, her small shoe flat against the wall behind her and an impish grin forming on her lips.

"Hey, Bob!"

"Salena! Boy am I glad to see you!"

"Thanks, Bob, but you really aren't my type. I like big-round-chubby boys," Salena jollied him, a crooked smile spreading across her face and she almost laughed at her own absurdity.

"Huh?!" Jaimon seemed distracted and confused at her attempt at humour.

"You look like the posse is about to lynch you and hang you by the neck!" Salena quipped and then her face broke into a beaming smile. "Did you like the way ol' Dowden went down? I thought it was a pretty cool shot myself."

Salena coughed and tried to stifle another laugh at Jaimon's unappreciative response, but she was obviously proud of her achievement.

"That's just it, Salena. I have been expecting Dowden and his gang of thugs to come after me–us–to make us pay for what we did!" Jaimon was stressing and the worried babbling was stealing her joy.

"Whoa, dude! Calm down! No one is coming after you–or me–for that matter."

"What?! You sure don't know these people, Salena. They will pick on the weak and the unprotected mercilessly, and if you dare stand up to them they will make your life unbearable!" Jaimon almost screamed at her.

"Haven't you heard the old saying: _treat 'em mean keep 'em keen?_ "

Jaimon's eyes were boring into Salena, wondering how she could make light of such a desperate situation. "What...?!"

Salena sighed heavily. "Seriously, dude, you are one messed up puppy. People that have to use fear and intimidation to dominate others are called bullies... right?"

Jaimon nodded in agreement.

"Well...! Ninety percent of the time if you call their bluff and stand up to them they will back down, and if you use the same weapon on them that they were using on you, they lose face with the people they are trying to impress and become embarrassed... got it so far? Then they try to hide the fact they were stood up to and defeated. My guess is that Dowden was embarrassed by our unexpected retaliation and is attempting to hide the details of being beaten at his own game and he is trying to prevent being embarrassed among his mates. I doubt he will try it on again and if he does, we will take him down again!"

A mischievous smile painted itself on Salena's face then a determined, faraway gaze crossed her cloudy eyes, staring past Jaimon, engaged in a new round of strategy.

"What about the other ten percent of times you call their bluff and they _don't_ back down?" Jaimon worried.

Salena's face contorted and her eyes focused on Jaimon again, perplexed by his lack of faith. "Well, dude, that's when you make like a tree and leave–and fast... get it? You seem to have that bit down pat!" The crooked smile became all teeth as she laughed at her own gag.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 23

Jaimon had a personal study period to finish the afternoon and most of his peers had found large tables in the library foyer to huddle together in a community of camaraderie. As he passed by, it was obvious from the _don't-even-think-about-joining-us_ stares, even if there was an unoccupied place, there wasn't any room at their table for him. He quickly walked past his classmates and found a lone, vacant cubicle by a window looking out over a passageway joining the maths and science blocks.

Whenever his classes coincided with Salena's, they would sit together and he didn't feel like such a freak. He wondered why she had befriended him, and then her unattractive features flashed across his mind. He smiled and began to understand. She, like him, lacked the charm and the good looking attributes of the popular kids that attracted the masses, while their awkwardness and difference sentenced them to life on the outer fringes.

An unwelcome notion crept into his mind and he shuddered at the thought of kissing Salena, then he realised why they were such good friends. Salena was definitely _not_ the subject of a teenage boy's fantasy, but what she lacked in looks she made up for in sheer spunk and humour. He still couldn't believe what she had done earlier that morning to Jim Dowden, the sheer guts it took to face one of _his_ bullies. He was amazed at her lack of fear about the distinct possibility she would be targeted too as a consequence of her actions, standing up to Dowden on Jaimon's behalf.

It seemed like she really didn't care about her own safety.

Sudden movement outside in the passageway between the maths and science block caught his attention through the library window and he glared at the gathering. A wave of fear stabbed at his stomach as he watched Dowden limp up to Rositer, his animated actions leaving no doubt Dowden was explaining Salena's expertise with the towel in the change rooms. The older boy began to humiliate Dowden in front of his following, kicking him in the spot the towel had done its deadly work, making him wince and causing Dowden to turn sideways, deflecting Rositer's attack and protecting himself from further injury.

Jaimon's concern began to peak as he watched Rositer place his arm over Dowden's shoulder and draw him into his group, huddled, obviously devising a plan. He knew his day was about to get a lot worse, and the sandy hill overlooking the school property blocking his safe access home would surely be the scene of retribution.

He had to find Salena and warn her... fast!

Jaimon watched the clock on the wall above the librarian's head with dreaded concentration, willing the time to pass.

Finally the siren wailed and Jaimon shot out of the library, almost knocking over the table in his haste and burying the exit door handle into the red brick wall, with a loud _clang_. He grabbed at his school bag from its resting place deep within the ordered confines of the bag racks with a well aimed swipe, the sudden weight of the bag threatening to uproot his hasty steps and flatten him face up on the concrete. Borne out of sheer adrenaline, the bag found its place against Jaimon's shoulders with a _slap_ , assisting his escape with the forward momentum of a freight train running on rocket fuel, while his feet struggled to stay under him.

Students were spilling onto the passageways from every occupied classroom, causing human bottlenecks and slowing down his run into a hasty walk, threatening to stall his escape while he shoved his way through the belligerent crowd. Soon Jaimon disappeared into a massive wall of moving humanity, wondering how he would find Salena in the sea of faces before she unwittingly stumbled into Rositer's trap. He craned his neck, searching over taller students, jumping on the spot to gain a vantage point and maybe catch a glimpse of the fire red hair among the crowd of blondes and brunettes dawdling towards the school exits in a force of chaotic teenage posturing. He figured his actions were futile; Salena was smaller and shorter than he was, but he wouldn't give up.

She had stood by him in his morbid challenges and he was determined to do the same for her.

Jaimon reached a pathway that divided the school buildings. The pathway led to a set of steps that descended down onto a long driveway and eventually exited the school grounds a good five hundred metres away. From his vantage point atop the stairs, he stopped and peered out over the vast school property while scanning the mass of teenagers, moving in a battalion-like march away from the battles of the day and towards the relative safety and freedom of their homes.

In the distance, he could see the grey sandy hill and the regimented march of students topping the hill like a group of soldier ants, ignorant to the fact of an impending one-sided slaughter about to take place there. But still he couldn't see the flames of the small redheaded girl. Groups of straggler students were still exiting the school premises and bumping into Jaimon's stationary figure, partially blocking the pathway at the top of the steps.

"Hey, Bob... what ya looking for?"

"Salena...!" Jaimon yelled, causing nearby straggler students to stare at him, deliberately bumping him as they threaded past.

"We really have to stop meeting like this otherwise people are going to talk," the crooked grin was back on her face.

"This is no time for joking, Salena," Jaimon's worried face and wild eyes suddenly disturbed her and she sighed.

"Okay! What catastrophe is looming now?" Her cloudy eyes searched his, but she had already guessed it had something to do with Dowden.

"Dowden and Rositer are waiting for both of us to walk up the sandhill at the edge of the school and then they are going to settle the score," Jaimon was in full-on babble mode.

"Calm down, Bob. How do you know we are about to be lynched?"

Salena dropped her bag from her shoulders, making an audible _sput_ noise as the bag's tiny plastic feet made forced contact with the concrete.

"I saw Dowden and Rositer talking during the last period and Dowden was making mimed reference to your towel whip, then Rositer drew him into his group of thugs and they were scheming together. I feel responsible for getting you involved in my problems."

Jaimon's sudden revelation took Salena by surprise and she stared at him for long seconds.

"Gee tar, Bob. But I already told you I like big-round-chubby boys." The smile broke out in full across Salena's face and she giggled, obviously enamoured by his sudden protective announcement. She could see Jaimon was about to launch into another nervous barrage of doomsday predictions so she started to cut him off.

At that moment, two senior boys bumped Jaimon as they passed by, interrupting Salena's speech.

Directing his verbal poison at Jaimon, one boy exclaimed, " _FREAK...!_ "

Jaimon stared back at the boys, stumbling out of the way to let them pass, wondering whether they knew of the proposed attack about to take place.

Salena didn't seem perturbed by the senior boy's torment and refocused on a forming idea. "It's simple, Bob. We take another route home and then devise a surprise counter attack of our own."

Salena's face was aglow with a battle plan.

If Dowden got what was coming to him, how is Salena going to beat Rositer and his gang of thugs at their own game?

Salena swiftly led Jaimon down the driveway and instead of turning right, up to the grey sandy hill at the end of the driveway, she followed the road to the left for a way and then turned off into thick bush via a small bush track not easily visible from the road until they came into a small clearing. Pointing to a fallen tree, she motioned for him to sit onto its trunk.

"Wow!" Jaimon exclaimed. "I had no idea this was here."

"Yeah, it's where I come and think when I have a pressing matter," Salena offered.

She bent down just to the side of him and searched around under the fallen tree. Finding what she was looking for, she produced a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Taking a cigarette, she placed it in her mouth and then lit the other end, dragging in a lungful of pungent smoke and then exhaled it into the air surrounding Jaimon, handing him the cigarette.

"I..I don't smoke, Salena," Jaimon babbled, shocked at her casual expertise with the small, smoking, pencil-like apparatus.

"Look, Jaimon! If we are going to defeat these guys and get them off our backs, you are going to have to trust me and do exactly as I tell you... capisce?!" Salena seemed stern and commanding, thrusting the cigarette at Jaimon once again.

Jaimon took the cigarette from her hand. Her small presence seemed to fill the area and he felt like he couldn't refuse. He lifted the cigarette to his mouth and took a small drag and then began coughing hard, choking on the vile blue smoke.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 24

Two intensely tired ash-grey eyes peered slowly around the room, confused and distracted by the unfamiliar surrounds. A machine was beeping in time with the increasing ache in her head, giving an audible account of her rising fear. From her position confined in a hospital bed, she twisted her neck to face a glass window in the wall of her room and could see people outside in white uniforms moving about in a frenzied chaos of busyness.

A slender woman at a desk directly opposite her window, happened to glance up at that moment and saw the movement from within the observation room. The woman reached for a telephone, not taking her eyes off the glass window and spoke to someone in an urgent tone then finishing her call, she hurried around the observation desk and made her way into the sterile room. Soon the tiny space flooded with official looking people in white lab coats, milling around and checking her vital signs.

"How are you feeling, honey?" the nurse gently stroked her head.

"Tired," she managed to whisper. "Where am I and is Pa alright?" the worried whisper became more stressed and the heart monitor responded in kind.

"You're in University Children's Hospital, Shayden, and he has been in, but he had to go for treatment and he said he would be back as soon as he was finished."

The nurse's soothing words and her cool hand stroking her hot forehead reassured Shayden's heart. It had been a long time since she had had anyone to offer the tenderness of a motherly caress, even if she was only doing her job. Shayden glanced across at the name tag pinned to the nurse's uniform and the nurse followed her gaze and responded in a kind tone.

"My name is Ruth, Shayden, and I will be your nurse while you are here."

Ruth's revelation seemed to momentarily calm Shayden's fears.

"What's wrong with me?" Shayden's gravelly whisper sounded like someone else's voice as she peered up at Ruth's warm brown eyes.

"The doctors don't know yet, Shayden; they're still testing you."

The worry returned to Shayden's face and the heart monitor reacted with this latest piece of news, causing Ruth to respond in damage control mode.

"They're doing their best, sweetheart, and you will be as good as new very soon." Ruth's big smile and reassuring voice calmed Shayden's troubled mind.

Shayden's brow furrowed as she tried to tease out her recollection. "The last thing I remember, I was in my new school, collapsed on the floor and a small boy was shaking me while other students just stepped over me and left me, as if I wasn't there. Then I blacked out and that's the last I remembered until waking up just a few moments ago."

Ruth's gentle face was a mass of compassion and she squeezed Shayden's hand. "Try to rest now. You will be back in school in no time."

*~*~*~*

Doctor Albert Hass' six foot frame stood by the windows of his spacious eleventh floor office and peered out onto the city streets of Atlanta, Georgia, deep in thought. His seventy-two year old mind and body was still in good shape, part of the reason he still had a job with the federal government department and not retired off. He was a shrewd, determined man and when he took over the leadership of the experimental facility forty years ago, it was constantly in the public eye.

The semicircular building represented a much maligned complex and its very existence–although crucial to the nation's defenses–was not welcomed into the city's skyline by the Atlanta population. The installation was accused every time a new strain of influenza, food poisoning or any unexplained health problems swept through the metropolis, causing the government media department to realign the facts and whitewash the populace with its persuasive propaganda. The campaign had become so influential, convincing the public of the uniquely Georgian origin of the experimental institution that it had led the rest of the nation in its cause. The expert diatribe had appealed to the public's competitive nature and they began to take ownership of the establishment, silencing the critics and very soon, the stigma had disappeared altogether.

The sun was going down on a hot and humid day, leaving a ball of deep red in the western sky, while the city lights were just awakening and glistening in the heat, like tinsel on a Christmas tree, against the vast city horizon.

Hass shifted nervously on his feet and shivered as he remembered the day, not unlike today, nearly thirty years ago. A disgruntled employee had stolen a vial of the Ma1-14 virus they had been working on for the army and had thrown it into the exhaust duct of the air conditioning. Fortunately, the filters had arrested its spread into the outside air and the risk–as well as the ex-employee–was arrested before either could do any more damage. Ma1-14 was so deadly to human life and so undetectable, it was decided to destroy any traces of the virus and abandon further development.

Nonetheless, the incident had been leaked to the local media and all of Hass' efforts to downplay the truth had only reignited mistrust among the people and it looked like a full-scale riot would soon put them out of business. The establishment was locked down and surrounded by heavily armed police, until crisis meetings at high level of government could determine a path through the minefield.

Hass, struggling for his own survival, had an idea and after many months of bureaucratic wrangling, convinced his superiors to open the centre to a camera crew. The highly secured premises would be explained to the general public, leaving out crucial areas of restricted experimentation. He would have a small team of scientists led by a petite, attractive woman to showcase the capabilities and safety backup systems to contain and destroy any crucial scientific experimentation that went wrong, while foregoing visiting any of the controversial laboratories. If the public could see the human faces of those who worked in the facility and their unconcerned demeanour and trust in the building's safety systems, then the suspicion and mistrust would evaporate once again.

Hass' hunch had worked. The attractive woman scientist stood before the cameras, softly but confidently explaining all the safety backup systems and capabilities of the complex, allowing crucial experimentation that had concluded in eradication of known diseases in third-world countries. The cameras had diligently followed her throughout the secured corridors, stopping in a change room to don breathing apparatus and plastic protective suits, before entering a low risk experimentation laboratory. The woman had confidently answered–with a charismatic smile and a smooth, convincing but unwavering voice–pointed questions from the media group designed to trip her up.

At the end of the tour, the woman's live performance was seen by a mass audience, satisfied nothing untoward could possibly threaten the safety of their fair city. Soon the populace lost interest again. The demonization and suspicion disappeared behind the cares of day-to-day life while the Department for Biological Defense silently continued on without any further public opposition.

As Hass peered down into the busy streets of Atlanta watching the population going about their business, his mind drifted back to the many emergencies the DBD had suffered through. He shivered again, recalling how close they had come to being permanently shut down and infecting the world's population with Ma1-14, now secretly classified as a weapon of mass destruction.

A loud knock at Hass' office door interrupted his musings and he turned back to face the vast room and the intruding noise that had disturbed his thoughts.

"Yes. What is it?" Hass' tone was verging on annoyance.

The door opened and a colleague entered. "Sorry to disturb you, Doctor Hass, but I think you should see this memo."

Hass took the paper from his colleague and began to read. An astonished shadow passed over his face and he stared at the concerned face of the man standing only metres away. "How is this possible?"

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 25

The small, semicircular conference room deep within the secured confines of the Department for Biological Defense bristled with faces that Doctor Albert Hass hadn't seen for years. Important faces he had hoped he had seen the last of and would not ever see again.

He checked a manifest of characters against the faces represented and ticked off each one, confirming the identity of all present in the room. Satisfied the room contained only invited luminaries, he nodded to the guard standing at the door. The guard spoke into a lapel microphone and then blocked the doorway, preventing anyone from entering or leaving. Concerned eyes followed the guard's movements and it stifled the conversation taking place, realising the people within the room were now, in effect, literal captives. A murmur developed into a crescendo of babble, indignant at their captivity, until Hass raised a hand to silence the group.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for being so prompt to my request for a meeting. I realise that you are all busy and important people in your respective fields and some of you have travelled across the globe to be here. What I have to say may change the face of medicine and world economics, or indeed, it may already have."

A new round of excited chatter erupted and Hass held up his hand again for order.

"Cut the theatrics, Hass, and get to the point!" an indignant voice exploded from the circle.

Hass waited for silence, his tired, bloodshot gaze resting on each face while some of the medical experts returned his glare with equal intensity; others cowered under his stare and looked away. The silence overtook the room as Hass gathered the facts of his mission and finally found a place to begin.

"There has been a spate of new diseases breaking out in intense clusters all over the world. Diseases we thought had been eradicated and others we thought could not be communicated."

An unimpressed professional curled her lip in response and defiantly asked, "Such as...?"

Hass met the curl with a statement that created a ripple of laughter. "Tourette's syndrome, for one."

"Tourette's is not a communicable disease, Doctor Hass," an indignant physician crossed his arms across his chest in defiant disdain, peering around the room at his peers and silently inviting them to ridicule Hass also.

Hass batted away the ridicule with a wave of his hand and continued, "We have a report suggesting a group of high achieving teenage girls, all from the same area and in fact, from the same school came down with the syndrome at the same time and developed tics that are endemic to the condition. One day they were fine; the next they had all the symptoms of Tourette's syndrome. After a period of many months, some of the girls improved but in most cases, it has persisted. In one situation, the syndrome appears to have been communicated to their respective carer. Nonetheless, these bright teenagers have suffered severe cognitive dysfunction and have plummeted from high achievers to something far less."

An excited babble broke out among the group, all shaking their heads in disbelief.

"There is more."

Hass' simple statement stopped the furious diatribe.

"We have seen increased cases of the effects of Lyme's disease, multiple sclerosis, myalgic encephalomyelitis, swine flu, lupus, fibromyalgia – just to mention a few. The re-emergence of a strain of polio has even been detected in some places, as well as an unconfirmed report of a new, deadlier Ebola pathogen. To date, these are the ones we know about and they all have a common thread."

Hass was interrupted by an antagonised voice, "I don't need to tell you how hard we have worked trying to discredit the psychosomatic effects of these diseases, Doctor Hass. Do you have any idea how much just one of these outbreaks on an epidemic scale could cost the insurance industry and the world economy?"

Hass recognised the annoyance paved across the hard face of Denton Miles, representing the powerful Health and Wellness Underwriters. He sighed, knowing full well that politics and economics would soon raise its ugly head in a predictable stance to try and refute his claims.

"What of the many millions who are already suffering from unrecognised but legitimate diseases? People whose only crime it is to be unfortunate enough to have been exposed to these potentially deadly diseases through no fault of their own, while the medical fraternity is bullied into burying its head in the sand, pretending that the patient's genuine symptoms are all psychosomatic. In the meantime, the disease itself goes unchecked and multiplies exponentially while we argue about who's going to pay for it!"

Hass' eyes burnt into Miles.

Denton Miles shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Doctor Hass, does not the Health and Wellness Underwriters fund this facility and in fact, nearly all the work going on in here?"

"Mostly, except for the military's efforts," Hass conceded.

"Then, don't you agree, the suffering of a few... how do I say this?... _useless eaters_ , people who don't contribute to the wealth of the world, is neither a loss or a problem. They would be straining the resources of the people who really count. If these so-called diseases remain psychosomatic and medically ridiculed as nonsense, then they would have to pay the extensive costs involved with their unfortunate disease and its cure, not everyone else." Miles' face contorted into a threat, suggesting Hass would be well advised to leave well alone and drop his futile speech.

Hass, however, had anticipated Miles' tactic and was saving the biggest bombshell for last. He threw out his trump card.

"Through our recent research on the new strains collected from across the world, we believe we have identified an underpinning retrovirus common in all these diseases. The _culprit_ attaches itself to the DNA at a molecular level and when the body copies the DNA to make a repair, the culprit superimposes itself into the DNA and rewrites the DNA roadmap, confusing and destroying the neuro-immune system and the body's ability to heal itself. Once this occurs, the body's defense mechanisms are rapidly destroyed, leaving the cognitive functions, central nervous system and cell motors in ruins. The result is a human being that cannot function. In a military situation, the culprit could debilitate an enemy's entire army and civilian population in a matter of months. It appears this same culprit can attach itself to any viral disease and amplify the symptoms of the virus until it establishes itself on the patient's DNA and overcomes the immune system. To add to the dilemma, the culprit cannot be detected in the body by normal blood testing, as it hides in a slimy film at cell level, making it almost invisible to an uninitiated pathologist."

Hass turned his full attention to Miles.

"The implications of leaving this viral predator unchallenged, Mr Miles, is catastrophic. An epidemic is already happening and left unchecked, it will develop into a pandemic and possibly overtake _the_ _people who really count._ " Hass stared unflinching at Miles and left the statement hanging, to give it weight.

From another part of the room, an old white-haired researcher shifted uncomfortably at the description given by Hass.

"Forgive me if I am wrong, Doctor Hass–and I sincerely hope I am wrong–what you are describing sounds very much like a dangerous project we were working on for the military several decades ago and was abandoned due to its volatile nature. I hope you are not insisting Ma1-14 has somehow risen from the ashes and made a comeback."

The casual and quietly spoken man had his worst fears confirmed by Hass' gentle nod, while a ripple of horror echoed around the room then burst into pandemonium.

Hass sighed loudly and again called the meeting to order; then after the room quietened, he continued, "It has all the destructive hallmarks of the supervirus and we believe it is a version of Ma1-14 and most probably, not the original variety we destroyed. It is possible, a sample we sent around the world to have expert laboratories study has somehow escaped undetected through airborne air currents–into the air conditioning system, for example–and mutated. Unknowingly regenerating and creating a new strain of supervirus."

"What can be done about this?" an anxious woman called across the room.

Hass glared at Miles. "We need to start researching a method to destroy the new strain immediately, before it reaches critical mass."

"Now wait just a minute, Hass. Have you any idea how much this little charade of yours is going to cost?! The government needs to shoulder the expense of this exercise and not the medical fraternity, before you go around shouting _supervirus_!"

Miles peered around the room searching for his counterpart, Dennis Lakely, the representative for the powerful pharmaceutical group who had been strangely quiet. "What do you have to say about this, Dennis?" Miles barked.

Dennis Lakely straightened in his seat, completely unconcerned. "Well, Denton, I am sure we have pharmaceuticals in the pipeline that can deal with any new strain of virus. It makes good financial sense for us to research and develop a pill for this thing, even if it takes us a few decades. I am sure we can turn this to our advantage, therefore the answer is quite simple. To keep the financial stress off the Health and Wellness Underwriters, we just need to discredit any talk of this new supervirus and even ridicule patients that present with symptoms. I am sure we can run a smear campaign throughout the medical fraternity, seeing though we own most doctors and I am sure the government will back us, as usual."

Hass' exasperation was mounting at the offhanded talk. These people were contemplating making big money from cruel human distress and not wanting to deal with an impending pandemic larger than a tsunami. He knew their powerful influence would once again sway the government to be complicit.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 26

A paved cycle trail twisted up past the old deserted mill, steering joggers and cyclists along the quiet babbling waters of Crieton Brook, a favourite for local fitness fanatics. The brook wound around the tired old mill, its ceaseless flowing waters constantly driving the arthritic wooden waterwheel, groaning and complaining and making its tortured overtures known to all who passed.

It was an old sawmill that hadn't seen profitable tenure in nearly fifty years. Douglas fir still grew all around the local area in plentiful supply, but government restrictions and mobile mechanised competitors sounded the death knell for the quaint old mill. The stationary mill couldn't compete with the mobile mills, spending ever greater portions of its meagre profits hauling lumber to the mill from ever increasing distances. The mobile competitors, however, could cut their costs and set up their mills right next to the tall stands of timber, cutting the market price for lumber to the bone. Soon the market had forced the hand of the mill's owners and the old landmark was abandoned, leaving only the crumbling building and the worn out waterwheel as a monument to a bygone era.

In more profitable days, before the recession bit into the county's budget, the Sue's Bridge County community built the cycle track, causing vehement applause from the active youth of the community and drawing bitter objections from the affluent older parts as an opulent waste of money. Today, the meandering path extended to over ten kilometres, some parts wandering into unkempt, thickly vegetated groves, completely obscuring runners and cyclists from outside view. The area around the mill was particularly densely overgrown and as the county had little funds to waste on maintaining the cycleway, it soon dissipated into a minefield of ankle-breaking potholes and unsightly disrepair.

As the recession bit harder and the fortunes of the Sue's Bridge County began to slide even further, the municipality started to resemble that of a shanty town, causing the vast community of the comfortably retired to seek refuge in a district where the economic scenery agreed with their pocket book status and the exodus began in earnest, crippling Sue's Bridge. With real estate prices plummeting and services abandoned, the young of the county faced a bleak future. Those who could, left for the cities, but those who couldn't, drifted into a cloud of drug induced stupor and petty crime to support their habits. Law enforcement was the only lucrative activity and every citizen was a suspect, usually with good reason. Even in such a desperate situation, some of the opulent elderly remained and they were treated like royalty by the leaders of the community, valuing their taxes to keep the community afloat.

Deputy Amanda Bayer stood stooped over the sheriff's desk with two large male deputies on either side of her, listening to the sheriff's monotone. It appeared there had been a botched attack on a female runner near the old abandoned mill early last night. She had escaped her attacker when a passerby came to her rescue, causing the assailant to flee into the thick vegetation surrounding the mill. The description was vague: male; big arms; jacket with the sleeves removed and wielding a knife.

Bayer was a determined deputy, fearless in upholding her duty and even more fearless in promoting the rights of women at every turn. Although she was small in stature, she had the audacity of a pit bull terrier and according to her counterparts, the brains to match. Her equipment belt contained a well used taser, pepper spray, and a loaded Glock 17; next to that an extendable baton and a set of handcuffs. Being so small, she used her baton indiscriminately and if that didn't get the respect she wanted from offenders, the pepper spray usually did. If that failed, the taser was next and if that didn't do the job, a loaded chamber from the Glock 17 was the clincher.

The bigger male deputies often had to dig her out of an escalating situation using diplomacy on _persons of interest_ , rather than Bayer's usual methods akin to an aggravated Chihuahua nipping painfully at P.O.I.'s heels. Deputy Bayer became well known among the community as _Bang Bang Bayer,_ using the protection of her position to _shoot first and ask questions later_.

Amanda Bayer was all too familiar with the cycle track and particularly, the overgrown mill grove. She ran past it on her nightly ritual, the ten kilometre course which started at one end of town, wound through the nearby hills, followed the brook and finished at the other. As she listened to the description given by the sheriff, a chilling feeling ran up and down her spine and then it was quickly replaced by a potent fist-clenching annoyance. She became incensed that a male offender would dare attempt something so cowardly and despicable on a sister runner, using fear to spoil the only enjoyment this little out-of-the-way community had to offer. The intense feelings began to well up inside her while the powerful disdain she felt painted a disturbed picture across her face.

She wasn't going to let any dirtbag male offender scare her off the most enjoyable part of her day, running the mill cycle track at dusk.

"Are you listening to me, Bayer, or are you daydreaming?!" the sheriff's impatient voice shocked her out of her wanderings and he could see her raw emotions pulling a gun on an unknown offender.

"Yeah, boss, right with you," she blushed, realising she had been caught out. "Is there any description of the offender?"

"No, Bayer! Isn't that what I just said?! I don't want any heroics on this case. We work as a team. Am I clear on that, Deputy Bayer?!" The sheriff was well acquainted with Bang Bang's love of offenders, especially male offenders.

Bayer straightened against the sheriff's desk, stared him in the eye and fumed. She was just biding her time until she could get her coveted promotion and kick the sheriff out of office. She managed to control her contempt and pulled her stretched emotions back into professional mode.

"Loud and clear, Sheriff!" her top lip curled in an automatic act of defiance to his leadership.

As if the deputies could read her mind, they both knew about her _not so secret_ desires to become sheriff and smirked at each other. It would be a sad day for law enforcement if Bayer ever got into the sheriff's shoes but knowing the wisdom of today's bureaucrats, it was almost a certainty.

*~*~*~*

At the end of her shift, Amanda Bayer slipped her sizable equipment belt from her small hips and faced her locker. She quickly dressed into civvies and then ran her hand over her Glock 17 police-issue handgun holstered in the equipment belt. Although a deputy never left the station without their weapons while on duty, it was forbidden for a deputy to carry any police-issue weapons while off duty. She picked up her equipment belt and aimed it towards her open locker. Halfway to its intended destination, she changed her mind, causing the belt to swing against the locker's tin walls and _clang_ loudly in the quiet. She checked around the locker rows to see if any other female deputies were in the locker room. Confident she was alone, she removed the Glock from her equipment belt, checked the clip for ammunition and slipped the small, powerful handgun into the elastic of her trousers then pulled her shirt over it and made her way out of the station.

The sun's routine descent into evening was still an hour away as Amanda Bayer locked the front door to her modest rental. The late afternoon had a distinct chill, but the black tracksuit pulled tight around her figure, sealing out the cold. Her running shoes were comfortable; the thick cushions in the soles absorbed the shock of the pounding of her feet on the running surface, allowing her to complete the ten kilometres in just over two hours. By the time she'd re-enter the small community near the completion of the track, it would be completely dark and she would have to rely on the distant street lights to guide her back into town.

The fenced opening at the beginning of the cycle track loomed in front of her. She lifted one leg and stretched her body against a wooden bench, bending and twisting to loosen unprepared muscles for the gruelling run ahead of her, and then repeated the process for the other. She peered up the track, patted the handgun tucked into the elastic of her tracksuit and began her journey.

The track was quiet and the sound of Bayer's feet pounding the pavement filled her ears. Soon her thoughts were drifting to her ambitions as sheriff and her job as a cop that occupied so much of her life and challenged every known part of her decency. Even though it was a cool evening, her tracksuit shirt was stained by a telltale patch of sweat from the brisk pace she had set.

The approaching mill grove shook her from her thoughts. She was halfway through her run and the twilight shadows covered the path in a sinister, threatening pose, a thousand figures ready to pounce on her. The grove began to close in overhead and the darkness intensified while the tortured groans of the waterwheel echoed into the growing darkness, making Bayer feel extremely jumpy.

In the distance, a dark shape stood across her path and blocked her escape. She wasn't sure whether the shape was a threat or just another shadow thrown up by the thick darkness. She slowed her pace and then stopped running, gasping for breath, never taking her eyes off the shadow blocking her path.

"Come on, Bayer, get a grip," she castigated herself, reaching for the gun and calling out in an unsteady voice. "Who's there...?!"

She pulled in a desperate breath as the shadow moved and the figure closed in towards her. In a moment of decision, she emptied the clip at the moving outline and listened, her anxious breaths short and silent.

From out of nowhere, searing pain ripped through her back and the night spun in an uncontrolled spiral, culminating in complete darkness as consciousness cowardly deserted her body to fend for itself.

*~*~*~*

Cutter jolted awake and sat bolt upright from the nightmare, gasping for breath while beads of sweat stung his eyes and trickled down his back. He peered around the darkened room, trying to reorient himself on familiar surroundings. The ugly dream had been so real. He flicked on the small lamp and squinted in the sudden brightness but the hollow, troubled feeling wouldn't leave him.

He dropped to his knees by his bed and began to pray, as images of prison and long forgotten faces flooded his mind and he wondered whether this was a warning from the Holy Spirit, but his trusted guide was ominously silent. As he tried to push the images from his mind, a knot tightened in his stomach while an ominous chill played with his back and he shuddered.

What could this possibly mean?

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 27

Bjarni began to wonder whether the woman had changed her mind, confiding in him. The obvious procrastination seemed to be her way of looking for an escape route. He was all too aware that her desperate flight into the depths of the tundra wilderness while risking her life in a frantic bid to evade... something, was her business alone. In the long moments of silence, she seemed to be arguing with herself and was finding it difficult to locate safety, to untangle a tirade of senseless thoughts. Bjarni knew all too well the struggle. He had made the very same decision nearly sixty years ago and he too, found it difficult to explain the bizarre happenings that had forced him to flee into a life of desperate solitude. He waited, the uncomfortable silence seeming to stretch forever while he contemplated whether he should just put an end to her distress.

Finally, a nervous voice stuttered and broke the tension, her gaze fixed on the floor. "M..my name is Anunya."

At the sound of the woman's strained voice, the big Siberian sat up and faced her as she spoke then nuzzled her hands with his warm muzzle, giving her the confidence to continue. A smile teased her lips at the actions of her trusted companion and she played with his soft ears. Akiak remained at Bjarni's feet, stretched out with her head resting on her front paws, watching the interlude between the two with big, darting eyes.

"I know you think I am foolish for acting like a fugitive, trying to lose myself in the vastness of the wilderness, especially being so unprepared. You are right, Bjarni. I have never handled a gun before and know very little about survival in the tundra, but my reasons for being here are a matter of life and death–my life or death–and disappearing is the only certainty I have that I will not be sent back."

Bjarni shifted uneasily in the old rocker. So far she hadn't told him anything he had not already guessed, but her terminology– _sent back_ –raised some questions. He decided to let her continue at her own pace and not interrupt.

Anunya sighed and then shuddered, placing her hand against the makeshift bandage covering the wound on her face. "The gouge marks on my face are a reminder of my escape from the hands of cruel people and a desperate situation."

Anunya lifted her head towards the old man and she swallowed hard, displaying the depth of vulnerability, her face a mass of tension and trails of tears betraying the fear behind her speech.

Bjarni's heart was touched by the struggling young woman and he whispered across the room, "It's okay, Anunya; no one is going to harm you here."

Just as if Shtiya had understood Bjarni's words, he nuzzled her hands again, giving her permission to tell their story. Feeling a developing sense of trust and Shtiya's encouragement, Anunya relaxed a little more, making it easier to find the confidence to continue. She drew a deep breath and then exhaled, staring at the floor again.

"My mother was pregnant with me when she was kidnapped from our home, somewhere in the wilds of Liverpool Land. I am told, my father was a hunter and he was out hunting when our captors swooped in and took my mother from their home. We, like most Inuit, were semi-nomadic and we lived an isolated life. So by the time he came home, she was long gone. My mother was sure he wouldn't give up looking for us and that her disappearance would have devastated him. Mum never gave up hope and after I was born, she assured me that my dad would be looking for us and one day he would find us and release us from our captors."

It was only now that Bjarni began to see behind the protective walls Anunya had built around herself. He had heard about the raiders that were scouting across the wilderness and taking women and children from their isolated homes and selling them as slaves. He remained silent, assuming Anunya's story had to visit some desperate and disturbing places yet.

Anunya concentrated on a spot on the floor again and then continued, "We were taken to Denmark and sold as slaves to a wealthy business owner and made to live in cages. We worked seven days a week in some terrible circumstances and fed once a day, sleeping on hay in freezing conditions during winter. Summer wasn't much better. I was born in my mother's cage and taken from her soon after she gave birth to me. We weren't supposed to see each other but somehow, Mum found a way around the guards and she kept a close eye on me. We met when it was safe. As I grew, my job was to take care of the dogs while they were being trained for the _Iditarod,_ an Alaskan competitive sled race. The dogs were treated well and often their circumstances were far better than ours."

She absentmindedly played with Shtiya's ears, lost in the awful memories. Almost as if she had been prodded, she regained the thread and continued on.

"The Danish bred dogs were generally pure Siberian husky. They were handsome dogs, big and strong, with unmatched intelligence and fetched big prices for the owners, especially if they won the competition pulling a winning sled. I was twelve years old when Shtiya was born and he was assigned to me to care for. If anything happened to endanger the dogs and they lost their vigour or attractiveness to a buyer, the slave assigned would be beaten mercilessly. Shtiya and I bonded almost immediately and he has kept me from going insane."

A big tear silently plopped from the old man's eye as he watched the trust and emotion Anunya had developed for the big Siberian. It was no wonder Bjarni had had to win the trust of the big dog before he would let him anywhere near her to tend her wounds and nurse her back to life.

Anunya wiped her face. She had opened the dam wall of her emotions for the first time in her short life to a complete stranger and each word seemed to give release and healing to another festering, emotional wound.

"We endured much at the hands of our captors." Anunya's simple statement and faltering speech was followed by a deep, sudden silence while a haunted, faraway look told of atrocities too painful to give breath to.

In a moment of decision, she left that part of her story protected in the silent, shadowy reaches of her memory. Still staring at the floor she continued, "As I turned twenty, I learned that I had been sold to a shaman, some rich weirdo who lived on the outskirts of Qaqortoq at the southern tip of Greenland. I was supposed to become his second wife."

Anunya's face contorted in a frown as the implications of her own words began to sink in.

"Mum was ecstatic that I was going back to Greenland, but I didn't want to leave her to face the horrors alone. The years of captivity hadn't been kind to her and she was very ill. She hoped that I would be able to find my father and finally bring us the freedom and give back the life we should have had."

Anunya wiped at her tears again with the back of her hand, trying to force the thoughts of her sick mother's face from her mind.

"Apparently, the man I was to marry had come to Denmark to pick from the finest of the dogs on sale, as a small sled team for his first wife's enjoyment. He was shown Shtiya and he wanted him as soon as he saw him. The man paid top money for him and four other dogs. I didn't remember seeing the man but supposedly, I was attending Shtiya at that time and he saw us together, so he bought me too, much to his first wife's disgust."

For the first time, Anunya glanced across at Bjarni to see how he was reacting to her story. She was met by a compassionate smile and she could see the watery tracks running down his face. A cautious half smile crossed her features. It was evident how the old man had captured Shtiya's trust and she felt a flicker of hope.

"I was shipped to Qaqortoq, locked inside a soundproofed sea container so that I couldn't escape or bring the situation to the notice of the authorities. I felt like I couldn't breathe and I was slowly suffocating in the dank, claustrophobic jail."

Anunya lifted her head again to see how Bjarni was reacting to this last piece of information. It was obvious he was struggling with her commentary and she wondered whether he was starting to disbelieve the impossible story. She decided to get it all out, anyway.

"When I was finally let out of the container, the first wife took an immediate dislike to me. In the few days that I was imprisoned there, it soon became evident that I was to be her slave and she treated me cruelly. It all happened so fast. Shtiya was attached to her sled with the other four dogs and I had to stand on the back to help the dogs push her through the new fallen snow, while she sat under thick furs and gave orders. At one stage, she wanted the team to pull her through a bank of fresh heavy snow on a joyride. I told her it was impossible for the sled and the dogs to make it through the area she wanted us to go, and she started abusing me. Eventually, I relented and followed her orders. The sled overturned on a steep bank and she was thrown out. She was so mad and I tried to help her to get back into the sled but she came after me, hitting me with a whip she had. Shtiya came to my rescue and dragged the woman off me but as he did, her nails gouged down the side of my face, hoping to spoil my looks so her husband wouldn't take me as a wife."

Suddenly the story was starting to make sense and Bjarni now knew why she had been so secretive and scared, finding it difficult to trust anyone. Bjarni spoke for the first time.

"So you and Shtiya, along with the other dogs, saw an opportunity to escape and ended up here. Did you have any idea where you were going?"

Anunya shook her head. "I have never known anything but bars and confinement and being told what to do. I have to admit the open wilderness scared me and I hadn't even considered running away from what I had known all my life. Shtiya saw the opportunity for freedom and ran the other dogs and didn't stop for nearly two days. When he finally stopped running, the dogs were exhausted and we were deep in the Greenlandic wilderness and in dire straits. I hid under the thick furs the wife had been using, while the dogs hunted down some little creatures and ate them. Shtiya tried to make me eat some of the raw meat he had captured, but I just couldn't. I hadn't eaten for nearly a week when Shtiya found you and the rest, you know."

Bjarni drew in a deep breath and exhaled. Anunya's story had affected him profoundly. "Well, that's some run your dogs did. You covered nearly 1800 kilometres across some pretty inhospitable territory."

Anunya suddenly looked vulnerable, considering her immediate future and then she spoke. "I am grateful for the way you have cared for me and my dogs. I have no idea what to do from here."

Bjarni read the fear in her eyes and the silent plea for help. It was the first time she had met his eyes since her story began.

"Well, Anunya, you aren't in any fit state to be wandering the wilderness looking for your father, especially if you have no idea who he is or where to find him. My guess is that the man who _bought_ you will be looking for you too, and will stop at nothing to recapture you and the dogs. You are safe here for the moment. Let's see what we can figure out."

Anunya's tense shoulders drooped in relief at Bjarni's words, as if a huge load had been removed from them and for the first time, a cautious smile lit her damaged face. The old man had accepted her story and seemed to be ready to help her in the quest to regain her life.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 28

Katu's conservatism and negative attitude towards Bruun's ability to survive in the wilderness was starting to grate on Bruun's nerves. After all, he was young and fit and able to outfox anything the tundra could throw at him. He tossed and turned on the mattress in the kitchen, listening to the wind howl through the wooden rafters and the occasional explosive _bump_ as ice and snow detached from the high raked roof and clattered to the ground outside. Light and heat escaped around the partially closed stove door and danced in hypnotic movements on the walls and ceiling, illuminating Bruun's pack and meagre belongings scattered untidily over the kitchen floor. He rolled over again, hoping to fall asleep, but sleep just wouldn't cooperate and frustration moved in instead.

Bruun stared at his pack as the wheels of a despondent mind began to rotate and a fledgling plan formed in the dark recesses of Bruun's recklessness. He kicked off the highly insulated survival sleeping bag and raised himself onto an elbow, staring at his pack while remembering Katu had avoided all of his casual questions about the elusive wild men of the wilderness. Feeling like Katu was treating him like an imbecile and the information he wanted was not forthcoming, he came to an abrupt decision.

He lifted himself from the mattress and hastily collected his scattered belongings into a pile and stuffed them into his pack, then crept out into the business part of the outpost and began to gather tinned food from the shelves. His eyes settled on a rifle rack, while Katu's threatening words came back to his mind.

Do you have a rifle, Mr Bruun? I do and I know how to use it!

Bruun swallowed hard at the memory of the threat and eyed a new bolt-action rifle encased in the wall rack. As he lifted it down from the rack, the price tag swung lazily and dangled from an elastic band attached to the trigger. It felt good in his hands, nicely balanced and comfortable for his lanky frame. In the dim light, he checked the sights of the gun on a light fixture on the opposite wall, as if he was hunting game.

_This will do just fine,_ he thought. He knew once Katu found his stock missing and that Bruun had obviously stolen from him, Katu would try to follow Bruun, turning his threat into reality. He searched around for ammunition and grabbed a likely box then stuffed it into his jacket. Juggling the rifle and the canned food, he crept back into the kitchen and dropped his booty silently onto the mattress, all the time listening intently for sounds that Katu had discovered his treachery.

Assured he had not been discovered, he stuffed the cans into a zippered compartment, rolled his sleeping bag into a tight cylinder and roped it to the top of his pack. Lastly, he dropped to the mattress and pulled on his lace-up insulated hiking boots, making sure they were tightly tied but comfortable enough for a long walk. He wiggled his toes and stretched his feet against the restraints of the nylon, satisfied the boots were comfortable and that the thick socks would insulate his feet against the cold.

He grabbed for the pack and threw it over his shoulders, then threaded his arms through the straps and pulled it tight against his back. Bent forward to balance the burden of his pack, he searched around the kitchen to make sure he hadn't left any of his belongings behind then grabbed up the bolt-action rifle from the mattress. The feel of the polished butt in his hands and the cold steel barrel gave him a new confidence.

Considering the weight of his new situation, he checked his watch: 4am. It wouldn't be light for hours and he had an advantage to put some distance behind him before Katu woke and came looking for him.

Bruun carefully opened the door to the outpost but was almost pushed back inside as the wind tried to wrench it from his grip. Fighting for control, he slipped past the door and heaved it closed behind him, with a groan, then waited on the porch for a few minutes, watching and listening for signs that Katu had heard the ruckus and was about to put an end to him and his plans.

Satisfied the only movement was the tenacious storm, Bruun climbed down the three wooden steps into the darkness and onto the frozen tundra ground. He leaned into the tumult while his boots squelched, trying to grip the new snow and make headway against the formidable, snowy maelstrom.

*~*~*~*

Katu yawned contentedly under the warmth of the heavy comforter, a gift from his supplier in Denmark. He would never have chosen the fluffy item for himself but he wasn't going to say no to such a comfortable reward for his business patronage. Katu could still hear the relentless wailing outside; it hadn't abated and was still as ferocious as when he'd retired for the night. The sun was up, but it was still bitterly cold beyond the warmth of his bed. He listened for any signs that Bruun had risen and was moving around. Hearing no evidence of movement, Katu decided Bruun was still asleep and for the first time in a long time, Katu rolled over, pulled the plush luxury over his head and drifted back to a warm, peaceful sleep.

A sudden explosion of ice and snow slid from the roof outside just above Katu's bed and crashed down on the outside of the wall only feet away from where he slept, making him jump at the sudden noise.

Katu huffed at the intrusion to his sleep and then checked his watch, believing he had only slept for a short time. He jumped up at the sudden realisation he had been asleep for over two hours and it was fast approaching 10am. Katu hastily dressed for the day, pulling his favourite polar bear furs over his cold body and relaxed back into the well-worn familiar warmth, ready to start his day.

Katu called from the bedroom as he pulled on his bearskin boots, "Bruun, are you up?!"

No answer.

He walked out into the kitchen and found Bruun's mattress empty, while all of his untidy possessions were missing and the kitchen stove had gone out.

Panic gripped Katu's stomach, hoping Bruun hadn't done what he suspected. He bent to feel for warm spots on the mattress, but it was cold. Katu's mind did a mental check then he hurried out into the store and peered around, noticing immediately the new bolt-action rifle was missing. He paced up and down the shelves, realising his meticulous stocking routine had been disturbed and gaping holes in some of Bruun's favourite canned food was evident.

He sighed angrily. "Stupid kid!" For the moment, Katu was more concerned for Bruun's safety than for the stolen stock, although stealing from him didn't sit well either.

He strode for the kitchen again and removed his semi-automatic rifle from his hidden gun cupboard, grabbed a loaded clip and forced it into the gun's breech. He strode back to the bedroom and grabbed the keys for the snowmobile, hoping it would start in the frozen conditions. Tracking Bruun would test Katu's skill to the limit, especially since he would be expecting Katu's backlash at such a stupid mission, on foot and into the depths of the wilderness during a howling gale. To make things worse, Bruun would be trying to hide from him and Katu held grave concerns that all he would find would be a frozen corpse.

Aware of the desperate situation and that time was critical, Katu threw open the outside doors to the room sheltering the snowmobile from the cold outside air, thrust the key into the ignition and cranked the starter. The starter groaned at first and then eventually gathered speed, winding the cold engine over and over. Katu pulled the choke fully out and the engine spluttered and then stalled.

"Come on, girl," Katu hissed and tried the starter again.

Finally the engine caught, spluttering until Katu pushed the choke partially open again, leaving white clouds of water vapour and humidity trailing from the exhaust and hanging lazily in the frozen atmosphere.

With no time to waste, Katu selected _reverse_ , gunned the cold engine and steered the machine out into the howling wind. Stopping by the porch, the snowmobile's engine rolled and rocked until it had developed enough warmth to finally idle smoothly. He tried to find some trace of evidence as to which direction Bruun had chosen and he peered out into the north, thinking Liverpool Land may have been his desired route until he remembered Bruun's comment describing Bjarni Kleist as the legendary wild man. Katu figured if Bruun had studied Bjarni's situation, he would also know in which general direction to start the process of locating him.

With Katu's decision settled, he kicked up the throttle aggressively and the snowmobile surged into gear and started towards the northwest in the direction of Scoresby Land. He opened the throttle wide and settled his body into the comfortable seat of the machine while a small rooster-tail of snow exuberantly trailed out the back of the machine as it ploughed through areas of thick powder and sped towards the wide open tundra.

_Depending on Bruun's lead, it shouldn't be too hard for the machine to catch up with someone on foot_ , he thought _._

Almost an hour of high speed travel had passed, cutting through vast track of frozen tundra while Katu began to second-guess his decision to head northwest. He hadn't seen any tracks or signs that Bruun had passed by the direction he was travelling, and the wind-driven snow was making tracking more and more difficult. His face was numb with cold, and icicles formed and hung from his fur hood, eyebrows and face scarf.

Up ahead, a rock overhang sheltered the path from the driving wind. This was exactly the break that Katu was looking for and if Bruun had made it this far, he may be sheltering in the lee of the outcrop, or at least left some tracks that could give an indication of what condition he was in. The outcrop would confirm Katu's decision to travel northwest and whether he had anticipated Bruun's intentions correctly.

As the rocky outcrop came into view, the wind's ferocity was divided and there in front of Katu, laid out like a road map, were footprints leading past the calm lee and disappearing back into the storm.

Katu's gamble on Bruun's direction appeared to have paid off.

Throttling back, the snowmobile drifted to an abrupt stop beside the tracks. Katu dismounted cautiously, leaving the engine running. He checked the footprints carefully, hoping to gain insight into Bruun's condition. Bruun's tracks stamped confidently into the snow, giving Katu the impression he was still in good physical condition. But he wondered how long Bruun could keep up the pace in such an appalling storm, while the wind chill dropped the temperature dramatically as nightfall crept ever closer.

Katu turned towards the snowmobile and took a few steps, when something in his periphery caught his eye. He turned back in the direction of the end of the rock wall, just before Bruun's footsteps left the shelter of the outcrop and faded back into the wind. He bent to examine another track, overstamping Bruun's.

The implications of what he was seeing made him gasp and he stumbled backwards, away from the print in shocked horror. The sheer size of the track caused the fear in Katu to rise as he examined the massive paw print. He had never seen a pad print so big before and the track was obviously following Bruun's.

Bjarni's description, just a few short weeks ago, of a single, powerful blow that had killed a large nanuq sent shivers up his spine. Bjarni was right all along and now he had witnessed the unbelievable evidence firsthand. If this monster could kill another huge bear with a single blow, it was no wonder Bjarni lived with the nightmare of his encounter with the beast.

Katu stared, horrified at the massive pad print just millimetres away from where he stood and its intent, clearly following Bruun. The consequence of the print numbed his mind and fear prickled at his back while his lips incredulously mouthed the words.

"Ataneq Nanuq."

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 29

Doctor Allan Brooks puzzled over the file in front of him. He had never seen anything like this before. The blood work showed nothing but normal numbers: erythrocytes around fifty percent; leukocytes a robust one percent; a strong representation of thrombocytes; and the plasma showed healthy signs of sugars, hormones, antibodies and protein. But yet the patient complained of overwhelming, profound listlessness – almost a paralysis; feeling violently ill; pain; nausea; dizziness; noise and light intolerance; increased chest pressure – she described it as being like a sumo wrestler sitting on her torso; and a total lack of energy. There wasn't proof of the patient's complaints reflected in any of the tests and it just didn't add up although they did show some signs of post-exertional malaise; orthostatic intolerance; cognitive dysfunction; fever; sweating; as well as heart rate, blood pressure and circulating blood volume level abnormalities.

He turned towards his desk computer and clicked on the _rod of Asclepius_ icon, the current represented medical insignia, and the programme opened with a screen sized snake curled around a rod, rotating in front of the doctor. The programme eventually asked for a login code so Brooks complied and punched in his hospital password. After a brief pause, the programme cleared his access and a complex search page appeared, impatiently punctuated by a flashing cursor requiring him to fill in the parameters of his request. Brooks sighed and typed in the patient details and symptoms, followed by the results of the blood work, pushed _enter_ and waited for a result. After a while, a list of possible contenders displayed on the screen.

Brooks started at the top of the list, clicking open each file and carefully examining the description of each disease. He quickly rejected most of the list and was left with the last two possibilities: Lyme's disease and myalgic encephalomyelitis. He shifted on his chair and then rested the mouse over Lyme's disease and clicked it open. Immediately a warning page confronted Brooks and he read through the statement with great dread.

Clinicians confronted with patients describing the symptoms associated with this syndrome should be cautious. Before proceeding with any diagnosis or prescribing medication for symptoms, the physician should first conduct a full psychiatric evaluation as this apparent disorder has been thoroughly researched and the results have been proven to be of a psychosomatic nature.

Doctors disregarding the advice of the DBD and the Institute for Medical Diagnostics run the risk of disciplinary action and the suspension of their medical licence, together with the cost of patient care. Patient care, other than that associated with a legitimate psychiatric institution, will not be covered by the medical insurer.

This psychosomatic condition has its roots in clinical depression and is regarded as a psychiatric disorder, culminating in the patient's unwillingness or an inability to deal with the stresses of life. This condition should not be dealt with in any medical form other than a psychosomatic framework.

Brooks was stunned and clicked open the page associated with myalgic encephalomyelitis and read the same warning. He compared the symptoms listed on the pages and they were very similar, only that Lyme's disease had allegedly been attributed to the bite of a dermacentor, whereas discredited researchers could find no fanciful origin or carrier for myalgic encephalomyelitis.

_What on earth is a dermacentor_? Brooks puzzled, then flicked open another search engine, carefully tracing down the list of possibilities until he found what he was looking for. _Dermacentor – Category: Mite or Tick; Common name: Tick,_ Brooks read and then turned the information over in his mind, flopping back into his office chair and not sure what to make of the new knowledge he now possessed.

In light of the threat contained within the warning, it was time to turn the case of Shayden Glenn over to his superiors to make a decision. The young girl had already consumed large amounts of hospital resources and if she had the syndrome Brooks suspected, the hospital would need to refer her case to a psychiatric institution for further treatment and demand that her guardian pay the extensive costs associated with her little game of deceit.

*~*~*~*

Morning's chilly pre-dawn air was heavy with the expectancy of winter. The immature orange sunrays played hide and seek with the mountain peaks while itinerant, newborn light beams exuberantly chased around the peaks and projected shadowy images of gold on the backdrop of the cowering night sky. The juvenile beams were devoid of strength to warm the chill from the landscape; but their mature parent was rapidly following and held within it the full force of dawn, while compassionately languishing for a time in the shadows, preparing the creatures of the night for a hasty retreat into their nocturnal sanctuaries before chasing the darkness away completely and flooding their deeds in the full warmth of daylight for all to see.

Madison Brenn turned his back to face the rising sun, hoping the warmth would help to relieve the stiffness in his aging body. At forty-two he was still a bachelor and running each morning was the way he kept in shape, hoping that today was the day he met _Miss Right_ and she would sweep him off his feet. It seemed more likely, as he got older and the available female pickings decreased, he would trip over his feet and fall on his face instead. Still he forced himself to run–or walk–the ten kilometre track each morning in the hope of meeting his dream girl, or at least impressing _some_ girl... _any_ girl!

He stood looking up the track and contemplated giving this morning's run a miss, when a stab of conscience sealed his fate, remembering his waistline and last night's enormous greasy meal he had succumbed to, washed down with copious amounts of alcohol.

Brenn sighed and argued with himself. "Alright, you win! But I'm only doing half the course today!" His cranky voice moaned out loud in the quiet surrounds as if he was telling off an argumentative companion.

With all the determination he could muster, he lifted his feet in a forced jog towards the old mill and the halfway point of his torment.

By the time Brenn entered the _viticetum_ overhanging the pathway and just prior to the mill, he had slowed to an unenthused walk and sweat soaked his tee shirt. He had intended on turning back just before entering the mill grove, but an obsessive compulsive desire to touch the mill wheel and complete the halfway point exactly, overcame him and pushed him on to his manic goal, lest something untoward would likely overtake him if he failed in his endeavour. The morning light was heavily dappled into long shadows inside the thick mill grove and the temperature was considerably cooler than the pleasant outside warmth. The sweat staining Brenn's shirt was making him feel even colder and he shivered, causing him to pick up the pace again in an attempt to complete his mission of touching the waterwheel and at the same time, generate some body warmth. He could hear the sounds of the arthritic wheel screeching and complaining in the distance as the cold water tortured its ancient beams.

Finally the wheel came into view just ahead and as he made a deliberate path for the splintered wood, his feet shot from under him and he stumbled to the ground, as if he was skating on marbles. He fell heavily to his knees and soon began to blame a prankster for placing ball bearings on the path, intent on doing an innocent runner a great disservice and preventing him from touching the wheel.

Brenn's mind began to argue with the pain, but he had to touch the wheel before something worse befell him. He stumbled to his feet and carefully picked his way around the minefield of metal and limped towards the rotating wood. With a final lunge, his injured hand came in contact with the damp wood and discharged his obsessive compulsive obligation to an unknown force. He was now free to return the way he had come without fear of an unknown reprisal.

As Brenn limped back to the spot he had stumbled, his eyes rested on a large scattering of empty bullet cartridges and a fresh, dark red stain tracking across the path. The truth of his situation soon enlightened his mind: he had taken a fall on the empty bullet cartridges. He checked his injured knees for signs of leaking life blood, but soon it had become evident the blood wasn't his and someone–or something–else had, not long ago, wandered upon some kind of treacherous skulduggery.

Brenn peered around the grove, looking for signs of life or death and finding nothing except the fresh blood stain, his imagination kicked into high gear and before whatever it was could come after him, he limped out of the grove as fast as his banged up knees would allow.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 30

By the time Jaimon had coughed away the cigarette smoke, cleared his lungs and was able to speak again, Salena was pacing around the small bush hideaway, deep in thought and seemingly conversing with herself.

The thoughts of Rositer still waiting to ambush them at the top of the grey hill made Jaimon nervous and he wondered how long they should wait before they attempted to make a break for home. He opened his mouth and began to speak and was met with a determined, "Sssshhh!" from Salena, as whatever she was contemplating was requiring all of her concentration.

Jaimon obeyed her sharp command, snapping his mouth closed in instant obedience while cautiously watching the small figure pacing. His eyes followed her every move, as his anxiety rose at the odd behaviour that his best friend was displaying. At one stage she walked up close to where Jaimon was sitting, absentmindedly snatched the smouldering cigarette from Jaimon's hand and began to drag exuberantly, filling the air around her with clouds of suffocating cigarette smoke while continuing her one-sided diatribe.

Salena seemed to have come to a decision and her gaze rested on Jaimon. The intensity of her stare made Jaimon feel uncomfortable, as if she was staring at a piece of meat. She flicked the smoking butt into the thick, dry bush, making Jaimon jump in protest. It wouldn't take much for the tinder-dry surrounds to catch and turn into an inferno. In a matter of moments, a small plume of smoke confirmed his fears and he plunged headlong into the scrub and stamped out the burgeoning disaster.

"What is it with you, Salena?!" Jaimon's annoyance at her lack of wisdom exploded as he returned from his fire fighting mission.

Salena seemed to snap out of whatever she was thinking, at Jaimon's harsh words. "Sorry, Bob, I guess I was so enthralled in our plan that I just wasn't thinking."

Salena–Jaimon's friend–seemed to be back. Jaimon didn't like the scheming Salena. She scared him. He decided to push his luck and make his point.

"What's with the cigarettes, too, Salena?!"

"I don't usually smoke them," Salena appeared to be defensive. "On occasions like this they help me to think. I don't know, Bob," she searched her behaviour, mystified by her own actions.

Suddenly she brightened. "I have a plan, Bob, but we are going to need some help and you are going to have to trust me implicitly."

Salena eyed Jaimon to see if he was up for her game.

"Help...? Where are we going to get help against Rositer and his gang of thugs?" Jaimon was intrigued. _Who did this little powerhouse know that would help him get a bunch of school bullies off their backs?_ he thought.

Salena took Jaimon's hand and led him back to the fallen tree. "You have to promise me to follow me exactly and do exactly what I do, promise?"

Salena seemed to be asking for a commitment Jaimon didn't understand, and Jaimon was becoming uneasy.

"There is only one way we can get these guys off our backs, once and for all. Do you want that, Jaimon?"

"Of course I do, but you are really freaking me out at the moment, Salena. What is it you want me to do?"

"Like I said, just trust me and follow me and do what I do exactly."

Salena waited for Jaimon to come to his decision as Jaimon thought for a moment. Rositer was probably still waiting and if he didn't catch Jaimon and Salena today, there was still another chance tomorrow and the next day, until he finally evened the score.

"Okay, Salena, I'm in. Now what?"

Salena seemed to be pleased at Jaimon's decision. "Okay, Rositer has left the hill now and is on his way home. I need you to come with me to a friend's house and then I will explain from there."

Jaimon still felt uneasy and the mention of Salena's friend just made matters worse. _And how did she know Rositer had left the hill?_

"Okay, but I can't be too late home, otherwise I will get another beating from my father."

They walked determinedly out of the little bush hideaway, along the road leading to the base of the grey sandhill and started to climb. Jaimon searched the surrounds nervously, but Salena was right. The hill was deserted and the only movement came from the school yard behind them as teachers finally called it a day and drove out of the eerily quiet school grounds.

Salena put up a rapid pace and Jaimon found it difficult to keep up with her. For such a small person, she sure could muster up some horsepower.

"Slow down, Salena. What's the rush, anyway? Rositer and his thugs have gone home," Jaimon complained.

"Sorry, Bob. I forget myself when I become focused. There's a lot to do to prepare before tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow morning?" Jaimon mimicked her.

Salena's cloudy stare rested on his eyes. "Well, that's probably when Rositer will pull his move." She seemed convinced of his intended attack schedule.

Jaimon went quiet as Salena dragged him through the maze of streets and alleys. Finally, they slipped up a short back lane and stopped at a large gate. Salena reached her small arm through a hole in the gate iron and unlatched a locking mechanism, then pushed the gate open. A large tin shed sat in the middle of a sprawling yard and an expansive white house stood some distance away; a small water course, driven by an electric pump, splashed over rocks and meandered through a thick, sculptured Japanese garden. Statues of little fat men and gargoyles were placed strategically around.

The scene gave the impression of peace, but something didn't feel right.

Salena closed the gate and pulled Jaimon along by his arm towards the shed.

"What is this place?" Jaimon's fear was prickling and his suspicion was on high alert.

"Ssshhh, you have to be quiet, otherwise you will disturb people; remember, just do what I tell you."

As they closed in on the shed, they were met by a creepy looking woman dressed in a multicoloured sari, blocking their path to the tin building.

"Is this the one, Salena?" the woman whispered.

Jaimon backed away slightly from the woman and watched Salena affirm her question with a nod. He wanted to run but his feet felt like concrete.

The woman huffed. "Maybe there will be some interest in a small boy. They seem to get bored with the same round of brainless bimbos looking for a good time. Does he know the rules and the price?"

Salena just shook her head.

"Well, perhaps that will be a bigger incentive and add a playful dimension for the _players_ and perhaps he might get lucky. You will have to warn him about the enemy," she instructed Salena sternly.

Salena nodded again.

The woman stood aside and motioned Salena towards the shed. Salena pulled Jaimon along, but his feet seemed to be disconnected from his body. They apparently wanted to follow her but the rest of him wanted to run. He hadn't understood, either, anything the woman had said and was trying to ask Salena about the strange place, but it was if he couldn't speak and his mind was descending into a foggy jumble.

As they turned a corner in the pathway of the garden, the inside of the shed came into view. A whole wall had been removed and was open, while a group of mostly women were sitting, stiff in the lotus position on the polished floor and staring, trance-like, into the garden outside. Their stoned features were silent and unmoving, vacant and staring.

Jaimon gawked in shocked horror at the scene and tried to speak, but a high pitched squeak came out instead.

"Ssshhh, I told you to be quiet!" Salena hissed. Her ire was up at Jaimon's lack of respect. "You can't disturb the _surfers_."

Salena swiftly dragged him inside the shed, towards the back of the group and took up a vacant space on the floor, assuming the same position the others had taken. She pointed to a place close by and mouthed, _'Sit and follow my example'._

Jaimon felt as if he wasn't in control of his own body but he was forced to obey Salena and copy her position.

Before long, Jaimon found himself becoming extremely tired and his energy drained away–like a rag doll, listless and empty–powerless and staring into nothingness but strangely disconnected from his body and everything around him. Somehow he felt vulnerable, as if his defenses had all been breached and made useless.

A sudden movement–like a flutter in a cloud–startled him, but he couldn't respond. Then a doorway opened in front of him and a great horde of beings jostled each other for position while Jaimon watched helplessly, as they fought to get a look at the new surfer.

The beings were all different: some handsome and charming, while others were ugly and gruff. The group became unruly and the jostling intensified among themselves, arguing for the legal right. Meanwhile, a small being fluttered unnoticed through the doorway and Jaimon jolted uncontrollably, his head snapping backwards as the door slammed closed on the horde and once again, he was aware of his surroundings.

Jaimon peered around the room at the statue-like figures still motionless in the lotus position. His eyes rested on Salena but she was unresponsive to his gaze and still entombed in her trance. He felt like this was his opportunity to escape this weird place and without a second thought, he jumped up and bolted for the garden. Seeing no barriers to his escape, he ran as fast as his feet could carry him towards the back gate and fidgeted with the lock. As the lock gave way, he threw open the big gate covering the large backyard and ran as fast as he could, looking for a recognisable route back home.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 31

After leaving Salena almost comatose back at her friend's bizarre shed, he wandered breathlessly through the unfamiliar streets, frantic that he was going to be late home and meet the full force of his father's ire. The whole experience had left him disturbed, and Salena's friends just added to the creepy dilemma, wondering what other whacky surprises Salena had up her sleeve.

As he finally recognised familiar landmarks and made his way into the front yard of his home, he could feel the anxiety drain, but as his eyes locked onto his father's car parked in the driveway, a new dread entered his imagination and he prepared for the worst.

Reaching for the front door, he pushed it open and immediately focused on the kitchen clock as his mother turned and threw him an enquiring glance. He was late and the consequences would be swift and brutal, so he decided to go straight to his room and mentally prepare for the inevitable.

Time seemed to drift along as he waited, but retribution didn't come; then finally, he heard his mother calling him to the meal table. Anxiously, he dawdled out into the night time routine, searching the surrounds with an imminent foreboding until his eyes rested on the form of his father asleep in his lounge chair.

"Sit down," his mother whispered and then she stiffly wandered in to wake his father. "Hank... HANK! Tea's ready."

The overbearing form slowly ground awake and arthritically raised himself from his chair and settled at the head of the table. After a few moments of silence, punctuated by the clanking of knives and forks on china, a sudden, shocking and unexpected reverberation rumbled through the meal time silence and grabbed Jaimon's attention with the subtlety of an explosion.

"What did you do at school today, Jaimon?"

Jaimon glanced around at the faces forking food into their mouths and staring sideways back at him, eagerly waiting to see what his answer would be. His mouth dried up and he choked on a mouthful of food, while his mother patted his back. Jaimon stared at her gesture in disbelief and then found the nerve to answer the authoritarian.

"I..It was just a normal day, sir," he replied incredulously.

*~*~*~*

Jaimon had had a weird night's sleep and his dreams were stirred and tormented by ogling faces and then battle scenes with a single, featureless figure dressed in commando fatigues, always at the forefront of the fray and screaming orders to his inane and lost senses.

*~*~*~*

Jaimon plodded the streets, walking to rendezvous with his daily nemesis and wondering what horrors awaited him there today. As he casually climbed the sandy hill overlooking the school property, his mind was so distracted with his family's unusual behaviour towards him that he completely forgot about Rositer's gang of thugs and the waiting reprisal for Salena's attack on Jim Dowden.

As he topped the hill he scanned the landscape, looking for Salena, but after being creeped out by her strange behaviour and that of her friends, he wasn't sure how he was feeling about their friendship any more.

Ambling absentmindedly down the slope, he was suddenly pounced upon from all directions by a large crowd. Recognising the growing audience that surrounded a person on death row and feeling like a Christian about to be fed to the lions, Jaimon had walked straight into Rositer's ambush and now he couldn't escape.

The momentum and the sheer size of the crowd kept him moving down towards the snarling form of Rositer, and by his side, the crooked grin of Jim Dowden. He felt the blood rush to his feet and simply resigned himself to the coming beating.

As Jaimon stood to face the inevitable, his shoulders slumped and he flinched as Rositer grabbed the front of his shirt and twisted his buttons into a bundle of stressed cloth.

From deep within Jaimon, a resonant voice he had never heard before and had no control over, bubbled up and escaped between his lips. Without warning, he grasped Rositer's shirt and ripped it from his back.

The scene in front of him seemed surreal and moved in slow motion, while he felt like a bystander, watching from a camera hidden inside his body and way too close to the action. He heard the crowd scream in a muffled and garbled baritone warble and then Rositer went flying through the air and landed heavily in the sand some distance away. He felt his body turn towards Dowden and in a horrified action, Dowden tripped over backwards trying to escape Jaimon's advance and then scurried to escape a repeat of Rositer's punishment.

The crowd began to disperse rapidly, fleeing from Jaimon's approach like a shark darting through a school of small fish and parting before their attacker, hoping to escape being eaten alive.

Jaimon's head bounced from side to side, wobbling like a spring carrying a heavy load and then he felt the controls of his body jolt back into his command, knocking him to his knees in the commotion.

By the time he'd raised himself to his feet again and steadied his tremulous frame, he glanced down and studied the decimated rag, still grasped firmly in his hand and recognised the remainder of Rositer's black shirt. He scanned the deserted hill slope, grasping for understanding at what had just happened. Even the shirtless Rositer had made an emergency exit, leaving Jaimon alone with his traumatic musings.

"G'day, Bob."

Jaimon spun to face the little redheaded girl, figuring she was at the centre of this latest, unbelievable situation. "What did you do, Salena? What just happened...?!"

"Calm down, Bob. The cavalry just came and kicked Rositer's butt, that's all." Salena's cloudy eyes bored into him.

"Look, this whole thing is frightening me. You had better explain exactly what is going on and especially that spooky thing last night," Jaimon's voice quavered and his hands shook with fear.

Salena sighed heavily. "Okay... but we had better wag the rest of today and let the gossip circulating around the school settle back down."

"I..I can't, Salena, my fath..."

"Yeah, yeah... Poppy wouldn't be pleased! Haven't you connected the dots yet, Jaimon? And trust me, you don't want to be mingling with those losers down in the school grounds after your little display just now!"

Jaimon nervously kicked at the sand and then came to a decision, with a heavy sigh. "Alright, let's go to the fallen tree just down the road and you had better come clean with me."

*~*~*~*

Salena reached under the fallen tree and retrieved a packet of cigarettes and lit up, drawing a lungful of pungent poison and then exhaled, leaving a heavy blue cloud hanging in the air above Jaimon. Pointing the filtered end towards him, she offered him a drag of her cigarette. He shook his head, annoyed she hadn't remembered his previous objections.

"Stop stalling, Salena, and tell me exactly what just happened."

Salena nodded, perched on the tree trunk next to him, staring at the ground and hoping, for his sake, her star trainee would choose to travel the crossroad she was pointing him down.

"Okay, let's back up first of all to yesterday. Mrs Myriate–the woman's place we went to–is a professional guide and has been trained to _channel_ people looking for a supernatural experience."

Jaimon shifted uneasily and waited for the next instalment of Salena's explanation, while Salena's cloudy eyes watched Jaimon's eyes dilate in fear.

"What we were doing is known as _surfing._ It's when we approach a _portal_ in the supernatural world, by emptying ourselves of all personal control of our minds and bodies. This is how we try to attract a _player_... it's called a _trance_. A player is a supernatural being which has a certain personality and range of power we are looking for, to give us more power to gain what we want."

"W..wait a minute. You mean all those weird faces I saw, were supernatural beings?"

"Yep, you're starting to get the picture. If a player likes what he sees, he will climb through the portal we have opened and inhabit our spirit, giving us his attributes and power. It's very much a case of what players are roaming the portals at the time of our communication and in some cases, it has been known for a _Terrorclasto_ to climb through, but that is very rare."

" _Terrorclasto_...?! What on earth is that?" Jaimon's eyes were huge.

"Well...! Those dudes are like the almost top of the tree, but they are so bad tempered, mean and extremely powerful that they usually won't do anything a surfer asks. Trust me, you don't want to be near a portal when they are in the vicinity."

Jaimon's fear was making him squirm. Salena noticed and moved quickly to finish her explanation.

"The players have ranks: the lower ranks are the _Whimpitclasto_ s. They usually are the annoying little players that hang around like a fly, have little power and are more of annoyance to a surfer. These are the ones that enter into the bimbos you see surfing, hoping for maximum power to make themselves attractive to men; then there are the _Bettitclastos._ They have greater power and are the most commonly surfed players, but they have a mix of personalities. Some are charming and cooperative and some... just are not; next are the _Intetterroclastos._ These dudes are the most helpful when it comes to situations like you had this morning with Rositer. They are usually militant players, better than the _Bettitclastos_ , but they soon hide in obscurity when a _Terrorclasto_ is lurking nearby. It's kind of a sign to close down the portal when the _Intetterroclastos_ suddenly disappear. Lastly, the _Reptoclastos_ are the top of the tree, but I wouldn't worry about them. They aren't interested in surfers or the portals unless there is something specific they see in a surfer. These dudes are the ones that take over countries and create havoc among the Chr... err, the enemy."

Jaimon stared directly at the little redheaded girl. "I didn't think that doing yoga was such a dangerous affair."

Salena laughed at Jaimon's ignorant assumption. "Huh...! Yoga is just a tag to cover the real intent of surfing. It is only one of thousands of portals used by surfers looking for a greater supernatural experience and if you are looking to engage the powerful dudes, you use a portal known to attract that kind of power. _Terrorclastos_ swarm around Ouija board portals, tarot card reader portals, and any portal directed by a human medium. They love the uninformed and ignorant surfers that lay themselves open to their control. Usually these surfers are the ones that end up in mental hospitals or in jail after the _Terrorclastos_ wreak havoc with their minds and bodies, causing them to commit all sorts of lewd and illegal acts, brutalising humanity."

Salena's eyes took on a faraway look as her explanations ran away with her imagination. She jumped when she realised Jaimon was staring at her.

"So, what you are saying, Salena, is that you can go looking for a certain power range and try and attract them into your spirit?"

"Yeah, but that is a bit of a naive approach. The more powerful dudes pack greater power, but they are also harder to control, from a surfer perspective. If a _Terrorclasto_ enters your portal, they may or may not do what you want, but almost always they take control and the only way for them to escape your spirit is for them to destroy it."

Jaimon's eyes were big and round. "So once one of these things enters your portal, the only way to get rid of it is to _die_?!"

Salena squirmed and Jaimon noticed this was the part she didn't like discussing. Her voice took on a harsh whisper as she searched for the words. "There are only two ways I know, to get rid of any player once they have entered your portal."

Jaimon waited, straining to hear her words.

"One is for the portal–or the spirit–to die, and the second... is..." Salena hesitated, trying to force herself to verbalise her thoughts. "The... the name of the enemy has power to destroy the players in an instant, dispatching them forever from the portals and untangling a player from the surfer's spirit," Salena whispered with great fear, and then brightened, with a crooked smile. "Most surfers, having been cleaned of players by that name, don't accept the conditions of that name and open themselves up to player retaliation. Seven players–usually _Terrorclastos_ –invade the cleaned surfer and turn their lives into a painful graveyard!"

Jaimon's fear was at boiling point, "What name...?! What enemy...?! I don't understand, Salena," realising after this morning's fiasco that he had inadvertently opened his portal to a _player_ and Rositer had faced the player's full ire.

She squirmed and tried to form the name with her mouth but it just wouldn't come and after a long silence punctuated by Salena's contorted face, she managed to whimper, "The lover of the Christians and the author of their book."

Jaimon felt an intense headache quickly developing and his mind seemed to be running from his thoughts until he finally managed to spit the words out. "You mean... _Jesus Christ_?"

He gawked in shocked horror at Salena's contorting features. She screamed and pulled her hands over her ears and dropped to the ground, writhing.

"Don't ever use that name!"

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 32

The time seemed to drag, waiting for the final war siren to drift across the school grounds and reach the fallen tree hideout. Salena had become increasingly nervous since Jaimon had spoken the name of Jesus Christ and feigning sickness, she'd disappeared home, leaving him to his thoughts – alone. It seemed his mind had become increasingly foggy. Every time he tried to recall the morning's tribulations and when he considered Salena's reaction to the name of Jesus Christ, a stab of pain ran through his brain so sharply that he had to concentrate on something else.

A recalcitrant smirk edged its way across Jaimon's features, remembering the expression of sheer terror on Dowden's face and Rositer's shirt he'd turned into rag with one unbelievable action. For some reason he felt powerful and for once, someone else was feeling petrified in his presence.

A forming thought interrupted his euphoria, realising he too was a spectator without any control of what was happening to his own body and the strange phenomenon around him. One thing seemed to disturb him greatly though: after the incident had passed, it appeared control was restored to his mind forcibly and his body wobbled uncontrollably as the power source seemed to take a back seat again. The experience had left him with many questions and now that Salena had made a hasty exit, the questions remained like a nagging force, gnawing at his insides.

What of all these terrible creatures Salena had described and the seeming innocent portals in which they were given access? It appeared that it was a voluntary thing to invite them into your spirit, simply by emptying your mind in a trance, as if you were laying down all hegemony and inviting them to take control instead.

Then her disturbing statement: _The only way to get rid of a player was to die or that name..._ but for some reason, he couldn't speak it again.

Then the faces of the women he had seen locked in the lotus position back at the Salena's friend's place came back to his mind. Their faces and bodies had appeared lifeless while enticing a waiting player to enter them. Jaimon uttered a frustrated sigh. If Salena's description was accurate...

Did people really understand the dangerous games they were playing, surfing the portals?

He shivered.

Did he?!

The sound of the final war siren drifted across from the school, interrupting his thoughts and causing a pensive huff of relief. Jaimon paced the heavily vegetated area hiding his truant activity and decided to wait a further half hour before he made his move home, giving prying eyes a chance to dissipate.

The journey home was fraught with more confusing questions, all rallying for understanding. Jaimon had heard of people having superhuman strength when a loved one was trapped in a burning car, requiring a surge of power to free them, but once the situation had passed, the person was powerless to repeat the same circumstance.

Was this the same? Or was it something else?

He looked up and was surprised to see the driveway of his house already looming in front of him; the thoughts had kept him occupied and he hadn't noticed the time slipping by.

A pang of guilt floated past and he wondered whether the school may have been in contact with his mother at his absence and if they had, he was in deep trouble. His father's angry face loomed up before him and in his mind's eye, an image of the strap guided by his father's hand came down over his shoulders. Then from a prohibited place an angry, rasping voice vomited from deep within Jaimon and with clenched fists, he saw the strap wrenched from his father's hand and his father's form prostrate and unconscious before him.

The violent image shook him to his core as the anger subsided, leaving him shaking with a sick sense of shock instead, wondering where such powerful emotions had been given birth.

Swallowing back the dread, Jaimon stopped in mid step and tried to calm his fractured nerves and then continued towards his fate. He pushed the front door open, observing his mother's reaction as he entered the house, waiting for the fireworks to begin.

She was scrubbing something in the sink and she peered at him and then up at the clock on the wall. "Goodness, is it that time already? I had better get a move on and get the dinner happening." She left her task and began banging pots and pans in a frantic effort to start the evening meal.

"How was school today, Jaimon?" she called as he walked past and headed for his bedroom.

"Okay!" he nervously threw back, worrying a surprise attack was about to take place and when she continued on with her task, he felt confused.

Jaimon stared at the ceiling from his bed, suffering a growing headache. The pain was making his stomach feel queasy and nervous butterflies collided in his imagination, adding to the stress.

A sudden pounding on the door made him flinch and drew him out of his misery. "Tea's on, runt, and Dad's home; you had better get a move on if you know what's good for you."

Jaimon folded his legs over the bed and struggled to stand, feeling bilious and lightheaded. Another bout of pounding came at his door and it made him feel even more nauseous.

"Did you hear me, runt?!"

"I heard you already, blob!" he responded hotly.

The evening meal drifted into a normal family gathering where no one spoke and the solitary sound around the table was the clanking of cutlery on crockery. The television was the only one permitted to speak and occupied the place of pre-eminence, while the authoritarian figure shovelled forkloads of food into his mouth and glanced sideways at the moving images.

Jaimon's headache continued to grow, expecting a storm at any moment, trapping him in his folly at his absence from school. As the meal gave way to the nightly dishes routine, Jaimon couldn't understand the silence from his parents. Did they or didn't they know he'd wagged the day off school?

He jumped when a voice disturbed him as he stood beside his sister, wiping wet dishes.

"Come on, runt, get a move on; there isn't any more room for dishes."

Out of nowhere, the angry, rasping voice bubbled up from deep within and spilled into his mind. _'Get out of the way and let me smack her!'_

"NO!" Jaimon's voice echoed around the kitchen, drawing confused stares from all parts of the house.

*~*~*~*

Today was Friday. Physical education was his first two periods and Jaimon felt the usual dread creeping into his mind, and after yesterday's episode with Rositer and Dowden, he felt even more on edge. He casually packed his P.E. clothes and then studied the towel, the device that had started all of his latest worries. With a quick swallow, he screwed the newly washed towel into a ball and thrust it into his bag, hoping the action would somehow protect him from a further escalation of hostilities.

In a flurry of nervous activity, Jaimon threw his school bag over his shoulder and burst out of the front door of the house, heading for school... he was late. He could hear someone calling after him, but for some reason he couldn't stop and the voice disappeared into insignificance as the distance from the house increased.

Finally he arrived on top of the sandy hill overlooking the school property, searching around, hoping to find Salena and have some of his burning questions put to rest, but she was nowhere to be found. The hill appeared to be eerily quiet and devoid of students making their way into school, so he put on some speed, thinking it was later than he realised. Jaimon's pace picked up as he heard the war siren warble across the school grounds, finally landing breathless into the boys' change rooms.

As he frantically changed into his sports clothes, the other boys had already left for their activities and as Jaimon pulled on his shirt, a large final year student broke into the scene and stood over him.

"So, you're the hero who gave Rositer a hiding, hey? You don't look too threatening to me!"

Jaimon swallowed hard and tried to duck around him and find his sports teacher, but the big roadblock stood in his way. Jaimon could feel a stirring deep within him and then his eyes felt like fire.

"Please, just leave me alone."

It was more of a warning than a plea.

The big student backed away, staring in fear and tripped over a bench, sprawling his big frame on the concrete floor as he tried to get away. Jaimon's eyes cooled and he felt normal again, wondering why the big student had responded the way he did.

No one came near Jaimon as he changed back into his school uniform but he could hear the other boys pointing and whispering. This was worse than the ostracizing he'd felt before and his only ally, Salena, still seemed to be absent. Even if she had some strange friends and did some weird things, she was just like him: an odd ball trying to fit into an unforgiving society.

Jaimon strolled out into the quadrangle and mingled among the other students and as he walked into the crowd, the crowd opened before him like a shark diving into a mass of schooling herring.

Standing to one side, Monette Alarn watched him pass by. She was the most popular girl in school, with looks that could melt a teenage boy and as everyone knew, she was Rositer's possession. Anyone caught even looking in her direction would meet with a swift reprisal.

Rushing past him she blocked his way, deliberately standing directly in front of him, tilting her head to one side and then smiled directly at him. "Hi, Jaimon. How would you like to hang out with me?"

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 33

Parlo paced the unimpressive room. American hotels were renowned as some of the finest on earth, especially those associated with the grand living of Manhattan. But this wasn't Manhattan; this was a flea bag in the heart of Queens, a sign of how far he had slipped in the measure of his superiors.

In previous years when his name was mentioned with an almost rock star admiration from the council, visits to the American hub were luxurious affairs, pampered by the best the obsessive Americans could offer, bankrolled and under the blessing of his efflorescent leader. But now the constant dead ends were leading to desperate tactics, while his name sank further into a derogatory adjective and his lifestyle reflected that sentiment.

It appeared that Annette had been successful in gaining the file from the Americans, but the file itself was useless without the information he had and his information was useless without the file Annette now had. Parlo had carefully groomed Annette Dysart, appealing to her ambitious desires and the promise of power and wealth, feeding her just enough information to sink the hook in deeply. Like a truly patriotic American and a senator with the people's best interests firmly at the forefront of her endeavours, she was easily persuaded to enlist in the campaign for world dominance at the expense of her constituency, and then supposedly leaving Dysart as the first prize winner in an impressive lottery of powerful names.

Parlo had to be careful he didn't overfeed the monster and end up a victim to her all-consuming lusts.

The threadbare curtains hanging in the second floor window reminded him of the hotels of his childhood. He pulled the curtain ajar slightly and peered down into the empty street, glancing along the footpath and searching for anything that may indicate he was being watched. As he peered through the gap in the drapes, his nose came into contact with the fabric and he winced at the smell of dust and mould. It was obvious the hotel budget didn't include cleaning the window coverings. Feeling revulsed, he let the curtain go, wiping his hand on his trousers. Meanwhile, the parted drape closed, sealing off the view to the street. He fumbled for his suit pocket in an exasperated attempt to locate his handkerchief and erase the imagined diseases that had been transferred to him from many years of lower class occupants and stained onto the unfortunate window material.

He began to pace, feeling frustration and suspicion rising at the lack of response from Dysart to his phone message left on her home phone. Her mobile had been switched off and that just made him more dubious. Didn't she get it? The file she had would make no sense without his contribution.

Just as he was about to bite another fleshy chunk out of Dysart's character, the room phone interrupted his nonsense. He rushed to subdue the annoying 90's style chime and at the same time, shifted into _nice_ mode.

The crushing, charismatic Parlo–famous among his team as Mr Personality, who could charm the gruffest individual and loosen the tightest tongue–prepared to go to work. In his presence, it was hard not to be drawn into his hypnotising aura and those caught in his trap would use any means to captivate his coveted attention.

He was always the centre of interest at any official function, charming those gathered around while drawing adoring eyes, riveted and hanging on every word he spoke. Each individual competed for his smile and his gaze directed unblinking towards them, while feeling a burning sense of self-worth as Parlo affirmed them with his undivided charm before moving on to the next person vying for his electricity. Once Parlo left the stage, the big group gathered around him dispersed and the room decayed into subdued normalness. Feeling like the sun had departed from their lives, the dignitaries once again congregated into their small, disinterested personal huddles of gossiping boredom and tritely discussed the weather.

Parlo lunged at the phone. "Yes, Parlo speaking."

"Mr Parlo, I have an Annette Dysart on the line," the hotel receptionist's nasally speech reminded him he was currently living among the less educated class.

"Please put her through."

In a moment, Annette Dysart's voice filled the earpiece. "Parlo...! So nice to hear from you. How long have you been in New York?"

*~*~*~*

It'd been a relatively simple operation to convince Annette Dysart to meet at her apartment instead of her coming to his substandard hotel room. Even if he had fallen from grace with his superiors, he still had an intact reputation in the states among the well-to-do.

As Parlo entered the high-rise lobby, the doorman recognised him. "Good evening, Mr Parlo. Nice to see you, sir. Go right on up; Miss Dysart is expecting you."

Parlo nodded his assent and added a winning smile to the friendly doorman, charming him with his presence and leaving him with a warm, lingering impression that Parlo was his trusted friend.

In the elevator foyer, he stood in front of two highly polished chrome doors that reflected his image faultlessly and then with a quick stab of his finger, pushed the call button for the lift. A mechanised female voice responded with,' _Your call has been initiated and your conveyance will arrive in 23 seconds; thank you for waiting.'_

Parlo peered around the apartment complex's expansive lobby, staring at the immoderate opulence: highly polished white marble floors and walls; large gold framed windows; and glittering chandeliers hung in rows above his head. This was more to his taste.

His musings were soon interrupted by the arrival of the lift and the mechanised voice again. ' _Your conveyance is arriving in... two... one... please step back and allow passengers to disembark.'_

The chrome doors parted and a lavish room opened before him. A man and a woman exited, deep in conversation until the woman paused long enough to give Parlo a quick once-over and then resumed her animated conversation, unashamedly glancing back to satisfy another unchaste leer, envious of the woman who would be spending her time in the company of such an enchanting man.

Parlo pushed the button for the seventeenth floor and the machine responded. _'You have selected the seventeenth floor; your conveyance will take twenty one seconds; please step clear of the door and have a nice day.'_

The doors closed but it didn't feel like the lift was moving until the machine announced his arrival. ' _Your conveyance will arrive in... two... one... please alight in an orderly fashion and have a nice day.'_

Parlo began to feel like his mother was watching his every move and giving him instructions.

A long carpeted corridor ran in both directions from the entry to the elevator well. In one direction, a glass wall gave a breathtaking view of the lights of Manhattan, while the other led to a line of lavish apartments, hidden behind their single, solid entry doors. His intentions weren't that of a tourist, so he turned away from the glass wall and its spectacular view and then scanned the apartment numbers as he strolled along the thick, plush pile carpet. The instructions of the mechanised elevator woman echoed from behind him and disappeared from his consciousness as his pace increased and he strode determinedly along the corridor in search of his destination.

' _The conveyance is departing; please step back from the doors...'_

Parlo slowed his pace as he read off the last remaining digits until he stood outside apartment 1170. Without hesitation, he lifted his hand and disturbed the clinical silence of the corridor with a loud knock. The marble-faced walls were eager to share the sound of his knock with the rest of the building, but the plush pile carpet didn't agree and muffled the sound in the depths of its luxury.

*~*~*~*

Annette Dysart's heart quickened at the knock on her apartment door. She was determined Parlo would not draw her back into the same embarrassing situation he had on their last meeting. His magnetism had overpowered her senses and she had played an unabashed grab for more of his attentions and if it wasn't for his diplomatic refusal, she would have easily pursued him into intimacy and broken one of her own rules: _don't mix business with pleasure._

She fiddled with her hair and checked her makeup again, then ran an eye around her apartment to make sure everything was tidy. Steeling herself at the door, she spoke determinedly to herself, "Keep your mind on the job and don't let him overpower you."

Assured she had full control and her mind was solely in business mode, she unlocked the door and faced a man in a dark blue business suit. He smiled back at her in a greeting that excluded the rest of humanity, and his warm eyes drew her in, pulling her deeper into his hypnotising presence and sending confusing messages to her emotions.

Immediately, she felt her resolve crumble, along with her knees, while her heart raced and her body temperature soared. Out of control now, a wanton smile crossed her lips concluding with an uncontrolled leer that simply could not have been misinterpreted.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 34

Bjarni had spent a restless night trying to sleep in his splintered rocking chair. He scanned the inside of the shadowy hut and his eyes rested on the small sleeping form of Anunya, fast asleep in his bed. Shtiya stirred and glanced over at Bjarni from his position on guard duty by her side, while Akiak threw Shtiya a stern glare of her own from her position sprawled at Bjarni's feet. The old man brushed off the muskox pelt and then with a swinging movement, he stiffly raised himself to his feet, leaving the chair rocking on its rails from the sheer force of the old man's determined attempts at freedom.

Out of instinct, Shtiya shuffled to his feet in a guarded action and although he was aware the old man offered no threat, past experiences taught him to be prepared for anything. From her position close to Bjarni's feet, Akiak sensed the big Siberian's protective stance and she growled in a low, threatening tone.

"Hey you two, that's enough," Bjarni hissed in a whispered warning, silencing Akiak's growl in an instant. He held out his hand to Shtiya and he trotted eagerly over to the old man, basking in a brisk coat rub and at the same time, Bjarni rubbed Akiak's head and stroked her ears, dividing his attention equally and averting another jealous confrontation. After the old man's reassuring whispers, Akiak threw an obvious glance at the big Siberian and settled close at Bjarni's feet again, resting her head on her paws, but keeping a disdainful eye on the bigger dog.

The temperature inside the hut was chilling, causing the old man to shiver and investigate the lack of warmth radiating from the fractured stove. In a quick, fluid movement, he dropped the small cast iron door guarding the stove's mouth and prodded the embers. Using a fire poker fashioned from an old frying pan he'd found on a trapping trip, he pushed the ash to one side and then loaded some dry moss he'd gathered before the early winter storms turned it into a dam for ice.

Situating another small patch of moss on the exterior of the stove, he struck a flint stone with his knife, spilling a plethora of sparks directly onto the dry lichen. The moss began to smoulder and with a gentle fanning breath, it caught alight and burnt with great intensity. Bjarni carefully scooped up the kindled moss from below, keeping his weathered hands away from the flame and quickly aimed it at the throat of the fireplace and directly onto the dry fuel deep inside the stove. Rapidly the little fire spread, catching the dry lichen and spreading its fervour throughout the cast iron firebox. Reaching into a nearby container, the old man sliced two large slabs of dry seal blubber and fed them into the fire's mouth, turning the eager flames from a warm fire into a sizzling, fat-fired inferno.

Satisfied his efforts were complete, he closed the door guarding the throat of the stove, trapping the heat and multiplying its effect with the aid of the metal box. As the heat from the stove radiated into the wooden room, the chill disappeared and now Bjarni's mind warmed enough to concentrate on the demands of the new day.

The gaps around the fireplace were developing into a significant fissure and if he didn't do something with them soon, it would require major work and materials he didn't have. Lumber was a luxury in the flat, barren tundra landscape. Gazing through the window and out into the cloudless frozen day, he listened for any sounds. The wind had stopped its howling attack, while peace and quiet had descended once again for a brief respite: it was perfect for his planned repair.

The Sund had started to freeze over again, signalling the permanent night wasn't far away, and preparations had to be made before the darkness and extreme cold closed in and sealed off any chance of productive outdoor activity.

Focused on the day's agenda, Bjarni donned his thick bearskin jacket and trousers over his house clothes and made a quiet amble past Anunya's sleeping form towards the door. He had just reached for the door handle when he was startled by a plaintive whisper.

"Where are you going?"

Two dark coloured eyes watched him anxiously from the confines of a thick bearskin rug pulled up under her chin and sprawled across the width of the bed.

"Got some work to do before the winter night settles in. Fire's going and there's some coffee brewing on the stove. I'll make you some breakfast in a while, but I have to make use of the daylight while I have it," Bjarni smiled down at Anunya; he wasn't used to explaining his actions to anyone.

"Need some help?" Anunya's voice croaked as she stifled a yawn.

"Sure, but it's nothing exciting. I have to cut some lichen blocks to fill the gaps in the old place."

Anunya threw back the warm covering, yawning and stretching, then tested the bandage still covering her wound. "Mmm, I had a good sleep."

At the sound of her voice, Shtiya quickly approached her, wagging his tail and nuzzling her hands. "Good morning to you, my beautiful boy." Anunya rubbed his fur.

"When you're ready, I'll be outside waiting." Bjarni reached for his gun standing ready by the door and was about to pull it open when Anunya spoke again.

"Bjarni...?"

The old man turned back to face her again. "Yeah."

"Will you teach me the ways of the tundra?"

*~*~*~*

Bjarni shuffled through the thick snow with Anunya and the two dogs in tow. It took a while for his old frame to accustom to the frigid air outside the hut and his expired breath hung, trapped in a cloud of humidity. Approaching a granite outcrop some distance from the hut, he handed Anunya the rifle and bent down to start digging through the snow on the leeward side of two large boulders. Anunya leaned over the old man's shoulder, watching every move he made. Once he had uncovered the frozen lichen, he cut large slabs with his knife and carefully peeled it from the frozen ground.

Bjarni just happened to look up as Anunya bent over him, using the rifle barrel as a crutch to support herself while she peered over his shoulder. The butt rested in the snow, while the barrel was pointing directly at her head.

Panicking, Bjarni jumped up, snatching the rifle from her hands in a sudden action, knocking Anunya off balance and causing her to land heavily on her back, sprawled in the snow.

As she regained her composure, a shocked, angry expression crossed her face as she tried to come to terms with the old man's sudden action, while Bjarni's expression matched hers.

"Don't you know... _anything_ , girl?!" he spat, the angry outburst shocking him just as much as it did Anunya.

Anunya was shaking with anger and she screamed at him. "I WAS ONLY WATCHING YOU! WHAT DID I DO WRONG?!"

Bjarni sighed heavily, calming down and realising he may have overreacted. "Never...! Ever...! Point a gun at your head or any part of your anatomy, under any circumstances!"

The old man felt bad as he held her crumpling expression, watching her eyes fill with tears and then her bottom lip begin to quiver. She covered her face with her hands and rolled into the snow, hiding from his frowning gaze while trying to speak and cry at the same time.

"I know I'm stupid. Teach me so I don't keep messing up!" Anunya begged through long, broken sobs.

Bjarni strode over to the wounded figure, lifted her to a sitting position and prised her hands from her face. He melted at the hapless tears running down Anunya's face, frustrated at her own incompetence but so wanting to please the old man. In a moment of remorse, he leaned over her and helped her to her feet.

"I'm sorry, I just don't want to see you get hurt; and you're not stupid," he whispered.

Anunya wiped the tears from her face and stared into the old man's cloudy eyes for a long moment and held his gaze. She could see the deep compassion hidden behind barriers of pain and in a moment of recognition, she saw herself reflected in his eyes. She knew he cared about her safety and was just trying to help her survive in a treacherous environment.

In an act of appreciation and wanting desperately to learn what he taught, she reached over to touch his arm and whispered, "After we finish with the hut, will you show me how to handle the gun properly?"

Bjarni smiled, then nodded and picked up his rifle along with the lichen and started to walk back towards the hut. Anunya called the dogs and then ran to catch up with him, tucking her gloved hand under the old man's arm, and then drew a long sniff to clear the last of her tears.

Anunya scrutinized Bjarni's every move with great interest as he cut the lichen into small strips, forced it into the gaps of the old hut's timbers and around the jagged stonework of the chimney. Once the holes in the timber had been filled, he dug a small hole in the snow, exposing the ground below and scraped the frozen soil with his knife until he had a thick paste. Then, removing his gloves and using his bare hands, he smeared the lichen with a good covering, but being quick to wipe the freezing residue from his hands and replacing them into his warm gloves. Within minutes, the moist mixture had frozen solid in the freezing atmosphere, setting hard like concrete and sealing the lichen permanently into its new home.

Bjarni handed Anunya his spare knife and she followed his example, chattering cheerfully alongside the old man. As they worked, her curiosity began forming thoughts in her mind and she wondered about the old man's history.

"Bjarni...?"

"Yes, Anunya."

Anunya hesitated for a few minutes, forcing mud into cracks with a bare hand and shaking her freezing fingers against the extreme cold, eager to replace them into her warm gloves again. She tried to phrase the words without seeming to pry.

"Why do you live alone out here?"

The sudden words took him off guard and knocked the wind from his sails, the long hanging silence alerting Anunya she was treading on dangerous ground.

Eventually Bjarni decided to play down her question. "Because I like it."

His answer seemed to cause her pain, feeling she wasn't worthy of his trust and her chatter stopped. A downcast expression crossed her face, but she kept working. Bjarni glanced across at her sombre expression and it cut him to the heart. He turned to face the young woman, hesitating and measuring his thoughts.

"Anunya... it's complicated. It's hard enough trying to explain it to myself, let alone put words to it for someone else to understand."

Anunya rubbed the ends of her fingers and quickly thrust her hand back into her glove. In an instant, a sudden, shocking thought crossed her mind and she slowly turned to face him.

"You're wanted by the law, aren't you?"

He turned back to his work, painstakingly plastering large blobs of mud against the wall and his stiff silence answered her question.

Staring in disbelief, Anunya sidled up to the old man and touched his arm. "We're fugitives together, Bjarni. I understand, really I do," she whispered.

Bjarni's gaze riveted on the wooden wall in front of him but his demeanour spoke of a distant storm and then he whispered, "I'm not sure anyone could understand. I don't understand it myself."

*~*~*~*

Bjarni threw open the stove front and fed the languishing flames with another two pieces of seal blubber while the fire sizzled and caught the new fuel with enthusiasm, filling the inside of the hut with an oily smell. The hut was warm compared to the chill outside. In the meantime, he examined the walls and their work they had just completed, nodding his head with approval.

Anunya was sitting on her bed, examining her hand with a painful expression on her face. Bjarni's scanning gaze settled on her distraught appearance with concern.

"What's up?"

"My hand is sore and I think I have lots of wood splinters."

The old man walked over to her position and gently drew her hand up to within inches of his face, then without speaking, he shuffled over to the stove and heated the blade of his knife in the flames of the fire.

Anunya watched him with trepidation as he approached her with the knife and gently took her small hand again. She swallowed hard, closed her eyes and turned away, not wanting to watch the operation about to take place. She whimpered a couple of times at a sudden stab of pain but generally, the old man was very gentle as he worked. Then with a reassuring, "All done," she examined his handiwork, pleased at the result.

The respect for the old man was growing in the young woman's mind and she followed his arthritic movements around the hut, watching him prepare a meal on the stove.

"I usually eat raw caribou, but I figure that won't be to your liking," Bjarni jested, cutting two steaks from a frozen carcass and placing them into a hot pan.

The smell of sizzling meat filled the hut and Anunya's stomach growled with hunger. She screwed her face into a disdainful gesture at the thought of raw meat and offered a halfhearted whisper, hoping he wouldn't hear it and resort to his usual dining habits.

"I can give raw meat a go."

With breakfast out of the way, Bjarni grabbed up his rifle and summoned Anunya outside. On his way out the door, he searched around the room until his eyes settled on a rusty tin plate.

At the old man's instruction Anunya stopped a short distance from the hut, and watched Bjarni amble some distance away to an outcrop of boulders and set the plate up facing her, atop one large rock. Shuffling back to where she stood, he pumped the breech of his rifle, turned to face the plate and took aim.

In an ear piercing _crack_ that made Anunya cover her ears in a sudden guarded move, the rifle discharged and the plate disappeared off the rock.

Bjarni sauntered back to the boulder, searched for the plate and retrieved it for Anunya to see the result of his shot. Then setting it up again, he walked back and then handed her the rifle. With a series of instructions, he warned her ardently not to lift the rifle butt from her shoulder when the rifle discharged. He pushed and prodded her into a correct stance and the correct grip until she became incensed with his teaching and impulsively discharged the gun.

The savage recoil sent her spinning backwards and deposited her gruffly into the snow, while the gun cartwheeled past her and ended up some distance away, smoke still rising from the offended barrel.

Bjarni stared at the moaning figure in the snow and rushed over to her prostrated form. Once he was sure she wasn't badly hurt, he broke into a belly laugh.

Anunya's shocked, dark glaring eyes stared at the old man in frustration, rubbing her injured shoulder. Then after realising what she had done, disregarding his instruction, she began to laugh at her own folly, too. She decided she had to be patient and listen to the fastidious ways of her teacher, gleaning from his time-proven experience if she was going to survive out in the tundra.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 35

After her altercation with Bjarni's gun, Anunya wasn't keen for another round of abuse at the hands of the angry firearm. Her shoulder still hurt and Bjarni's belly laugh had only added insult to injury. She pouted and vigorously shook her head at the old man's continual encouragement to have another go. Her guarded expression seemed to relax when he promised if she followed his instructions properly, it wouldn't recoil and hurt her and she would be guaranteed of hitting her target. The dark eyes followed his animated promises with uncertainty, and it was only his constant exhortation to trust him that won her over.

She anxiously stood at the same place and this time, Bjarni left the breech open so she couldn't pull the trigger until he was ready.

"Now, let's go through this again: Feet apart about the same distance as your knee to your ankle; bring your left foot forward, and then lean over until you look down directly over your big toe; now, raise the rifle and place the butt into the fleshy part of your shoulder and just to the left of your armpit; place your right hand over the pistol grip, then wrap your fingers around the grip, thumb up one side of the trigger, and forefinger rests on the trigger itself; now, with your left hand, reach along the barrel until your elbow is just bent and guide the barrel in between the thumb and forefinger, resting the bottom of the barrel in your palm; now grasp the barrel tightly with the remaining fingers. No, don't close your forefinger and thumb over the barrel, you won't be able to sight it. Okay, that's better; looks good so far. Now, lean into the gun and wrap your shoulders tightly around the butt and bend your knees slightly."

Bjarni carefully checked his student's progress. "Okay. Now, close one eye, press your cheek against the cheek piece and sight along the barrel. That will give you a good cheekweld. See the marker at the end of the barrel?"

Anunya nodded.

"Line up the marker in the bottom of the 'V' and when they come into focus, whatever they point at, you will hit. Okay. Pump the breech."

Anunya followed his instructions and a bullet clicked into the firing chamber.

"Now, slip your forefinger onto the trigger and gently squeeze it, keeping the tin in focus with your two markers."

The tension was building as Anunya dreaded another painful recoil. She squeezed the trigger tighter and tighter, wondering whether the gun was ever going to discharge.

Suddenly, a loud _crack_ erupted near her right ear and the rusty tin plate disappeared from the granite boulder while the recoil was absorbed painlessly by her forward stance and her bent knees. When Anunya realised she had survived and without the recoil, and that her target had been destroyed, she dropped the gun, squealed with delight and hugged the old man.

"Wow, that was easy!" her excitement was effervescing.

"Just goes to show what you can do when you put your mind to it and listen to me."

Bjarni stiffly strode up to the boulder to locate the rusty tin plate and after searching around for a while, found it lying in the snow with two neat bullet holes close to the centre and only millimetres apart. One was his and one was Anunya's.

When he handed the tin to Anunya, she couldn't believe she had hit the target so close to the centre, let alone hitting the plate at all.

"Okay. Now what should you do with your gun when you have finished shooting?"

Anunya lifted the rifle for him to inspect and he found the breech open and the firing chamber empty.

"Well done, Miss Annie Oakley."

Anunya beamed. She had won the old man's praise and she was extremely proud of her achievement. She chattered nonstop as they walked back to the hut together. Her first lesson was over and she was looking forward to her next one.

*~*~*~*

The warmth inside the hut seemed to have increased, but the fire's intensity was the same. Their insulating work had paid dividends against the cold, and the warmth remained trapped inside as the fire spat and crackled and the seal blubber burned intently. Outside, the sun had gone down and the temperature was dropping dramatically while the wind began to kick up a ruckus and whistle through the roofing tin.

Just before sundown, Anunya attended to the sled dogs housed outside in the kennels. They were fed and watered; their security checked for the night; and some rough housing and play before the darkness finally settled, was essential. Then she made her way back to the warmth of the hut and fed both Akiak and Shtiya. The two dogs had to be fed separately and some distance apart; Akiak was not intent on sharing her food with the big Siberian and would growl protectively if he came within a few feet of her while she was eating.

Anunya settled on a crude wooden chair around a small, roughly hewn wooden table and watched the old man go about his nightly routine.

"Are you hungry?"

Anunya nodded. "Starving."

The old man set down an enamel plate in the middle of the table and waited for her reaction.

Not speaking, but her eyes orating an epistle of dread, she stared at the salver in front of her as several whole sun-dried fish stared lifelessly back at her and she felt the hunger pangs subside rapidly.

"What's the matter?" he prodded, a knowing smile erupting across his face.

"This is another lesson isn't it?" she whispered, glancing back at him.

"Anunya, the wilderness is a place of survival and death, wisdom and foolishness. The wise man respects her and learns her ways, and she will let him live. The fool, however, she hates and although she offers him the same chances as the wise, the fool cannot see beyond himself and his foolish ways, and he will quickly perish. Food is a privilege out here and not a right, so what she gives you, you accept and after a while, your tastes accustom to her ways. On trapping trips, because you are on the move all the time, you don't have the luxury of large fires to cook food. As you know, your people are nomadic and have been for generations, so borne out of necessity, most of them have eaten their food raw."

Anunya fell silent for a long time, just staring at the plate of fish and thinking about his speech.

Bjarni leaned over the table, selected a whole dried salmon and began tearing the tough, dry skin away from the fish flesh with his teeth and then chewing the exposed salty food vigorously.

In a moment of surrender, Anunya anxiously reached over and selected a small fish while a concentrated look of disdain crossed her face and she swallowed hard. Then lifting the dubious smelling fish to her mouth, she cautiously tore at the tough skin with her teeth, exposing the soft, oily texture of sundried flesh. She stopped the torturous process for a few seconds and glanced up at Bjarni; he had nearly finished his first fish and was eyeing another one. Noticing her apprehensive gaze, he burst out laughing and that's when Anunya's resolve set hard and she bit down tenaciously into her meal. No longer feeling the desire to gag, the taste almost became enjoyable and she hungrily finished her first, with a second on her mind.

*~*~*~*

Bjarni settled uncomfortably back into the wooden rocker by the stove and reaching for the muskox pelt, pulled it over his stiff frame. Akiak settled by his feet again with her head on her paws, still glaring at the Siberian who was sprawled out on the floor next to Anunya's form, tucked up in Bjarni's single bed.

"I can take the rocker, Bjarni, and you can have your bed back again."

Anunya was hoping he wouldn't take her up on her suggestion; the bed was extremely comfortable.

"No, Anunya, it will be yours. We are going on a hunting trip tomorrow to stock up on food for the winter and maybe the wilderness will give us a bear or a muskox. Then we can skin it and I will use the pelt on the floor and that will be just as comfortable as your bed."

Anunya felt a little nervous about leaving the safety of her new home but she had full trust in her teacher and the lessons he had to teach her. She rolled over and pulled the comfortable bearskin under her chin, listening to the stove crackling and sizzling while replaying the great strides she had taken today.

In a sleepy tone she whispered, "Goodnight, Bjarni, and thank you."

"Goodnight, Anunya. You're welcome."

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 36

Doctor Allan Brooks perched uncomfortably around a conference table in the lobby of the University Hospital's main teaching hall. The cavernous teaching theatre was flanked by hundreds of tiered student seats radiating to the back wall and surrounding the small lectern at the front of the room. The lecture room was empty at the moment and the lobby remained silent and uninterrupted, except for the hospital chairman and three highly respected specialists around the table, listening to Brook's explanation.

"I am sure she is exhibiting the symptoms for myalgic encephalomyelitis but none of the tests give any indications of the disease," Brooks offered the specialists.

The chairman began to laugh. "The imaginary disease that kooks get – people who don't want to face their responsibilities in society."

The four doctors glanced at the chairman before an elderly man spoke.

"The disease is quite real and the reason you have no results in your blood tests is the disease attacks the cell motors and rewrites the DNA repair mechanism, causing a slow deterioration of the immune system."

" _What_?!" the chairman spat. "Don't let anyone hear you say that! The DBD has specific guidelines on how to deal with these phony people. If you have any sense you will follow their guidelines, or risk being thrown out of the medical fraternity and being sued into the bargain for inciting a run on the world's medical insurance system by all these frauds."

The four doctors shifted uneasily in their seats at the threat while their eyes bored into the chairman.

"It's a ridiculous guideline," one of the specialists continued courageously. "Among a growing list, polio was treated with the same uninformed ridicule until a pandemic erupted, sending researchers hustling to find a cure. This disease has the same–if not greater–capacity to kill and maim if it's not stopped. Early researchers believe it has already affected millions around the world."

"Well, that isn't any concern of mine," the chairman stared back. "My job is to run this hospital efficiently, and treating patients with imaginary diseases is not part of the guidelines. If we continue on with this, the medical insurers will not pay and we will be out of pocket. Eventually we would have to close down the hospital."

The specialist's eyes thinned in a developing plan. "We need to isolate the patient and study her and how the disease affects her. We can use the facility at Bairnsworth as a laboratory ruse, while satisfying the requirements of the DBD," the specialist smugly replied.

"That sounds like a sensible plan where everyone wins. We get paid for her care and you get a _guinea pig,_ " the chairman espoused, delighted with the specialist's proposal.

Brook's mouth dropped open. "How do we manage to get this little girl over to Bairnsworth? Her grandfather won't just sign her over to us."

"That, dear Doctor Brooks, is the easy part," the chairman advocated. "She is in need of extreme psychiatric care and she could be a risk to herself and the general populace. With the help of child welfare, we simply make her a ward of the state, take over all parental responsibilities and bar the relatives from any contact with her. Nobody will know what we do with her and I guess, wouldn't care anyway. Now, gentlemen, I suggest you cooperate with the state's plan and return to your work. This hospital is not paying you to sit around discussing fantasies!"

*~*~*~*

Shayden Glenn's temperature had been hovering around 38 degrees all morning and the nurses were getting worried. Today marked the end of the third week since she had been admitted to University Children's Hospital, delivered unconscious by ambulance. Although there had been a concerted effort on the part of the doctors to get Shayden mobile again, it seemed the more they tried, the further down she slipped. If she stayed immobilised and lying flat in her bed, she appeared to normalise but still had no energy and her cognitive functions were waning with every new day.

Ruth had just been in to check Shayden's temperature again from her vital sign monitor. A worried frown crossed her face and she placed a glass thermometer under Shayden's tongue just to confirm the accuracy of the machine connected to Shayden's arm and then recorded it on her chart. Shayden smiled at Ruth and tried to move into a comfortable place in her bed, but she was aching so bad that comfort wasn't anywhere to be found.

"How are you doing, honey," Ruth tried to sooth her pain with a cool cloth wiped across her brow.

"I feel awful," Shayden replied.

Just then, angry, raised voices began to permeate the room from outside. Ruth recognised the voice of Doctor Brooks and the other complainant sounded like Shayden's grandfather.

"How on _earth_ can you stand there and tell me my granddaughter is faking this thing?! Just take a look at her, Brooks, and then tell me that it is all in her head."

"According to the symptom guide put out by the DBD, the patient must undertake a full psychiatric evaluation. If we continue to treat her in this hospital we will be liable for her treatment costs and not your insurance, Mr Glenn, plus I could lose my practice licence into the bargain."

"This is nonsense! I am not a doctor and I can tell there is something physically wrong with her."

"I'm sorry, Mr Glenn, but I have no choice but to move her over to Bairnsworth."

"THE NUT HOUSE...?! Are you _insane_?! I'm taking my granddaughter out of this poor excuse for a hospital."

"I am sorry, Mr Glenn, we can't let you do that either and if you stand in the way, we will call the police. Child welfare will be involved in Shayden's case and as of now, all your rights as a parent or guardian have been dissolved and she is in the state's control."

The flabbergasted look on Shayden's grandfather's face was backed up by the fire in his eyes. The law had stepped in and removed Shayden from his care, but they had picked on the wrong man. Grayson Glenn never backed away from a fight, and this fight was a desperate fight.

The gloves were off.

*~*~*~*

In the small muster room of the Sue's Bridge County Sheriff's office, the morning jobs were being distributed among the deputies.

"Where's Bayer?!" the sheriff barked.

The deputies stared back at him with blank faces and shook their heads. It was unusual for Bang Bang not to front for work.

"Cleaver...!" the sheriff barked across the muster room and out into the corridor.

"Yep," the dispatcher appeared at the door, answering the sheriff's bark.

"Have you heard from Bayer?"

He shook his head. "She hasn't reported in sick."

A frustrated frown covered the sheriff's face and he dismissed Cleaver with a nod. The last thing he needed with the backlog of work he had was an itinerant deputy turning up for work when _she_ felt like it. His ire began to rise and his face turned crimson but he continued with the job distributions. In a moment of mental gymnastics, he added another job to each deputy's workload and then dismissed them to their day's activity. He would chase up Bayer and bore her out once he'd located her.

The sheriff pressed his desk phone receiver against his ear and tapped his finger on the desk, waiting to explode once Bayer's cocky voice answered. The longer she dodged him, the greater his temper festered and his blood pressure went through the roof. When the phone rang out for the second time, he threw the receiver back in its cradle and uttered something contemptible.

He wasn't happy.

The sheriff shuffled the mountains of paperwork covering his desk but his mind was still on Bayer. Her arrogant stance as a police officer and militant feminist bugged him and drove a wedge between his deputies and the coveted peace that came with efficient teamwork.

Just then, Cleaver poked his head into the sheriff's office. "Boss?"

The sheriff glanced up from his desk with a frowning glare and fire erupted from his sarcastic tone. " _Yeah?!_ "

"Ah... a member of the public has brought in a collection of empty cartridges they found up on the running track."

The sheriff was just about to roast Cleaver for wasting his time, when Cleaver recognised the explosive forces at work in his longtime boss' eyes and he quickly continued.

"They are police-issue Glock 17 cartridges... and there's more. The M.O.P. described a huge blood stain running across the path."

The sheriff swallowed hard. "What was that about an offender harassing women on the running track and didn't Bayer run there too?"

The two men locked eyes for a long moment and then the sheriff bellowed for his secretary. "Jeanie, get in here!"

A small, older lady squeezed around Cleaver's form blocking the doorway into the sheriff's office. "You bellowed, boss?"

"Can you have a look in the female locker rooms and check out Bayer's equipment belt? I want to know if her service revolver is still there in its holster."

The secretary nodded and made her way out of the office while the sheriff listened to the door to the locker room open with a tired, muffled screech. Soon the door screeched again and the secretary was back, shaking her head.

"It's not there. Aren't the weapons supposed to stay here when deputies are off duty?"

The sheriff just waved her off and stared at Cleaver, the two men thinking the same thing. "Get Jackson up there immediately and give me a report back."

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 37

Aanasi worked feverishly, sewing a new pair of bearskin boots together for her husband, Nikkulaat. He had worn his old pair down and now he was complaining the cold was seeping into his feet and making them stiff and sore. She had chided him for the lack of notice, but because the winter weather had arrived early and with a vengeance and he still needed to work, she set about her task with fervour.

The wind outside had increased to a new level of intensity, screeching through the roof iron and blowing snow up against the dark blue painted woodwork of their wooden house, perched high on a hill and commanding the surrounding scenery of Ittoqqortoormiit. The normal view from their house, positioned to overlook the settlement, included the green waters of the Sund and the many brightly coloured village houses scattered throughout the barren mountainside and built on the grey, rocky soil. During a recent storm, snow had blanketed the vista with plain white and buried the striking village houses, while the tenacious Arctic wind froze the green waters of the Sund into solid ice.

The sound of a snowmobile struggling up the incline towards their house caused Aanasi to glance up at the clock from her position on the floor. If this was Nikkulaat coming home, he was extremely early. Casting aside the nearly completed boot, she left her tools where they lay and stiffly raised herself from the bearskin rug, heading for the window. Pulling the muskox pelt back obscuring her view, she gazed out through the frosty pane and recognised the unmistakable, solid shape of her husband, covered in icy snow.

Smiling in anticipation of his embrace and needing only two more stitches to complete her task, she let the pelt drop back down over the window and hurried to her work.

As she heard the pounding of feet on the landing, the last stitch went into place and she proudly held the finished boots out in front of her, giving them a nod of approval and admiring her handiwork.

The door swung open as a cold blast ripped into the warm atmosphere and she was greeted by a very frosty husband.

"Nikkulaat, you are home early; be quick and close the door," she chided. "Now take off your icy bearskins and give me a hug. See, I have finished your new boots."

Aanasi held up the completed craft for her husband to inspect and as usual, he was exuberant in the praise of her work. Placing the boots down, he pushed his aching feet into his new luxury and smiled with pleasing relief, like he was settling into a hot bath on a cold day.

"Ah...! You have done well, Aanasi."

With a twinkle in his eye, the big man chased his wife around in a mock ambush and then gathered her into his loving embrace while Aanasi giggled at her husband's advances.

Just then, the sound of an approaching snowmobile stifled any escalation in their play and Nikkulaat released his wife to check on the intruder. He pulled back the thick pelt covering their only window and scrutinized the approaching machine. The rider was covered in an icy blanket of snow and judging by the steam billowing from around the engine and its exhaust, he had ridden the motorised sled for some distance. Nikkulaat glanced back at Aanasi with a questioning gaze, waiting for the rider to bring his machine to a stop and ascend the landing steps before opening the door.

They paused for what seemed like hours, listening for the usual pounding boots to dislodge the ice and snow from the person's clothing before attempting to enter a family home. But when no obvious attempt was made and a pitiful knock came at the door instead, Nikkulaat began to suspect the person was suffering from exposure to the cold and quickly pulled open the door, pushing back against the strength of the wind. As Nikkulaat struggled with the door, the frozen figure collapsed into his arms, sending ice and snow spilling onto the floor and the door crashed heavily against the wall.

In a sinuous movement, he dragged the figure inside and shoved the door closed against the wind and removed the figure's bearskins and face scarf. Aanasi gasped, recognising the shivering man while quickly wrapping him in a dry bearskin rug. Nikkulaat stared at his good friend, wondering what dire emergency would cause him to ride into town facing into a blizzard.

"Katu... Katu, can you hear me?" Nikkulaat implored.

"Help... Ataneq... Nanuq... Bruun," Katu wheezed.

Nikkulaat's concerned gaze met Aanasi's, wondering about the meaning of Katu's cryptic message. Aanasi threw back the bearskin blanket on their bed and motioned for her husband to carry his friend over to it and place him between the warm blankets. Once he was positioned she pulled the fur skin over the shivering man, then they both gathered around the bed in concern, waiting for the warmth to restore his chilled body.

*~*~*~*

In the darkened room, bloodshot eyes blinked open, surrounded by severely frostbitten brows and for a moment, confusion troubled his mind as the unfamiliar surroundings panicked him. In a frightened gesture, he threw the bearskin off his body and tried to jump up from his horizontal position until a familiar, baritone voice calmed his attempts.

"Steady on, old friend," Nikkulaat's rumble crossed the room from a chair positioned around the stove.

Aanasi's concerned gaze followed her husband's, momentarily distracted from preparing a meal.

"How did I get here?" Katu's cloudy mind tried to piece together the mystery and at the same time, he was thankful for the presence of his friend.

Nikkulaat shrugged, walking over to Katu and placed his hand on the tense shoulder. "I was hoping you could tell us that one, Katu."

Katu glanced up at Nikkulaat and then dropped his head into his hands, trying to remember his ordeal and then in a sudden revelation, his sense returned and the fog parted, like a ship forcing its way through swirling sea mist.

"I saw it, Nikkulaat," Katu whispered.

By this time Aanasi had turned away from her work and faced Katu, unsure what he was about to reveal.

"Saw what, Katu?" the concern was beginning to rise in Nikkulaat's voice, worried his friend was having a breakdown.

Katu swallowed hard, wondering whether he should even give breath to the incredible statement. "Ataneq Nanuq. I saw his pad print and he was following Bruun."

Nikkulaat turned and glanced back at Aanasi to see if she had understood what Katu was saying, but her concerned shrug confirmed she was as confused as he.

"Back up a bit, Katu; you're not making sense. Help us to understand you, old friend."

*~*~*~*

Once again, Aanasi filled Katu's cup with hot Inuit tea and at the same time, listened intently to Katu's words as they sat around the family table. Katu appeared to have regained his colour after consuming Aanasi's home cooking and his conversation was just now starting to make sense.

"So... this Bruun character is a bounty hunter, looking to cash in on Bjarni Kleist?" Nikkulaat glanced over to Katu for confirmation.

Katu shrugged. "I can't be sure, but he certainly gave the impression he had studied Bjarni's situation and if he is a bounty hunter, he is the greenest one I have ever met."

Nikkulaat stood and paced around the room before speaking again.

"So, he stole a rifle and some food from your store and then walked off into this blizzard, is that right?"

Katu nodded. "I am not worried about the stock he stole, but what I saw when I was tracking him really unnerved me. I found what I think were Bruun's tracks, preserved from the wind in the snow by the shelter of a rock outcrop."

Katu's face furrowed and a worried frown crossed his features, cautiously picking his next words and whispering so quietly Nikkulaat had to bend his frame into Katu's direction to hear it.

"Overstamping some of Bruun's tracks were the biggest pad prints of a nanuq I have ever seen, and it was following Bruun."

Katu's obvious distress unnerved Nikkulaat; he wasn't a man who was prone to exaggerate. Slowly, Nikkulaat's frowning features turned to face Aanasi and her expression reflected his sentiment in her big, staring dark eyes.

Katu interrupted the growing silence, "I decided to turn back at that point because the storm was getting worse. I doubt Bruun could survive the force of the blizzard, but if he does..."

Nikkulaat ran his hands through his thick black locks and sighed. "Bjarni Kleist hasn't made too many friends in the village, particularly among the elders, but I will always be grateful to him for what he did to protect Siimuut."

The exuberant words had just bubbled up over Nikkulaat's tonsils and escaped his unguarded lips when their meaning stabbed at his heart, knowing the callous mistake would cost Aanasi dearly. He turned to face the struggling figure of his wife and her tears told him she had heard and understood his faux pas.

A wave of grief knocked her from her feet and she slumped to a chair, laying her head in her hands, trying to understand again why her baby had been ripped from their lives. Nikkulaat moved quickly to comfort his tender wife and apologise for his thoughtlessness. Her tears subsided in a heaving shudder. Although her grief would live with her until she died, she knew Nikkulaat also struggled with Siimuut's death but he had refused to ever talk about it.

Katu wasn't any stranger to death and loss of loved ones and he struggled to contain his own grief at Aanasi's tears, laying the memory of Nigaq into a closed compartment of his heart, barred by a mental sign that said, _Restricted: Do not enter._

Nikkulaat turned his attention back to Katu. "What is it that you want us to do?"

Katu held his head in his hands. "So you believe me?"

"I always knew Bjarni was an honourable man, even if the rest of the village could not see past the situation."

Nikkulaat glanced across at Aanasi. She knew what was coming and she peered at her husband with huge, pleading eyes.

Katu filled the silence again. "I'm not really worried about Bruun, but I am worried that Bruun's stupidity will lead this thing right into Bjarni's lap... if he is still alive. But even if he isn't, I owe it to Bjarni to clear his name."

The sudden interjection from Aanasi caused the two men to focus on her determined speech.

"If you are intent on tracking whatever this thing is, I'm coming too!"

Nikkulaat's stare spoke of a gathering storm at his wife's confession, but Katu quickly moved to stifle the brewing trouble.

"I will need someone to look after the outpost while we hunt. Aanasi would be safe there, and close enough to raise the alarm if we are overdue."

Nikkulaat held the gaze of his treasured wife for a long moment. Her determined eyes spoke well of the compromise and finally, Nikkulaat agreed.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 38

Slinger stood gazing out the window of the executive boardroom, staring into the car park of the substantial Sue's Bridge Community Church property with his back to the seven man executive team. If it wasn't for Mrs Parks' glowing testimonial of what God and Cutter had done in her life, then he would have dismissed Cutter. He really wanted to vent his frustration at the interfering ex-biker and chew Cutter's head off, but that wouldn't befit a man of God. Besides, knowing Cutter's ability to come up squeaky clean, he would probably get caught and end up being fired instead.

Unconsciously, Slinger sucked his teeth with his tongue, his frustration starting to climb and with a huff he turned away from the window, glancing around the room at the seven associate pastors. He threw a quick gaze up at the wall clock and noticed it was a quarter past midday; the meeting was supposed to start at 12 noon.

"Well, gentlemen, we can't wait any longer for Cutter to arrive. We have a packed schedule planning our activities for the coming twelve months and any activities that may appear _less_ attractive to the members present, our man Cutter can take up the slack."

A mumbled agreement rippled through the quiet room.

*~*~*~*

On a lonely stretch of highway leading into Sue's Bridge, a Harley-Davidson Fat Boy was parked behind a family sedan with the hood up and Cutter's big frame stooped over an overheated engine while a very pregnant woman hovered around him, holding the hand of a small toddler and preventing him from running out on the highway. The woman had seen the big biker pull up behind her and the loud chugging of his motorbike had panicked her. The huge, sleeveless arms and a tattoo of a dagger–with _Cutter_ at its point–did little to allay her fears until her eyes settled on his jacket and the logo written across his back: _Jesus... Don't leave Earth without Him._

In a few moments, his gentle manner and his kind face disarmed her and she had accepted his help without hesitation.

"Well, there you go, Juanita. That's the best I can do out here. It should get you home and then Javier can take it from there."

"Thank you, Cutter. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't stopped to help me."

"All part of being in Jesus' service. You will come and hear me preach this Sunday won't you and bring your husband, Javier."

"We would love to come, Cutter."

Juanita buckled her toddler into his capsule on the back seat and then climbed awkwardly into the driver seat of the family car, cranked it into life and with a final wave, drove away. Cutter waved after her and then searched around for something to wipe his hands on before mounting the Fat Boy again, but finding nothing, he wiped them on his faded denims instead.

*~*~*~*

Slinger was just closing the meeting when Cutter's motorcycle stole the airwaves from the executive boardroom and made Slinger yell to be heard. Cutter gave his signature three quick revs before shutting down his engine and then strolled into the church office.

Mrs Jessop watched Cutter enter and knew that he was walking into Slinger's ire. She eyed him carefully and noticed the greasy handprints wiped on his denims.

"What was it this time? A pensioner's washing machine... no, no, it's Wednesday; it must have been the garbage truck broken down and you stopped to help," Mrs Jessop chided him sarcastically.

Cutter's smile stretched across his face. "Nup, you're way out. Juanita's engine overheated on interstate 6 and..."

"You stopped to help her out! Cutter, today is the planning meeting for the next twelve months and Mr Slinger is breathing fire. You missed it!"

"Couldn't be helped. I can't imagine Jesus bypassing a lamb in need just to turn up to a board meeting."

Mrs Jessop huffed and pointed him towards the washroom. "At least wash your hands before approaching Mr Slinger's wrath."

Moments later, Cutter appeared again from his task of washing the grease off his hands and with a gesture of arms up, showed Mrs Jessop his clean hands. She tilted her head on its side in unbelief at Cutter's casual attitude and pointed down the passage towards the emptying boardroom.

"Good luck!"

Cutter recognised several of the associate pastors exiting the meeting room and stood aside, allowing them to make their way down the hall and amble past him. Most of the men didn't even make eye contact with him but the few that did had a smirking attitude and their haughty eyes left him in no doubt his apparent candidacy for Mr Personality wasn't going to succeed without their vote.

As Cutter finally entered the boardroom, Slinger was on his way out.

"Nice of you to finally turn up, Cutter. I gather you have a reason for your... tardiness... on second thoughts, I don't want to know. Here is your portfolio for the next twelve months."

Slinger handed him a manila folder with a single sheet contained within and a list of his activities scribbled across it. "Just so you understand, you have been given the activities that no one else wanted; they are self-explanatory. Maybe next meeting you will turn up on time and now, if you will excuse me, I have work to attend to."

Cutter removed the list from the manila folder and scanned the activities. He had been scheduled to preach on every public holiday Sunday, and every weekend that a major outside event had been rostered, leaving him preaching to an empty church. Along with that, he was scheduled to visit Mrs Parks every Wednesday; the prison every Friday; and Bairnsworth Psychiatric Hospital every Tuesday. Cutter couldn't understand. The way Slinger was talking, it seemed as if he was ticked off and Cutter was being punished by being given the dregs of the activities, but apart from the preaching schedule, he would have volunteered for the ones he had been given anyway.

As he made his way out of the boardroom, he stopped in the doorway of Slinger's office and excitedly proclaimed, "Thanks, boss. I'm really pleased with your choice."

Slinger sat openmouthed at Cutter's confession and watched him disappear from his doorway and then Cutter's head reappeared, making Slinger jump.

"Oh... I forgot to tell you; Juanita and Javier will be coming to hear me preach this Sunday."

Slinger waved his hand above his head in annoyance and then through his window, watched Cutter walk out to his bike and then disappear in blur of motorcycle noise, rattling his office windows as he left.

Slinger huffed. Either Cutter was playing with his head or he really didn't mind doing the things others wouldn't.

*~*~*~*

Deputy Jackson had been run off his feet all morning, attending to his normal workload and Bayer's as well. Now the sheriff wanted him to drop everything and report on a blood stain covering the running track and take a sample for forensics to examine. He was feeling rather antagonised towards Bayer, until the sheriff explained Bayer was missing and the blood stain may have something to do with her disappearance.

Jackson parked his police vehicle at the start to the running track and locked the doors, then quickly settled into a brisk walk, striding out the five kilometre journey to the old mill.

By the time Jackson could hear the screeching of the old waterwheel, his brow was covered in sweat. He slowed his pace and began to search around the scene, looking for any ominous signs of trouble, then with his head bent down, he studied the uneven surface of the track while a puddle of slippery red fluid caught his attention. He dropped to his haunches above the stain and dipped his fingers into it and came up with the slick, sticky red fluid staining his fingers... blood.

Carefully he slipped his clean hand into his pocket and drew out a sealed swab, dipped it into the fluid and then sealed it into a sterile tube. Searching around, there weren't any signs of a struggle or disturbed bushes and it was time to report back, delivering the sample to forensics. _If this is Bayer's blood, the crime scene people will be crawling all over the area shortly_ , he thought _._

*~*~*~*

"What was that description of the running track offender?!" the sheriff bellowed out of his office, expecting the dispatcher to comprehend his command from two rooms away.

Cleaver's head peered around the sheriff's door. "Come again, boss?"

"The running track offender's description," the sheriff repeated, a little annoyed.

Cleaver disappeared from the doorway and soon he was back with a piece of paper containing the description. "Arr... male; big arms; jacket with the sleeves removed and wielding a knife," Cleaver read from the page.

"Is that it?!" the sheriff barked.

Cleaver nodded. "Afraid so, boss."

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 39

Every time a blast of super chilled Arctic wind rocked the walls of the extreme-cold-weather-survival tent, a new bout of uncertainty swayed her resolve. Normally, difficult situations didn't faze her, but that wasn't at minus fifty degrees Celsius, alone out in the middle of nowhere and in the face of Jack Frost riding a continuous round of hurricane force hammer blows.

The last time she was able to check her navigation by the stars was two days ago, just before the cloud obliterated her view and locked her into a deep freeze. She fiddled with the compass she'd brought with her but every direction she pointed it, pointed west. Being so close to the pole meant it was useless and if she wasn't aware of its deception, it could force her into extremely dangerous territory. With a disgusted pitch, she threw the device at the back of the tent and steadied herself as another gust tore at the thin aluminium skin of her shelter, threatening to tear it open and expose her to a very quick, freezing death. She studied the flapping material of the refuge's roof, painfully aware there was only a micro-millimetre sheath between her and the frozen elements.

As the tent interior began to grow darker, she figured what remained of the Arctic sun was about to retire for the night, and the outside temperature would drop even further. Making a mental calculation according to the guarantee attached to the manufacturer's tag–as long as the wind chill didn't increase any further and the tent fabric wasn't breached–at minus sixty degrees Celsius outside, the tent interior would remain a toasty minus five degrees. It is vital that the human body's core temperature remains at a constant thirty-seven degrees Celsius, while any fluctuations of more than two degrees could prove fatal. To survive in her current situation, the difference between her core temperature and the outside temperature was ninety-seven degrees Celsius. Although the tent accounted for fifty-five degrees of that, her protective clothing had to maintain a further forty-two degrees to ensure her continued existence.

She was fundamentally aware that when the body senses a loss of core temperature, violent shivering is activated and body warmth is switched off from non-vital organs such as skin, feet, legs, arms and face, ensuring the vital organs were protected by funnelling that reserved warmth for the heart, brain and kidneys to use. Once core temperature drops further, shivering stops and the effects of hypothermia confuses the mind and as with any trauma to the brain, it wants to sleep and that can signify a fatal shutdown, eventually resulting in death.

Another flapping gust tore into the side of the tent and shocked her from her musings, making her tense instinctively and wondering whether this would be her last moments alive. It didn't matter which way she looked at her situation: it was desperate. Whether she died out in the waste lands of Liverpool Land searching for a legend man or at the hands of her own people, it made no difference. To her it was a lose-lose situation and if she didn't come up with the results they wanted, she may as well die out here.

*~*~*~*

Galina Babkin awoke with a start and gazed, disorientated, around the inside of her survival tent. She had fallen asleep at the height of the storm, something she had been trying desperately to avoid, the very something in these desperate circumstances that could cost her life.

She listened for the threat of turmoil advancing on her situation but the furious winds had abated, leaving nothing but earsplitting silence occasionally interrupted by her whimpering dog team, of which she had abandoned to their fate in the face of the fierce storm. The huskies were a tough breed and if anything could survive the rigors of the stormy tundra, they could. Snow drifts had forced the tent sides to bend dangerously inwards, restricting her movement within her cocoon, but with a few accentuated movements she managed to dislodge enough of the constricting mass to access the outside air.

Surveying the bitter landscape and staring back at her tent, it soon became apparent how she had survived the overnight freeze. The snow packed around her shelter had insulated her against the bitter wind while the temperature inside had stabilised. Gazing around, the Arctic sun seemed to be frozen in the cloudless, pastel blue sky. Freezing mist danced around the tundra floor, trying to trap and blanket the feeble sun's rays from warming the glaring, flat and lifeless tundra landscape. Galina surveyed her surroundings from horizon to horizon, squinting against the bright glare of the polar plain as each cold ray of sunlight bounced and intensified off a million icy surfaces and hurt her eyes, but she knew she had to keep moving.

Accurate navigation was essential. If she inadvertently wandered off the frozen land and ventured onto the forming sea ice, she could break through the thin, frozen barrier and drown in the freezing waters in seconds.

Her mind drifted back a few short days to the tiny settlement of Ittoqqortoormiit and the mixed reception she had received from the locals when she'd started asking questions about Bjarni Kleist and Dan Gurst. She suspected most people had little stomach for Bjarni Kleist; it seemed that Dan Gurst was an unknown, or at least, that's the way they were leading her to believe. One man in particular seemed to have more to say than all the rest about Bjarni Kleist and judging by his weird getup, he was some kind of tribal religious figure. He had warned her about the legend man and how he seemed to have some kind of animal cunning and instinct that allowed him to appear and disappear and survive in places others couldn't.

The talk had only heightened Galina's interest and piqued her resolve to capture this strange apparition and tap into his knowledge concerning the mysterious, powerful source.

After a supposed sighting by an elder out hunting in Liverpool Land, the villagers seemed to think he had relocated and now she had an impossible job to find him. The isolated bays and fjords of the coastal regions were an ideal hiding place for outlaws, and this would be the subject of her search.

Driven on by sheer determination, Galina dug out her buried sled and tethered her dog team, then dismantled her shelter and packed her equipment onto the cargo well. Rifling through her survival supplies, she hungrily devoured a chemical meal and then mushed the tired and hungry huskies onto another day of bone jarring, overland travel.

*~*~*~*

On the edge of the blinding glare and downwind of her, another set of eyes watched her movements from afar. The lumbering giant stood up from his haunches and tasted the wind, his snout twitching with the smell of food. He hadn't eaten for several days and his belly was complaining bitterly. Two staring black pupils followed the movement, tracing his prey with measured accuracy and as soon as her back turned to him, he dropped to all fours again and swiftly closed in on her.

*~*~*~*

The dogs barked and strained while Galina dipped and jarred, standing on the rear of the sled. In the extreme cold, icicles began to form on her eyelashes and an eyelid had frozen closed, causing her severe pain. She pulled the dogs to a standstill and removed a hand from her glove, placing it over her frozen lid, then slowly the eyelid thawed and it blinked stiffly. Not wanting a repeat, she wrapped her face completely in a thick fur scarf, using small holes for observing her surrounds and then replaced her freezing hand back into the warm glove again.

Hours seemed to pass and the dogs began to slow; they too were tired. She decided to give them a break before searching the flat landscape for a suitable overnight campsite, but in the meantime, she reached into a bag and removed a satellite phone. Galina hadn't reported in for nearly three days and her boss wouldn't be happy. She shrugged as if he was standing nearby–extenuating circumstances beyond her control. She grasped the device with her gloved hands and tried to punch in his number, taking several attempts before she bit at the finger of the glove with her teeth and removed it in frustration and punched the keys with a cold, bare hand.

The phone clicked, followed by a frustrated sigh, but no connection was made. Then with quickly stiffening fingers, she punched the keys and typed a quick message, ending with an antagonised stab at the _send_ button. If she left the phone on for a while, a passing satellite would eventually pick up her message and deliver it to the intended recipient.

*~*~*~*

Downwind of his prey and a short distance away, a 700 kilogram frame lifted onto his back legs and balanced perfectly; he had been stealthily tracking his quarry four hours now. Hidden flawlessly by impeccable camouflage and with black eyes searching, the three metre tall carnivore sensed the wind and tasted her scent. He was getting hungrier, but he wasn't going to give away the element of surprise and lose his meal in a foolish charge. He had to remain downwind of his victim and move around as the wind direction changed, with every step carefully measured and every move carefully weighed, picking precisely the right time to strike and cutting off any chance of escape.

Long powerful arms culminating in ten razor-sharp claws made him an unstoppable force once the hunt began in earnest, easily overpowering his prey. The persistent hunger would drive him relentlessly until his passion had been quenched. With great reserves of patience and discipline, the experienced hunter could wait all night for the right moment if he had to, ensuring he always ended the satisfied victor.

*~*~*~*

Galina decided to camp where she was. The dogs had found the remains of a long dead and frozen fox and no amount of coaxing would convince them to leave their meal.

Once in the warmth of her shelter, night was descending and after a meal of rations, she slipped into her sleeping bag. In a moment of wonder, she grabbed for the satellite phone, but it had shut itself down to conserve the battery. She pushed the _enter_ button again and the phone blinked back to life, but the _message_ _send_ icon was still flashing. She sighed and pushed the _send_ button again.

This time the icon changed to _message sent_.

*~*~*~*

Parlo strolled down the long corridor from Annette Dysart's apartment carrying a U.S. Army folder. As he glanced down at the document, a treacherous smile stretched across his face, but it was suddenly interrupted by a _beep_ from his jacket pocket, disrupting the thoughts of an easy conquest. He retrieved his phone and read the message and then with an unamused frown, he placed the device back in his pocket.

Even this news didn't matter. Now that he had the file, he could relax. Surely his superiors would restore him to his former glory now.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 40

Bjarni carefully surveyed the scene, peering outside through the hazy hut window. The Sund had all but frozen over, allowing a considerable shortcut to his usual hunting grounds but he was all too aware of the treachery of seeming solid sea ice. The weather was still clear, but now with extra mouths to feed he had to make good use of the limited sunshine before the winter night set in and food gathering would become almost impossible. Hungry nanuq would be on the prowl too, adding another dangerous dimension to his plans. If he had the privilege of another few weeks he could wait out the initial migration period, and pass the time until the stealthy hunters filled their stomachs on fat muskox left alone on the mountain slopes to graze the summer months, unperturbed by hungry bears.

He watched the first rays of dawn peek over the mountains surrounding the fjord and decided Anunya had slept long enough. They had to pack the sled and ready the dogs and her hands were needed too. Bjarni reached down to the sleeping form and shook her, while Shtiya yawned with a wide open mouth and a slapping tongue.

"Anunya...! Get up, girl!" Bjarni tried again.

Anunya jolted upright, eyes still full of sleep and staring, but ready to bolt from danger.

"Steady on, it is only me. We have to get prepared while the weather holds."

Recognising Bjarni's unthreatening form, she quickly relaxed and then stretched and yawned. "Another couple of hours would have been good," she teased.

Bjarni smiled and then gently lifted her face with his fingers and inspected the gouge marks running down from her eye to her lip. The wounds had sealed nicely, pink and healthy, a sign they were healing well and he was happy she wouldn't reinfect them on their hunting trip.

"They look alright?" she whispered, peering into the old man's eyes as he examined her face.

"Mmm, yes, you were extremely fortunate. Any closer and they may have done some real damage."

Bjarni scanned the empty hut and rechecked that everything was in its place before setting off. Once Anunya had been coaxed out of her bed, she joined in his mayhem and quickly, the sled filled with equipment needed for their survival and for food gathering.

Anunya had already attended to the dogs, assembling the team, but she wondered how Shtiya and Akiak would cope being tethered together, having both been used to the lead. An angry, low growl from Akiak soon answered her question and Shtiya bowed to her demand for space. The wilderness was Akiak's domain and he would have to follow her lead and her experience, just like Anunya was reliant on Bjarni.

Finally, Bjarni covered the cargo well of the sled with a massive muskox pelt and directed Anunya's attention to it. "You can ride under the pelt once we get moving and I will take the standing position at the back."

Anunya nodded, knowing this wasn't going to be a limousine ride. "What's that?" she asked the first of a multitude of questions and pointed to a steel pole he was carrying.

"Seal harpoon; it doubles as an ice pick."

Bjarni surveyed the sled before setting off, satisfied Anunya already knew how to set up the dog team.

Anunya watched the old man walk over to the frozen Sund and begin chipping at the ice with the harpoon. With a number of strong stabs at the ice with the implement, he lost the length of the harpoon into the water below and kept moving down the shoreline until the harpoon stabbed at solid ice and remained a good length above the freezing sea. Satisfied he had found a path of solid ice, he walked onto the surface and continued his routine of stabbing at the surface until he was over a hundred metres out.

With a shrill whistle, Bjarni called to the dog team and Akiak responded with a torrent of barking, ordering the dogs to pull the sled and follow her lead. She restrained the eager dogs by lagging behind and caused the tether to pull tight against her, slowing the sled's movement over the tricky sea ice. Soon the dog team began to associate the directions coming from Bjarni and Akiak's responses, allowing her to take the lead.

Anunya jumped onto the cargo well as the sled slowly edged its way onto the frozen surface of the Sund and soon she was safely alongside Bjarni as he continued to thrust his harpoon into the ice.

After an hour of painstaking travel, Anunya turned to check the shoreline and how far they had come. The hut was still clearly visible and she estimated they had travelled about a kilometre, with Bjarni finding solid sea ice consistently now. He joined the sled and took his standing position at the back and with another shrill whistled command, Akiak's bark was accompanied by a sudden increase in speed.

A couple of times Akiak pulled the sled into a large arc, apparently avoiding something and then with the same precision, she would bring the sled back onto a straight line heading for the distant shore. Anunya was confused at her tactic and couldn't see any reason for her strange behaviour.

"Why does she keep taking these big arcing detours?" Anunya called back to Bjarni from her position on top of the cargo well while the wooden sleds scraped noisily along the ice.

"She's avoiding thinner ice," Bjarni responded.

"How does she know?" Anunya asked incredulously, peering out at the frozen landscape and seeing nothing but white.

"In the wilderness tundra, there are many hazards that can easily take your life and nearly all of them are hidden."

Anunya's eyes were big and another question was forming in her mind but Bjarni continued before she could speak.

"Akiak is not looking at the landscape, but what is _different_ about the landscape. You can scan the horizon for dangers and miss them every time, however, if you scan the horizon for something that appears to be different, something seemingly insignificant but out of place, then you will find your danger. An inconsequential lump in the frozen sea surface may be an area of weak ice, pushed up by the surrounding forces of the thicker ice and that's what she is looking for; even a lighter colour or tinges of green may be a concern."

Akiak barked again and pulled the sled in another huge arc and this time, Anunya saw the telltale signs of a small mound directly in their path. She pointed as they passed safely, well to stern of the unstable mass. Bjarni smiled and nodded; Anunya had caught on quickly.

In a matter of hours, the hut and the shoreline had disappeared into the frozen backdrop and the opposite, distant shores of the fjord became larger and more defined.

A sudden thought crossed Anunya's mind and another question plagued her. "Why did you risk the unstable sea ice crossing instead of going around the shoreline?"

Bjarni smiled at the question he knew would come sooner or later. "The trip around the fjord is nearly three days; it's only five hours straight across and if you know what to look for, it's safer than the shore journey. Hungry nanuq are migrating back into the area too and they are easier to see out here."

She nodded her understanding, but the thought of a hungry polar bear stalking them didn't sit well with Anunya and she went quiet for a time, watching her surrounds.

As the shoreline became more defined, the presence of green coloured patches alerted Akiak and she slowed her pace, waiting for Bjarni's next command. Anunya pointed to an area of solid white in the distance, in between the patches and Bjarni responded with a pleased nod. His student was learning quickly. He whistled again, pulled the tether to the right and Akiak kicked up the speed and headed for the white ice bridge joining the freezing water to the land.

Soon Bjarni pulled tightly on the tether and whistled, causing the sled to come to a solid stop again only a hundred metres from the shore. He stiffly dismounted from his standing position and grabbed for his harpoon. This time Anunya accompanied him and he handed her the weapon. She peered up at him, her eyes asking a thousand questions while taking the harpoon from his hands, then she thrust it into the ice as she had seen Bjarni do. The sharp steel barely broke the surface from her efforts and assured of the solidity of the ice, she took another step closer to the shore. She was just about to take another step, when she felt his hand grab her arm and pull her back. She didn't understand, until Bjarni took the harpoon and thrust it into the place she was about to step and the harpoon disappeared full length into the freezing water.

She hadn't seen a fissure in the ice and his simple move had saved her from freezing to death in a bath of super cooled water. His action seemed to bring about a frustrated frown from Anunya and at the same time, she was thankful Bjarni was at her side.

In a matter of an hour, the sled was back on solid ground and Anunya's adventure was set to continue. She was just about to ask a barrage of new questions when her attention was quickly diverted.

Bjarni was intently concentrating on Akiak's strange actions. She was standing, tasting the air.

Bjarni silently reached under the muskox pelt and drew his rifle into plain view. He pumped the breech, never losing eye contact with Akiak, while the other dogs began to search also.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 41

Akiak's preoccupation with tasting the air quickly turned to disinterest, and she focused on the movement of the other dogs. When Bjarni saw this, his instincts relaxed and he emptied the rifle breech again.

"What was that all about?" Anunya prodded, fearing she had missed something important.

"We were just being checked out by a nanuq, but he's gone now," Bjarni answered.

Anunya instinctively moved closer to Bjarni and searched around her surrounds. "How do you know?" she whimpered.

"You always have to be watching for things that don't fit into the landscape, remember!"

Anunya nodded. "But I didn't see anything unusual."

"What about your dogs? What were they doing? Akiak will sense danger long before we will, because her sense of smell is far superior to ours. If she starts tasting the wind... like she did, then you had better take notice. Come on, we should be able to find the nanuq's tracks and see how close he was."

In a matter of minutes Bjarni found the tracks, only metres away from where they had stopped and showed Anunya. Her face turned pale, realising how close she had come to a massive bear and hadn't even noticed.

"This bear was in a hurry to leave," Bjarni pointed to the indentation of the pad print, clearly showing the front of the track was deeper and heavier while the claw marks punctured the rim of the print, accentuating the haste at which he'd left.

Anunya bent to examine the big fresh print and then stared up at Bjarni. "This thing was huge!" she stated emphatically.

"Nah... he was only a teenager, probably about 400 kilos. The big males can grow to over a thousand kilos."

"A thousand kilos...?!" Anunya exclaimed, peering back in the direction the bear had gone.

As Bjarni was turning back to rejoin the dogs, he saw another tundra signpost and called Anunya over to explain. She cautiously glanced back in the direction the bear had gone once more before joining him to see what new thing she would learn.

"The tundra has a way of helping out the wise," Bjarni instructed.

She nodded, remembering his speech from a few days ago.

"If you get lost and you lose the direction you were travelling and particularly in a whiteout, how can you find your way again?"

Bjarni searched her eyes as she thought about his question and then she smiled, coming to an _I don't know_ answer. "Use a compass?!"

Bjarni laughed. "Compasses are pretty much useless this far north."

Anunya appeared shocked. "Why?"

Bjarni shifted on his feet, looking for an easy answer. "Well, basically there is true north, which is the top of the earth; and magnetic north, which lines up with the earth's magnetic field. Magnetic north is located somewhere in northern Canada and all magnetic compasses will point to magnetic north. That's a problem where we are, because Canada is actually west of here."

"So, a magnetic compass will always point magnetic north, which is actually west?" Anunya's gaze gave a clear indication she was confused.

"Anyway... forget all that, that's not what I wanted to show you. Just remember a compass is virtually useless to us out here."

Anunya nodded and followed Bjarni as he stooped to the ground.

"See these tongues of snow?" Bjarni pointed while Anunya squatted beside him, surveying what he was looking at.

"Wow, what a weird looking formation. It looks exactly like a cow's tongue carved out of snow. What is it?" She prodded the strange formation with her gloved hand.

"At this time of the year, the wind consistently blows from the east and forms these tongues of snow. The tongues indicate the direction the wind is blowing and if you take notice of the direction you are travelling, these tongues will help to reorientate you. If you get caught in a whiteout or heavy fog, you can still find your direction and safety by following the direction indicated by the tongue."

Anunya suddenly realised the gem the old man had imparted to her; a simple indicator like these snow tongues could save a life in the right circumstances. She was beginning to understand the signposts of survival and the little hints the tundra gave in assisting an astute person to survive. In the five hours since leaving the hut, Bjarni had picked up on numerous small differences in the landscape and read the signposts that the tundra pointed to. If she'd tried this alone, she probably would have died at the edge of the Sund, broken through the ice and frozen to death in seconds, even before her journey had ever begun.

She sat in a squat position, studying the tongues and pondering, lost in the awesome knowledge she had just gained. Then noticing Bjarni had started walking away, she jumped to her feet and scurried to rejoin him, tucking her hand under his arm, all the while nervously glancing back at the bear tracks.

*~*~*~*

The intense quiet of the wide open spaces of the tundra was only interrupted by the occasional bout of barking from the dogs and the constant swishing of the wooden sleds on thick snow. Anunya bumped and jolted along, sitting sidesaddle on the cargo well, squinting around at the stark environment. Her eyes rested on the old man and she began to study his weathered features, wondering why such a gentle human being was wanted by the law. She understood, from her own situation, that the law often stood on the side of the people with the most money and the voice of poverty often went unheard.

"This looks like a good spot to build camp," Bjarni interrupted her thoughts and whistled as the dogs happily drifted to a complete stop.

Anunya squinted around her environment and then held her hand over her forehead to shelter her eyes from the snow glare. Even as the sun started to set, the glare was still intense.

"Where are we?" she queried.

Bjarni responded, "Milne Land hunting grounds; Ofjord is just to our west, Fonfjord is to the east and Rodefjord is to the south. Milne Land is an island during the summer and the muskox and caribou roam undisturbed and feed to their hearts' content."

Bjarni stiffly climbed down from the rear of the sled while Anunya relished the ability to stretch her legs.

"What did we bring to make a shelter out of? There's nothing but snow for miles," Anunya slowly turned to face each direction until she stood facing Bjarni again, with an intense gaze.

"Well, what do we have in abundance all around us?"

Anunya stared at her mentor and then replied with the only answer she could think of, "Lots and lots of nothing?!"

Bjarni reached under the muskox pelt and withdrew his harpoon again as Anunya's eyes followed his movements. He walked around the area, stabbing his harpoon deep into the snow, causing Anunya to watch him with concern. Then Bjarni pointed to a spot.

"This is good wind-packed snow; it will make excellent material. Bring me the shovel and my butchering knife please, Anunya."

Anunya searched under the pelt until she found the shovel handle and the knife blade and with a tug, she dislodged the tools trapped around other items in the cargo well. She strode back over to Bjarni, her boots making a squelching sound on the new snow as she walked and then she handed him the shovel and his knife, at the same time shooting him a quizzical gaze.

"We're going to camp in a hole?" Anunya finally conceded.

"Just watch."

In moments, the old man had cleared the loose surface powder and exposed a layer of tightly packed wind-driven snow. Then he sliced the uncovered area around him with his large butcher's knife into blocks: roughly 600 millimetre x 400 millimetre x 100 millimetre thick. Once he had the blocks cut and lifted clear off the ground, he smoothed a place nearby for a foundation and then began placing them in a large circle, carefully shaping the blocks of compacted snow into the right shape so each block locked together with its neighbour.

Anunya's face suddenly beamed. "You're making an igloo!"

She watched in amazement as the old man continued cutting more blocks from the uncovered plot and then shaped them with his knife, making sure the blocks had three points of contact with its neighbour. She danced around excitedly as the dome took shape and Bjarni skilfully cut each block to fit.

"Can I have a go, Bjarni?!"

Bjarni handed her the knife and then she cut new blocks of snow from the ground.

"Why can't we just use the surface snow to cut the blocks out of?"

Bjarni shrugged. "Try it."

Anunya knew she was about to learn another secret. She raised herself from the hole Bjarni had cut and attempted to slice the new surface snow and found that it just fell apart in her hands. She turned to face him with astonished, questioning eyes.

"The surface snow hasn't been compacted, and won't stick together like the compacted variety, but the compacted snow is strong and makes excellent blocks to build an igloo," Bjarni instructed

"It just feels and sounds like Styrofoam but it's much heavier," she quipped.

In just over an hour, the dome structure was nearing completion. Bjarni showed Anunya how to cut the blocks to fit the curved roof and then pound them solidly into place. The last job was to cut an opening in the foundation blocks to allow them to get in and out.

Anunya stared at the completed dwelling. "I hope it won't cave in on us."

"No chance. The blocks would have already started to grow into each other and once the overnight temperature has frozen the structure together, you will be able stand on top of it."

By the time the structure was habitable, it was completely dark and the stars lit the tundra like tiny street lights, while the igloo interior glowed in the light of a small burner. Anunya wriggled into a thick muskox pelt and pulled the fur over herself. Bjarni was laying close by, in a similar pelt. The temperature inside the igloo was a warm zero degrees but outside, the temperature was plummeting to minus 40 degrees. The dogs had been fed and they curled up in the protection of the structure and out of the wind.

Anunya marvelled at what she had learned from her mentor today and a small tear slipped down her face. Somewhere out there was her father, and she longed to find him and lead him to her mother, ending his agony as well as hers. She sniffed away another tear and wiped her face with a gloved hand. Bjarni was filling the role of her dad and she was grateful for his patience and kindness towards her. She was even more convinced than ever that humanity had misjudged and misunderstood this wonderful man. Her voice cracked in appreciation. "Night, Bjarni."

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 42

Ruth Chambers didn't usually argue with a doctor's decisions but today, the sheer stupidity of Brook's rambling explanation didn't sit well with her. Shayden Glenn was sick and badly needed medical care, not a psychiatric evaluation. Then when she'd spoken with Grayson Glenn, she couldn't believe they had removed his parental rights and simply barred any further contact with his granddaughter. Things came to the boil when Grayson tried to kidnap Shayden from the hospital and the police were called, escorting Grayson, in his wheelchair, to the lockup in handcuffs.

Allan Brooks stood over the bed of Shayden Glenn, examining her vital signs, making sure that her crazy grandfather hadn't disturbed the hospital's anaesthetised laboratory experiment.

Ruth Chambers strode for Shayden's room from her post outside the observation window, incensed that the hospital had gone to such measures to break up a family and deny a grandfather his rightful place as guardian and protector just because he didn't agree with the accepted medical policy of the moment, a policy that the hospital was required by law to follow. From her position at the doorway to Shayden's room, she peered back along the long hospital corridor and watched two burly police removing Grayson Glenn from the ward.

Noticing Ruth's disturbed glance in the direction of the policemen and then the determined set of her jaw, Brooks moved to quench the fire erupting from the nurse's eyes.

"Don't get any ideas, Nurse, or you will meet with the same outcome."

"Maybe the media would like to know what you are doing!" she angrily retorted.

"Go ahead. The media loves to make mincemeat of whistle-blowers. Anyway, everything we are doing is condoned by the full measure of the law, and I am sure–with the media's help–the public will support our endeavours."

Ruth's face turned crimson and she was just about to attack when Brooks cut her off again.

"Look, Nurse, I think your services at this hospital are teetering and on shaky ground, and if you can't follow a lawful direction, then that's a violation of your employment contract. If you want to continue working in this hospital–or any hospital for that matter–you had better go about your work or I will accept your resignation."

Ruth's fire was burning but she had to step back and make good decisions that would help Shayden, not hinder her. She spun around on her heels and turned to leave, but she wasn't finished yet.

*~*~*~*

The telephone rang on Wilbur Trial's desk and interrupted an ingratiating conversation he was having with a representative of a large pharmaceuticals chain. He ignored the phone and tried to talk over it until it stopped ringing. Glancing at the annoyance and satisfied the interruption had been successfully routed he continued, "We would be very happy to test your new drug, Mr Davis, and the generous donation to the hospital's budget would be more than welcome."

Just then, the desk phone interrupted the men's business again and the chairman glared at it with venom.

"I think someone needs your attention, Mr Trial. I'll wait."

Trial snatched the phone and barked into the receiver. Moments later, he threw the receiver back into its cradle, his eyes alight with indignation.

The wealthy pharmaceuticals' representative raised an eyebrow to the hospital administrator. "A problem, Mr Trial?"

Trial calmed down again and responded sweetly to the important man in front of him. "Nothing to worry about; someone just got fired, that's all."

*~*~*~*

Cutter's Fat Boy was parked in its usual place in the kitchen of his small ground-floor flat. No self respecting biker–or ex-biker for that matter–would leave an extension of his personality outside in the cold. His old landlord was sympathetic to Cutter's cause and the extra fifty dollars he paid a week clinched the deal and the Fat Boy shared Cutter's apartment, with the proviso the machine didn't leak oil.

Having a large biker in the apartment complex suited the landlord's agenda and the annoying, petty criminal activity that dogged the neighbourhood stayed out of his property. The landlord worried the only thing that could put a hole in Cutter's facade was his Jesus jacket and the loud Jesus songs that emanated from his apartment. People filled Cutter's home whenever he was there, and his ever-present, cheerful helping hand cemented a place of affection among his elderly neighbours.

He had spent the afternoon with Mrs Parks, teaching her from his small dog-eared Bible that fitted nicely into his jacket pocket, but she was reluctant to see him leave and repeated requests for him to stay longer had to be refused. Short of barring the door and imprisoning her favourite teacher, she had no choice but to let him leave and anxiously confirmed their next meeting.

The rumble of a jetliner-like disturbance pervaded the apartment block and resident windows shook up and down the three story structure, rattling with powerful intensity and rocking on each exuberant _galumph_ from the idling motorcycle engine. After three vivacious and energetically snapped throttle-ups, the scene quickly descended into morbid silence again as the gyrating engine retired for the night. Meanwhile, every railing and doorway filled with an elderly spectator, followed by a chorus of requests thrown at the charismatic biker.

"Cutter, my washing machine is broke again; the lights don't work on my Christmas tree; my computer is swearing at me in Chinese!"

Cutter held up his hand, holding his bike with the other. "I'll be there in a minute."

By the time Cutter had visited the many demands from his neighbours and consumed a number of cups of teas, it was almost dark and he had to prepare the small flat for the ever-increasing Wednesday evening Bible study. He couldn't understand the reasons for the popularity of his gathering and if it kept growing, he would have to move it to the complex's front lawn or a nearby park. It always seemed that the Holy Spirit derailed everything he planned, so he didn't plan anything any more and just let his best friend lead.

*~*~*~*

Cutter was still dripping from the shower when the first knock came to the front door of his apartment. He yelled across the tiny pied-à-terre, "Coming!" then quickly threw on a change of clothes and sealed the deal with his impressive sleeveless jacket.

Bounding across the room, he threw open the front door and found Juanita and Javier had made the journey from a nearby town and he smothered them both in a hug; then all too soon a crowd had gathered in his small lounge room, sitting or standing wherever they could find a space. In a matter of moments, the tiny flat rocked with exuberant singing that drifted happily out into the street and up every staircase and landing in the building. Many ears outside Cutter's little apartment listened to the joyous commotion, while personal needs were met both in the room and in the adjoining apartments from the powerful presence of the Holy Spirit.

At the back and standing in the doorway, a forlorn face held a bitter heart full of grief and was about to turn away and leave the huge gathering.

Cutter's ears were burning as he listened to the directions of the Spirit above the commotion of the happy group and his heart melted, feeling the heavy burden and the pain for the small figure. In a moment of uncertainty, he called above the crowd and stopped the escaping figure in their tracks.

"Ruth...! Ruth! Please don't leave; we need to hear your heart and share in your burden."

At the sound of her name, Ruth Chambers turned to face the big biker in shock. No one here knew her, let alone her name.

Cutter made his way to the door, carefully stepping over people until he stood face to face with the small woman's stricken and shocked features. In a moment driven by the Spirit, he wrapped her in a big biker hug and she melted into a sobbing mess.

*~*~*~*

Ruth Chambers peered around the front of the inoffensive square-looking building from the seat of her small car and recognised the front door to the apartment she had visited the previous evening. The only difference, it was morning and the huge crowd had dissipated. Glancing at her watch, she was ten minutes early and she felt nervous and a little self-conscious returning for an appointment with the big man who lived there. But with so many people crammed into the biker's home last night, it had been impossible to discuss the situation that had torn her heart and lost her, her job.

Her head still felt a little fuzzy from a restless night sleep and she fidgeted with the piece of paper the big man had given her with his name and number written across the sheet. She still couldn't believe the depth of compassion she had seen reflected in his eyes as he'd made her promise to keep the following morning's appointment.

In the bright light of morning, however, she'd gotten cold feet and decided to cancel the appointment a number of times, but when she'd reached for the phone a deep sense of foreboding cut off any attempt at making the call. She glanced at her watch again and then decided she would make her way to the front door, even if she was early. She checked her face in the rearview mirror and that's when she saw the dark lines of worry surrounding her brown eyes and she sighed.

"I look like a mess," Ruth castigated herself.

Then with determination she swung the small door open, climbed out and locked it behind her. She dawdled across the street and onto the lawn leading up to the biker's front door. Arriving at the wooden barrier, she listened for a moment and then knocked loudly, her heart pounding as she heard a voice answer from within.

"Won't be a moment, Ruth!"

Then the door rattled and banged as someone made an attempt to open it from inside. In a moment she was wrapped in a warm, big biker hug and her nerves melted away. There seemed to be a powerful presence surrounding this large quirky man and she was drawn to him instantly.

"Come in, Ruth, and make yourself comfortable," Cutter's words implored.

She glanced around the lounge room and wondered how all those people last night had crammed into the small space, then her eyes focused on a small, very pregnant woman sitting at the kitchen table. Cutter noticed Ruth's questioning glance and introduced her.

"Ruth, this is Juanita; she and her husband, Javier, have just joined our church. I asked her join us to give a woman's perspective. Is that okay?"

Juanita struggled to stand and then hugged Ruth with a very bulging hug.

Ruth just nodded her consent.

*~*~*~*

As the hours went by, Ruth explained the circumstances of how she came to be at the gathering the previous night. She had been feeling terribly lonely and desperate in her new situation and had driven by the church office looking for help, but when she found it closed her heart sank, until her eyes rested on the church activity board. She'd scanned the list until she found the Wednesday night activity at Cutter's address and the Bible study about to start. For reasons she couldn't explain, she felt a burning desire to seek him out and now she was beginning to understand why.

It was well after 1pm when Ruth finally said goodbye to Cutter and Juanita. In the presence of the unusual man she felt completely safe, drawn and hypnotised, eagerly pouring out the contents of her heart while Juanita added a new dimension of womanly wisdom and compassion. They hadn't interrupted her as she'd unloaded and found a warmth and tenderness she had never felt from other human beings. The tears began in earnest as she explained her dismissal from the hospital; the grey eyed girl who had stolen her heart and how she was in deep trouble; and the old man robbed of his only granddaughter.

Cutter wiped the tears from his eyes as Ruth explained and it wasn't long before he felt the Holy Spirit nudge him.

"Tell her about Me."

In an act of obedience, Cutter introduced Ruth to Jesus and explained the wickedness of every human heart; our separation from Papa God because of it; and our inability to pay for our condition; offering instead His own perfect life, the only perfect life capable of making the sacrifice to pay for our guilt, in our place, and He did it without question. In the presence of the Spirit, Ruth's heart overflowed in thankfulness and in a moment of bursting joy, she knelt with Cutter and accepted Jesus' free gift, with a simple prayer.

Feeling clean and empowered after meeting Jesus and at Cutter's assurance, Ruth knew Shayden and Grayson were somehow on Papa God's radar. In Ruth's newfound joy, she hugged Juanita and then Cutter, leaving a thankful kiss on the cheek of the biker who had committed to praying for Shayden and Grayson. As Ruth was leaving their company, Cutter made her promise to keep in contact regularly and he offered to help her learn about her fledgling faith.

Beaming with Papa's love and full of hope, she once again hugged Cutter and kissed his cheek. "Thank you, Pastor Cutter."

*~*~*~*

By the time Cutter raised himself from his knees, it was well after 3pm. Ruth's situation had disturbed him, but the memory of her warm kisses still lingered and little Shayden Glenn was firmly on his heart. In the deep place of his spirit, an all too familiar battle call rang in Cutter's ears and warned him troubled times were ahead. He had challenged the wicked spiritual forces by leading Ruth out of their grasping clutches and into Jesus' safety and protection, stirring up a hornet's nest of iniquitous reprisals in the process. However, Cutter pulled the big, safe arms of his Saviour around him and hid in the shadow of his protector. He knew the battle belonged to Jesus, and all he had to do was to duck and weave as Jesus did, using Him as a shield and as usual, the Saviour would prevail.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 43

Kirt Ballard perched in an office chair with his feet on the desk, watching a television monitor above his head. His eyes followed the images with a disinterested glaze, while his mind had disconnected with the scene and deflected into WRGB's huge city news room in Schenectady, New York, the heartland of news and legendary news anchors. Small time news anchoring in Sue's Bridge just didn't cut it and his heart lay in the dark and bloody streets of the big city battle zones. In Sue's Bridge, he'd embellished every story of cats in trees; fire department garage sales; the ever-present petty drug convictions of Elvis O'Riley–which most people in town were guilty of, anyway; and now he had reached the bottom of his talented career.

Sue's Bridge residents watched the news for its entertainment value, not for its factual content. The six o'clock time slot was the most viewed programme and the belly laughter coming from homes and hotels was a sure sign that Ballard had topped his previous ridiculous efforts.

Ballard untangled his feet from the desk and kicked his lanky frame back from the control panel, scraping his chair across the linoleum as he struggled to stand. Dejectedly, he pointed the remote at the TV monitor and the screen blacked out in a line of disintegrating light.

A sudden round of applause disturbed his thoughts as the news producer entered the small glass room, struggling for breath and wiping her eyes from intense laughter.

"That's really good," she affirmed. "How did you concoct that one?"

"Come on, Jeannie, it's a serious news story!" Ballard's bruised ego reflected in his affronted gaze. "It's so hard getting newsworthy content in this dive of a town."

Jeannie dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex and then wiped her nose. "Your timeslot is the most popular in town; most people can't wait for the six o'clock."

"Yeah, yeah, I've heard the snide comments... Bollix Ballard and his travelling comedy act. I just wish I could get my teeth into something really juicy, then people might take me seriously and my career may lead somewhere more than coffee and doughnuts at Pete's All Night Diner down on Mayberry Street."

"Well, I think you're good and it would be a shame to mess up the six o'clock with an actual news story. People don't want anything to happen in their quiet little town, anyway."

Ballard sighed heavily. His heart was in the big city, but his body was trapped in Sue's Bridge. "Thanks for the vote of confidence anyway, Jeannie."

Jeannie pointed up to the TV monitor. "That's definitely going on the six o'clock!" She tried not to laugh, but a stifled guffaw gave away her amusement and she had to leave the room.

Kirt Ballard had had enough for one day; the six o'clock news was an hour away, but he didn't think he could stomach another round of rambunctious laughter at his expense. He was just about to grab his coat from the back of his chair, when he heard the police tracker crackle into life. More from bored curiosity than the possibility of a breaking story, he leaned in and listened to the coded conversation.

"SBCSO-15... Dispatch."

"Dispatch... go ahead, Deputy Jackson."

"Returning to base; evidence of a probable five-nine-four and possibly a one-eight-seven. You may need to get forensics to have a closer look at the sight after they check the sample. It does look like blood to me."

Ballard was frozen onto the spot, finding it hard to believe he had heard what he'd just heard.

" _Blood!"_

He lunged for a chart of police radio codes taped to a nearby shelf and ran his finger down the list. "Five-nine-four, five-nine-four, here it is... malicious mischief!" Then his finger flipped back up trying to find the other. "Did he say one-eight-seven... or four-eight-seven?" Ballard's finger stopped over four-eight-seven... grand theft; and then continued up to one-eight-seven and stopped. His mouth hung open and his eyes twinkled in excitement as he read the explanation... _homicide_.

In his excitement and haste, he grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and started to leave the newsroom but the jacket sleeves tangled around the chair frame and dragged his chair clattering to the floor, upside down.

Jeannie glanced up from her desk outside the news editing room at the sudden noise and gazed at Ballard's disappearing form hurrying out of the newsroom.

*~*~*~*

Deputy Clayton Jackson was a predictable small town employee, an amiable fellow but not too bright. His habits were as regular as clockwork and after a day shift on the beat, he would end up in Pete's All Night Diner for a relaxing meal and a gossip over the day's activity with Pete Strack, the owner. If Ballard had read Jackson's character correctly and his knowledge of the sheriff's roster system was accurate, Deputy Jackson would be off duty in less than fifteen minutes.

Ballard pushed the door to Pete's diner open, with a grunt, and was met with Pete's beaming smile.

"Howdy, Kirt. I need to get that door fixed; customers are complaining. Great story last night on the six o'clock, by the way; had everyone writhing in the aisles with laughter. How do you think up these fantastic skits?"

Ballard flushed red and decided to let the comment wash over him. "Just talented I guess, Pete. Can I have a coffee?"

"Sure, take a seat; I'll bring it for you directly."

"Arr... Deputy Jackson hasn't been in yet has he, Pete?"

"Nup, not yet, but he shouldn't be long away."

Ballard scanned the diner; the evening crowd was filling the dining booths rapidly, so he had to keep an eye out for the deputy.

A sudden bout of hilarity exploded through the dining patrons, making Ballard glance up from his musings at the furore and realising it was his serious story on the six o'clock news that was the cause of the guffaw.

Pete soon returned to his table, tears rolling down his face and a coffee cup rattling in time with his laughter, only just managing to land the cup and saucer before its contents spilled over the edge of the wobbling receptacle. Pete wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, choking back the laughter and finding it hard to breathe through the ordeal.

"This one's on me, Kirt," Pete guffawed again. "You sure are good for business."

Ballard waited until Pete had regained his faculties. "What sort of food does Deputy Jackson like?"

Pete gave him a strange look. "He usually orders the day's special with a beer."

"I'd like to order a meal for Deputy Jackson when he comes in," Ballard continued quickly as Pete's questioning gaze intensified. "You know, as a bit of a thank you for helping me with the news."

Ballard suddenly thought that probably wasn't a good line and Pete's face reflected his sentiment.

"Deputy Jackson helped you with those incredibly funny stories?!"

"Can you just do it, Pete, and send him down to sit with me when he comes in?!"

"O... kay. I guess if you're paying, he won't say no."

*~*~*~*

Deputy Clement Jackson leaned against the meal service counter talking to Dolores the waitress and with a stunned gaze, glanced around to locate the booth that Ballard occupied. He sauntered down to Ballard and greeted him.

"What's with buying me a meal, Kirt?"

"Can't a friend buy a friend a meal from time to time?" Ballard offered, convincing Jackson to join him.

"Right nice of you to do that, Kirt," Jackson replied, shuffling into his booth.

"So how was your day?" Ballard tried to break the awkward silence.

"You know, busy all the time cleaning up people's bad behaviour."

"I was listening to Miles Cleaver talking about the blood you found. Do you think it really is a homicide?"

Jackson was stunned. "Did the dispatcher tell you about Bayer's blood?"

Ballard tried to keep a straight face and not give away his surprise. "Yeah, in a manner of speaking, but he said that you had all the information on Bayer's accident."

"Accident ...?! Fool woman should have known better than to run on the running track with an alert out on an attacker near the old water mill, even if she did have her service revolver with her!"

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 44

Nikkulaat rubbed his hands together and warmed his cold extremities by the tepid stove and glanced at his friend, wrapped in a bearskin and fast asleep on his small living room floor. The peaceful form of his wife stirred, searching for the warm body of her husband lying in their bed next to her, but all she found was a cold, empty space where he usually slept. Her long, black hair cascaded down over her shoulders and as she pushed herself into a sitting position, she brushed the locks from her face with a sweep of her hand.

"What are you doing up, Nikkulaat?" she whispered, aware Katu was still asleep.

Nikkulaat wandered quietly around Katu's sleeping body and wrapped his wife in a hug. "I didn't sleep well," he confessed.

"This whole affair with Bjarni Kleist and the thing following Bruun has you troubled, dear husband."

Nikkulaat nodded. It was just like Aanasi to read his mind and put words to his thoughts, but although she tried to hide it, Nikkulaat could see the fear in her eyes.

"Please be careful out there. If there's any credence to Katu's story then this situation could be very dangerous."

He pulled Aanasi into another hug, trying to allay her fears. "Bjarni didn't flinch when he stood to defend our son; it's my turn to stand by him."

The mention of their son cut Aanasi like a knife and the memories began again, like a never-ending nightmare. It was only a raspy voice from the floor that cut off the downward spiral and diverted her mind.

"You two are just as much in love as the day you were married."

Katu could see the crumpled look on Aanasi's face and he knew she was worried about Nikkulaat traipsing around the wilderness in search of a legend, a legend that had destroyed so many lives. Quickly thinking through the situation, Katu decided to dissuade Nikkulaat from accompanying him, hunting a dangerous animal in a desperate situation.

"I feel much refreshed and strong again. Maybe you should reconsider a hasty decision to search for a dead man and leave me to pursue his folly alone. I can hear the wind has calmed and it is certain that all I will be searching for is a corpse."

Nikkulaat gazed into the frightened eyes of Aanasi, watching them change from dark, cloudy fear into a clear, piercing determined stare.

"Under the circumstances, we cannot think of letting you roam the wilderness alone, Katu, even if it is to recover Bruun's body," Aanasi whispered, her voice full of emotion. "Bjarni Kleist didn't shrink from us when we needed him. It's only right we now stand with him in this."

*~*~*~*

It had taken Katu many anxious moments, trying to dig out his snowmobile from the place he'd left it less than twenty four hours ago. The snow had almost buried it except for the two handlebars barely jutting out, like an iceberg sprawling under the sea with most of its mass submerged and dangerously out of sight. He feared the engine may have frozen, leaving him with an expensive repair job and without an important means of transport.

It wasn't long before Nikkulaat drew alongside Katu's machine with his own roughly idling snowmobile, and with an ingenious, flexible tube, Nikkulaat plugged it into the exhaust of his own machine and began to warm Katu's engine with the other. Soon ice melted from the cooling fins and ran down onto the ground, quickly refreezing soon after making contact.

With a nod from Nikkulaat, Katu gave the starter a try. Straining at first, the starter complained bitterly until the engine freed up and then fired hesitatingly on one unimpressive cylinder and then stalled. Katu tried it again while Nikkulaat kept the warm air tube pointed at the engine; eventually, all three cylinders woke from their deep freeze and burst into life.

Katu and his machine led the way down meandering snow paths that ducked between buildings partially buried by the winter snow, and closely followed by Nikkulaat, with Aanasi riding pillion behind her husband. A wooden sled drifted aimlessly behind Nikkulaat's machine, bumping and bucking as the tow line pulled against its stubborn will and forced it to obey the lead machine's directives. They had loaded everything needed for a substantial stay in the wilderness, but the weight of the sled was making for a very uncomfortable ten mile ride to Katu's outpost store.

Travelling slowly through the frozen landscape, trying to give Aanasi a semi-comfortable ride and keeping the tow sled upright, Katu recognised the small store standing proudly against the barren wilderness horizon. After a torturous hour and a half the journey was finally ending, and in a matter of minutes, the lonely building trembled with the sounds of two snowmobiles struggling through the snow and noisily disturbing the endless quiet. Katu dismounted and threw open the doors to the loading dock and then both machines thundered inside, leaving Katu to close off the bitter cold and trap it outside with a _bang_ as the doors closed behind him.

The bitter cold hung like a thick blanket inside the outpost store until Katu set a fire blazing inside the stove and soon the interior thawed into a warm, pleasant environment.

Aanasi wasn't thrilled about spending many days on her own and she would have preferred to be closer to the action, but this was the only compromise Nikkulaat was prepared to make. The store building was solid and its doors and windows all could be secured robustly. Added to that, Katu had left her an arsenal of weapons knowing that Aanasi knew how to use them. She quickly set up Katu's bedroom to suit her taste and the familiar, warm comforts of home converted Katu's secure store into a home away from home.

Nikkulaat insisted he leave their snowmobile for Aanasi just in case she needed help and had to make a quick getaway, while Nikkulaat and Katu would take his, towing the awkward sled.

It was nearing early afternoon when Nikkulaat uttered the words Aanasi had been dreading. "It's time to go."

Nikkulaat and Aanasi melted together and stayed that way for a long moment while Aanasi savoured her man's big, protective arms tightly wrapped around her.

Katu felt like he was intruding, so he quietly slipped out and waited in the loading dock.

In a dread filled moment, Nikkulaat broke from her embrace and kissed her passionately, leaving her aching for more of his love. She heard him whisper, "I love you." With big tears threatening to drown her, she returned his pledge and in an instant, he was gone.

Watching intently through the store windows, Aanasi heard the sound of the snowmobile start and then the loading dock doors boom closed as the two men motored away into the afternoon, heading for Scoresby Land. As she surveyed the heart wrenching scene in front of her, tiny flakes of snow began to fall, keeping time with the pain in her heart.

"Dear God, please keep them safe!" she wept, as the growing quiet surrounded her like the waters of a lake closing over her and trapping her in depths of loneliness.

Aanasi wandered throughout the tidy store, familiarising herself with the stock and the layout of Katu's kitchen while trying to divert the ache in her heart. The fire crackled and hissed in the quiet, keeping her company as the afternoon sun began to retire for the night. She instinctively checked and secured the doors and windows, locking the night firmly outside.

Aanasi collected a rifle from the store room and checked the clip for ammunition then with a skilled hand, pressed the clip under the breech and pumped a bullet into the firing chamber, lastly setting the safety to _on_. She turned to exit the store carrying the weapon and as she was about to leave, Aanasi's gaze rested on an envelope hanging precariously from Katu's wooden cash box. She stared at it for a long moment, concerned it was out of place in Katu's neat and sterile world.

Tussling with her thoughts, curiosity soon overcame her and she wandered over to the strange sight, gently plucking it from the drawer. The envelope fumbled and dropped from her hand, spilling an amount of cash and a note from within. She placed the rifle to one side and stooped to collect the spilled notes with every intention of sealing the contents and pushing the sachet firmly inside the cash box, but as she grasped the money, the handwritten note dropped open and her eyes riveted on the signature.

She covered her mouth with her hand in shock as she perused the first sentences. The note was addressed to Katu and she tried not to pry, but the words drew her in, hypnotising her eyes and captivating her attention until she couldn't stop reading. Coming to the end of the letter, Aanasi felt weak and had to find a place to sit and gather her thoughts.

Should I go after them?!

Staring out into the imposing darkness, Aanasi pondered what to do and then came to a sensible decision. The two men would be hours away and even with the information she had, Nikkulaat would be angry with her if she attempted to follow them alone, especially with _that thing_ on the loose and in the dark.

The note was meant to be found by Katu and by the way it had been positioned, it wasn't meant to be found too easily.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 45

It was a grey day as the lone figure peered across the city smog from a balcony high above the skyline of Manhattan. A light, misty rain began to fall, pulling a curtain of foggy pollution tightly closed around the outlook and obliterating her view of the city. From somewhere in the cloud, an unseen floating giant blew a moist breath across the fog and the curtain swirled and parted long enough for an image of a close by building to ominously peek through. Then with an impertinent realisation of its nakedness, the building stepped back into the swirling curtain, blocking out prying eyes and swallowing it into obscurity once again.

Today was her birthday and the vista from her balcony reflected the grey loneliness she felt deep inside. Annette Dysart peered absentmindedly into the drizzly scene, seated on a deck chair, while her thoughts drifted back to the previous night. She smiled dejectedly at her wanton performance. Around Parlo she was nothing but putty in his hands and he'd walked away with the prized file.

A sudden rain shower sent her scurrying for the safety of her apartment; being caught in a polluted city downpour could destroy a costly outfit in seconds. Straightening her attire, she checked her face in a nearby mirror and then glanced up at the wall clock just above the kitchen bench: it was nearly time to leave for her appointment.

She unlocked a black leather briefcase and smiled down at a plain manila folder and a notebook full of her shorthand scribble, but packed with vital information. With a satisfied pat, she inserted the file and notebook into her briefcase and then secured the case with a stiff spin of the combination tumbler. Grabbing her handbag and briefcase, she unlocked her apartment door, gave the surrounds a quick survey and pulled the door closed with a satisfied bang behind her. She checked the security of the door handle with a determined shake and then turned to catch an elevator for the street far below.

This small journey across town would be the start of greater things for Annette Carline Dysart.

*~*~*~*

Dysart handed the driver a fifty dollar note for a thirty dollar fare; the tip was a decent size but she was feeling benevolent in her changing circumstances. She shimmied out of the back seat of the yellow New York taxi cab, her stilettoed feet touching down on the First Avenue pavement directly out front of the United Nations building. She walked up to the glass front of the unimpressive building, entered the foyer and was met by a security guard.

"Good morning, Miss Dysart."

She nodded to the guard. The surprise on Dysart's face at the guard's recognition brought a coy smile to her lips and she wondered whether her fame was already spreading among the rank and file city dwellers.

"If you will make your way to the General Assembly Lounge on the west wing, a hostess will collect you from there and take you into the chambers."

Dysart nodded again and started towards a sign pointing to the west wing lounge, a disappointed frown taking the place of the smile, realising the guard had been primed up on her looming appointment.

As she arrived into the deserted lounge area, she placed her briefcase and handbag onto a brown leather chair facing a wall of large glass windows, giving an uninterrupted view of a grassed park directly outside. The brown-red tones of the carpet did nothing to allay her nervousness and the antiquated furniture appeared like a scene from a bad 1950s movie. Looking for a distraction, she strolled over to the windows and peered out into the park, then at the city skyline just behind the mist.

"Miss Dysart?"

A neatly clipped voice came from behind her, disturbing her thoughts and making her flinch, while spinning her head around to face the hostess.

"Yes," Dysart answered, trying not to divulge her nervousness.

"Follow me, please."

The hostess led her up a set of stairs, past a partitioning gate and into a cavernous auditorium. Dysart stared at the grey steel roof some one hundred feet above her, exposing unattractive air conditioning ducts and a fire sprinkler system, then directly below that was a white, two tiered balcony containing office space. The imposing sterile building added another dimension to her nervousness and when she finally arrived at an office door, her fear had doubled.

"Please go right in, Miss Dysart; they are expecting you."

She nodded, then pushed open the door and was met by a small conference table surrounded by a dozen stiff faced luminaries with an international disposition. A distinctly Asian appearing man welcomed her and invited her to share her information, but did little to allay her fear.

"Before I give you the information I have gathered, I want a surety that I will be well rewarded for my efforts, especially if my information uncovers Greenland's Gateway Emerald."

The group of stern faces bored into Dysart. She wasn't the first to stand in front of this group and make demands, claiming they had uncovered the location of the gateway gem.

A sudden, loud _clank_ of a briefcase forcefully making contact with the conference table interrupted Dysart's demands. A hard faced man clicked the case open and displayed the contents: row upon row of one hundred dollar notes lined its extravagant interior from cover to cover.

"Enough cash to keep you in party dresses and beauty salons for life, Miss Dysart," an older man chided, without smiling.

Dysart's eyes were huge, staring at the contents. "I want to be part of the power broking associated with the gem, too!" she insisted.

Another stern faced foreigner emptied his vitriol into the tense atmosphere. "Miss Dysart, do you have any idea what you are asking?!"

The noise of a classified file slapped the table and brought the negotiating to a standstill.

"Here is the offer, Miss Dysart. If your information adds to the information we already have and secures the whereabouts of the gem, then we will bow to your request. If not, you will leave your information behind; resign your senate seat; and move out of the U.S."

Dysart stared at the owner of the voice. The stakes just got higher and more personal. If Parlo's information, combined with the photocopied military file she had were flawed, she knew these people were powerful enough to make her disappear, even if she didn't want to.

"Make up your mind, Miss Dysart; what will it be?"

Dysart stared at the faces, individually, then back at the briefcase filled with money. She had backed herself into a corner and figured life was soon to change for her, no matter what she did.

Placing her briefcase on the table, she was about to find out how powerful these individuals were and the effect they could have if she didn't come up with the information.

*~*~*~*

Parlo peered around the grimy hotel room with contempt clearly demonstrated on his face. His plane left at 4pm and he was eager to carry the new information back to the council, finally uncovering the location of the Greenland emerald once and for all and restoring his former glory. He pulled out a wobbly chair from behind a scratched desk and gently placed the file down with great reverence.

Considering the personal cost of obtaining the file from Dysart, he opened the military folder and perused it carefully and with great interest. As he read further into the document, he became more disturbed and it soon became evident that pages containing significant data had been removed. With a disgusted swat, the file and the pages flew across the room and fluttered down into a tangled heap, leaving Parlo fuming. He paced around the room, berating himself. _Was this Dysart's work of deception or had someone else beaten them both to the starting line, but how? It needs my information and the file to work out the location._

Parlo panicked: the council was expecting him to front up and report the good news first thing in the morning. His thoughts were in turmoil and he had to devise a plan. He grabbed for his satellite phone and punched in a number, hoping his operative may have had better luck. The phone connected, then rang out and in a frustrated huff, he tried again, checking each digit carefully, but returning the same result. He couldn't understand the negative response from Galina. Operatives were required to carry their sat-phones with them at all times.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 46

Bjarni stirred and in the half light, gazed around the inside of the igloo. Anunya was still fast asleep, but the dogs were whimpering, looking for their breakfast. He shook off the muskox pelt, rose to his feet and quietly stepped over the small form, then bent to his hands and knees to crawl through the insignificant hole in the ice structure that acted as a door. The opening was just large enough for an average sized man to enter with some difficulty, while keeping hungry nanuq and their massive size outside.

Bjarni stiffly raised himself to his feet again and peered across the flat landscape in the direction of the frozen Fonfjord. The early winter sun contentedly languished behind the distant mountains, too lazy to rise any higher until the day matured some, while the bitter wind was satisfied to follow in its example and keep it company. The sun's pink early morning hue, shaded and coloured by the dark looming clouds, painted the distant pre-dawn mountain backdrop with a lilac tinge.

The air was still and bitterly cold outside the igloo, a sure thirty degrees colder than inside and the dogs huddled together from the chill, burning up calories and keen to eat. Bjarni knew their food situation was becoming dire; replenishing stocks was in the forefront of his mind as the last of the dried salmon was quickly devoured by the hungry dogs. Once they had filled their stomachs with sustenance and regained their strength, they were eager and ready for another day pulling the sled, letting Bjarni know of their desires with animated barking.

The sudden calamity had woken Anunya and she sleepily poked her head outside the igloo and searched around the area, looking for Bjarni and the reason for the disturbance.

"Good to see you have finally arisen; the day is half over and we have a lot of work to do."

Anunya groaned. "It's still dark. Can't I sleep for another hour or two?"

"You can sleep, but you will want to eat soon and there aren't any shops out here," Bjarni teased.

Anunya sighed, crawled through the opening in the shelter and stood to her feet, swiping her long, jet black hair from her eyes. She stood mesmerised for a few moments, staring around at the magnificence of the landscape.

"It's so beautiful out here."

"It's easy to see you are a daughter of Greenland. Only a child with rich Inuit blood running through her veins could see the harshness of the tundra and call it beautiful."

"What of you then, Mr Bjarni? You love Greenland just as much as any Inuit and most probably know more of its facets than any of my people," she replied, a look of awe shining in her dark eyes.

"I was taught by your people, Anunya, and the wilderness has protected and fed me for many years, that's all. She has a lot to teach and if you have a heart to listen, you too will survive here."

Bjarni loaded the sled and hitched the dogs as Anunya stretched and yawned, watching the old man's efficient skill in handling the huskies.

"Today we are going to do some ice fishing," he offered, packing specific items and leaving others behind.

A quizzical gaze crossed Anunya's face and the expression brought a tickle of humour to the old man and he erupted in laughter.

"What's so funny?" Anunya pouted.

"Nothing; come on, jump on the sled and let's get to work."

The sled bumped and jostled as the dogs barked in excitement, speeding it across the frozen landscape and kicking up broken fragments of ice and snow from the sled's wooden frame. In a matter of half an hour, the landscape had changed from slightly undulating to dead flat, signifying they were well out on Fonfjord. Bjarni whistled and then pulled on the reigns, bringing the sled to a gradual stop while the dogs stood panting and sniffing the surrounds. Reaching behind Anunya, he grasped the seal harpoon and started stabbing the icy ground.

"Bit late to be checking the ice for thickness when we are already on top of it," Anunya announced, ending her profound statement with a youthful yawn.

"You are so right, but I'm just looking for some thinner ice so you don't have to dig too far to break through into the seawater below."

"Me?!"

Bjarni kept stabbing at the ground. "Take a look around, Anunya, and tell me where you think we should dig."

Anunya peered around the flat bed of ice in all directions, holding her hand to her eyes to shelter them from the morning glare and then she excitedly recognised a small mound and light green coloured ice.

"Over there!" she pointed and then dropped her head, rubbing her eyes and blinking. "Wow, even in this light the glare is really hurting my eyes!"

Bjarni saw the direction she'd pointed and also the reaction to the glare. "We need to introduce you to another one of your people's inventions to stop you damaging your young eyes from snow blindness."

"Huh? What invention?"

"Let's get the holes dug in the ice first and then I'll make them for you tonight. Just for now, pull your scarf over your face and use the grainy holes in the material to block the glare."

They untied the dogs and left them with the sled, then walked over to the spot Anunya had chosen and began to dig through the ice with the seal harpoon. After nearly two hours excavating and a metre of ice, Bjarni broke into seawater and watched it quickly flow into the hole. He scooped out the broken ice floating in the water, giving a clear view to the deep water below. Anunya peered down into the hole, another question forming in her mind.

"Is there really fish down there...? How are we going to catch them?"

Bjarni smiled at his student's inquisitiveness. "Watch and see."

He reached for a piece of white, shiny narwhal tusk tied to a length of string and the other end fastened to a thirty centimetre length of wood that fitted comfortably into his palm. Then with the other hand, he grasped a fishing-pole-sized piece of timber with three large prongs curving towards each other like giant fish hooks, secured by rope to the end, each prong sharpened to a fine point.

Bjarni could see the questions coming and he spoke first. "Just watch."

The old man knelt on the edge of the hole and dangled the piece of narwhal tusk into the water and began to jiggle it up and down, then with the other hand, he rested the pole with the three prongs just below the waterline and waited. Soon, a big salmon followed the jiggling narwhal tusk close to the surface and Bjarni struck it with the pronged pole, trapping the fish securely in between its prongs. Pulling the pole to the surface, Bjarni forced open the prongs with a swift movement of his hand and the salmon flapped helplessly on the snow for a moment, until it finally stopped its commotion and froze solid on the icy ground.

Bjarni gazed at Anunya's shocked features and then handed her the equipment. "Have a go."

Anunya screwed up her face as she took the implements from his hands, peering sideways at the frozen fish, now lying lifeless beside them.

It wasn't long before another inquisitive salmon came past and she lunged at it and missed. Anunya had a look of defeat in her eyes until Bjarni did some readjustments to her stance and the grip on the pole. Then without blinking, Anunya thrust the pole at another would-be inquisitor and a large salmon was dragged to its fate. Seeing the large fish flapping on the ice, her face beamed with pride as she mastered another lesson. She jumped up and down and squealed in excitement until Bjarni hushed her.

"Ssshhh, you'll scare off the fish."

Anunya calmed down and quieted at Bjarni's plea. "Can I catch some more?"

By the time the fish had had enough of Anunya's trickery and moved to another part of their under-ice domain, she had caught four big salmon, enough for a meal for the dogs and food for themselves.

"How did I go, Bjarni?" Anunya was sure he would be pleased.

"You did just fine, but tomorrow we will have to catch a lot more and I will also teach you how to catch seal."

*~*~*~*

The lazy winter sun had set by 3pm and it was getting dark. His impudent friend, the wind, however, was in the mood to play and he came sweeping down from the mountains bringing an icy blanket that dropped the outside temperature and deposited snow drifts against the frozen walls of the igloo. The dogs curled in the snow against the protection of the structure, their thick fur insulating them against the extreme cold and shielding them from the mischievous, howling wind.

After a satisfying meal of fresh frozen raw salmon, Anunya eyed her bed and listened to the sound of the cacophony outside. In the light of their _kudlik_ –a small Inuit fire designed for igloos and fuelled by seal blubber–she gazed at Bjarni, busy carving something with his knife but she was too tired to engage him and asked if he minded if she went to bed.

Bjarni smiled at his star student. "Night, Anunya; you did well today."

Anunya smiled and climbed, exhausted, into her thick bearskin and then pulled the heavy fur over her as Bjarni kept carving a piece of wood he had found.

"Bjarni...?" Anunya's sleepy voice punctuated the quiet and ended with a gasping yawn.

"Mmm, yes, Anunya?"

"What's the Greenlandic word for father?"

Bjarni stopped carving for a moment and started to think. "Um... ataata... I think. Why?"

"Oh... I just wanted to know... goodnight."

An hour went by as Bjarni continued to work on his carving and then when he was satisfied with the result, he placed it in front of Anunya's sleeping form and then climbed into his bearskin and drifted off to sleep.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 47

During the night the playful wind tired of its impassioned song, serenading the small camp site with a fervent lullaby and left the campers to sleep, blanketed in the deep tundra night. The cascading aurora lights, punctuated by a mirage of stars, had already started to fade into dawn's first murmurs and the dogs began to stir, hoping the old man may bring them another meal to satisfy their mounting hunger. Akiak had left a small morsel for the morning and when Shtiya gave an innocent sniff towards her prize, she responded with a belly rumbling growl, leaving him with no doubt of her intentions.

Bjarni stiffly exited the igloo crawl space and faced the purple sky of a new tundra morning. He was met by the dogs, eagerly licking at his gloved hands looking for a food handout but there wasn't anything to give.

The old man quickly organised the dog team and tethered them to the sled, then checked the equipment needed for the day's hunt. He attached a barb made of narwhal tusk to the seal harpoon, and then threaded a small rope through an opening carved into the barb; now the harpoon was ready to hunt seal. Next he checked his rifle carefully, but he doubted there would be a need for it to be present this morning, however, out here anything could happen. Then with great care and reverence, he placed the gun under the muskox pelt covering the sled cargo well. The salmon fishing gear was next: he re-tensioned the rope holding the three prongs together on the snare and then checked the narwhal tusk, brightly polished to entice the salmon to the surface. All was ready and all he needed was a sleepy student to arise and enter the day.

A small, raspy female voice coming from the vicinity of the igloo opening startled the old man. "Wow, these are cool!" Anunya's excited voice met Bjarni.

Anunya was wearing a pair of wooden glasses with a long slit cut across the wooden lenses, allowing just enough light to her eyes to see where she was going but offsetting the debilitating effects of snow blindness.

"Inuit sunglasses," Bjarni offered. "Your people are clever when it comes to necessity."

Anunya crawled out of the igloo wearing her new glasses and bounded over to Bjarni and hugged him. "Thank you; they are so special and I will always treasure them!"

The old man, unaccustomed to emotional displays, patted her back as she hugged him and then broke from her embrace. "Come on, we have a lot to do today."

Anunya climbed aboard the sled side saddle, and before long they were speeding towards the Fonfjord again to their previous day's fishing spot. She turned the wooden glasses over and over in her hands, examining every aspect of the expertly carved wooden device then she stared up at the craftsman. An adoring smile lit her lips and her dark eyes twinkled in appreciation.

Her attention soon diverted to the tundra surrounds as Bjarni's whistle slowed the sled to a stop close to a mound in the ice; her fishing spot. She recognised the small opening in the frozen terrain accompanied by a green tinge in the sea ice, but Anunya sighed when she examined the hole. It had refrozen during the night and would take some effort to dig it out again.

Anunya went about her task without any guidance from Bjarni, removing the solid covering from her fishing spot in a matter of fifteen minutes while Bjarni released the dogs from the sled and spent time examining the ice shelf surrounding them in great detail. Anunya glanced up from her finished task and watched Bjarni's strange behaviour. With a head full of questions she wandered over to him and startled him from his task, interrupting his concentration.

"What are you looking for?"

"Ssshhh...! He'll hear you."

Anunya was unperturbed and tried again in a whisper, "Who will hear me?"

"The seal," Bjarni whispered back.

Anunya searched around the terrain looking for anything out of place and came up empty, then back at the old man, still checking the ice shelf like a crazy man. She was becoming disturbed at his actions, thinking he had spent too much time carving her sunglasses, when he beckoned her with a hand gesture. He pointed to a small opening in the ice, not much bigger than Anunya's hand.

"That's the seal's air breathing hole."

Her incredulous expression asked another round of questions but she didn't know which one to give voice to first.

Bjarni saw the doubt in her eyes and then explained, "The seals are air breathing mammals that can swim for long periods under the thick sea ice in search of food. But they need to take a breath every fifteen to twenty-five minutes, depending on their body size. In an area where they like to hunt, these air holes are excavated in the ice and if you look around carefully, you will find them all around here."

Anunya peered at the small hole, completely transfixed by the story Bjarni was telling her.

"How can you tell if this particular hole is being used by a seal?" he questioned her.

Anunya peered into her mentor's cloudy eyes, trying to think what sign a seal would leave behind to indicate he was using the breathing hole. She shrugged finally, beaten by his question.

"Bend down and take a good whiff of the opening," Bjarni instructed.

A cautious smile curled across her lips, wondering whether he was playing a trick on her, then with a sceptical expression, she knelt on the ice and put her nose to the air vent.

"Urgh, phew," she whispered, disgusted. "It smells like rotten fish!"

"Then a seal has used this hole recently and all we have to do is remain quiet and still, and wait for him to come up for a breath."

"Then what?" she asked, concerned she knew the answer.

"We harpoon him and hold him at the surface with the rope until we can dig him out."

Anunya squirmed, thinking about the poor seal and then glanced over at the salmon hole. "I think I will leave the seal hunting to you, Bjarni." Salmon fishing was as far as her resolve would stretch.

"Uh-uh, you can't afford to be choosy out here; the seal blubber and meat may save your life and you have to know how to hunt him."

Anunya swallowed. She had come a long way in her wilderness education and this was just another step in the survival chain. She gave a small, defeated nod of consent and glanced over to the sled parked in front of her fishing hole.

"We need more salmon too; the seal hunting may take some time and I will call you back when I have harpooned one," Bjarni conceded.

Bjarni and Anunya walked back over to the sled and gathered their equipment. Bjarni reached under the pelt and drew his rifle to the surface, checked the breech and leaned it cautiously against the cargo well's wooden frame.

Anunya gathered her fishing gear and headed for the fishing hole and was soon busy hauling in salmon after salmon.

The old man set himself up at the seal breathing hole some fifty metres from the sled and waited patiently, bent over, motionless, preparing for a seal to breach, his harpoon at the ready, anxious to strike as soon as he recognised the telltale signs.

*~*~*~*

The long moments standing motionless over the seal breathing hole caused Bjarni's limbs to stiffen, and the cold was beginning to steal into his feet through his thick bearskin boots from lack of movement. It was a calculating game of _cat and mouse,_ with high stakes for the seal.

Bjarni heard a _huff_ , like the sound of a seal breaching and readied the harpoon, but there didn't appear to be any movement from the air hole.

The sound of Akiak's warning growl echoed across the distance and then she bolted towards him at high speed, adding to the old man's confusion.

The old man's thinking came slowly. He recognised Akiak's familiar alarm at the presence of danger, and her actions indicated that danger was very close. He followed her swift movements until she was airborne, lunging at something directly behind him.

Unable to immediately comprehend the gravity of the situation, he turned to face the cause of Akiak's alarm and was met with the powerful presence of a large, 2.7 metre tall nanuq, standing, ready to pounce.

Akiak's attack caused the big bear to flail desperately, trying to swat off the dog's powerful grip from tearing into his face. The huge 600 kilogram frame dwarfed Bjarni and without his gun, he was helpless.

In a moment, Bjarni felt his heart tighten and ripples of pain shot down his arm, dropping the old man to his knees, gripping at his chest.

Akiak's attack was a desperate attempt to save her master and she had to hang on, or at least inflict a big enough deterrent for the hungry predator to turn tail and give up his hunt. Her body hung from the creature's face, locked onto his snout with her powerful, sharp jaws, causing the big bear to howl in pain and swat at the dog with his big paws.

With one powerful blow, the bear shook her off and she lost her grip, falling heavily to the ice some distance away.

The large nanuq bounded over to Akiak, intent on trampling the dog before turning his hunger onto the old man, and just as the bear was about to crush Akiak with a bounding blow, a growling flash shot past Bjarni and the big Siberian tore into the bear's head, throwing him off balance and narrowly missing Akiak.

Shtiya bit down hard, drawing the bear's blood, growling and fighting with all of his strength as the bear shuddered and shook, trying to break the big dog's painful grip.

Shtiya released his grip momentarily, dodging powerful swipes from the bear's flailing paws and then attacked again, driving the bear away from Akiak's stunned body.

The nanuq stood high over Shtiya on his back legs trying to fight off the big dog's attack, looking for an opportunity to destroy the painful foe.

Then, from out of nowhere, an ear piercing _crack_ echoed through the commotion and the large nanuq stumbled backwards... dead.

The two dogs gathered their strength, standing over the hulking carcass, growling, baring their teeth and daring the predator to fight, but the nanuq was no longer of this world.

Bjarni stared, petrified at the big predator's lifeless form only metres away, trying to come to terms with what had just happened and how close he came to dying. The pain in his chest subsided and he peered around the scene until his eyes locked on Anunya's body, still aiming the rifle and still in a shooting position, preparing to unload another shot.

Bjarni's quavering voice called the dogs off and they ran together to his side, wagging their tails and licking his face. Neither dog was any the worse for their experience. He rubbed their fur and lavished praise gregariously on his defenders, checking for wounds at the same time.

Anunya's knees were shaking when she finally lowered the gun. Meticulously, she emptied the breech as her mentor had shown her, but her hands were shaking so badly that she knocked the clip from the barrel, spilling bullets onto the ice.

Finally she regained some of her composure and ran to check on Bjarni and as she reached the old man, he grabbed her and drew her into a tight embrace.

Anunya's facade broke at the shock of the massive bear and how close she had come to losing her father figure. She pressed into his embrace and sobbed uncontrollably, badly shaken by her experience.

Bjarni pulled her away from his embrace and wiped the tears from her face. "You did really well, Anunya; I am so proud of you. Your quick thinking and capacity to learn has saved my life and the dogs as well. That shot was incredible! Do you know how difficult it is to down a nanuq of that size with one bullet?!"

But Anunya didn't care. She was still in shock and only wanted to be held. She pushed back into Bjarni's embrace and began to cry again.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 48

The bitter cold of Greenland's Summit Camp gnawed at the unprotected flesh on the face of solar scientist, Dale Koenig, PhD. The minus fifty Celsius environment made outdoor activity difficult in any form, and just being outside, improperly protected, constituted a high risk that could quickly spiral into hypothermia and death.

Against the endless frozen plain and the flat barren horizon, Koenig's 1.7 metre tall outline was the tallest peak around, making him easily observed from a distance. As he set up the array of solar measuring instruments on the edge of the camp periphery, his thoughts were so consumed with the solar thunderstorm that he and the crew had witnessed the previous night, he hardly noticed the cold creeping into his body and the ever-increasing shivering, rattling his teeth together.

The thoughts of a high impulse solar storm–or something even bigger–diverted his attention away from his body's warning signs, concentrating instead on the successful deployment of the latest in scientific experimental solar instruments. These instruments were extremely sensitive to the slightest change in atmospheric radiation and magnetism, recording the minutest anomalies: science on the cutting edge and he wanted to be the one wielding the knife.

Critical to the success of the experiments the instruments had to be set up and aimed, close enough to the facility to be maintained, but far enough away from the summit camp so that the base's electrical equipment wouldn't interfere with his readings.

The aurora borealis (or the northern lights) is a light show created by the sun's solar winds or plasma pulses released from the sun in a super-magnetic storm of charged particles ionising in the earth's atmosphere. Koenig was sceptical at first at the description of the disturbance given by Jantz and his team, but then actually witnessing it for himself the previous night, he described it in his scientific diary as an incredible solar thunderstorm accompanied by some kind of audible, ultra-high frequency, magnetic interference. He further described the incident and drew a phenomena hypothesis, believing the induced voltages created by the magnetic storm had subjugated every piece of electrical equipment's safety overload mechanisms located on the experimental facility, and forcefully shut them down. This fact alone convinced Koenig that what he was dealing with was an atmospheric disturbance of a unique calibre and he was right in the midst of it. If last night's activity was any indication, maybe they were about to witness a forming solar hurricane, the effects of which could be catastrophic for the modern earth, dependant on electronics and electricity for its survival.

Koenig theorised, the sun was in some kind of transition stage and this was just the warning signs. His suspicions were mounting that the sun was sending out intermittent high frequency solar waves in a band that hadn't been recorded before and possibly, he was on the verge of some major solar event, never before seen. In any case, he was in the right place and had the right equipment to record whatever the sun was planning.

The excitement of hanging over the cliff of a new discovery dulled Koenig's survival instinct and he hadn't noticed the distinct signs of hypothermia creeping into his body. The shivering had intensified and his mind started to drift, incapable of remembering how to do simple tasks he had done a hundred times before.

It wasn't until Willy Jantz, the station manager, arrived on a snowmobile to check on Koenig's progress, that he noticed Koenig's dazed appearance and his uncontrolled shivering. Fearing the worst and overriding Koenig's protests, he quickly acted, removing Koenig from the cold and assisting him back to the warmth and protection of the green house. Jantz and a crew member had to wrestle Koenig into bed, forcing his delirious mind to see reason before he collapsed and incited an unwelcome medical emergency with no possibility of an airlift to a civilised hospital, many hours away.

The time passed slowly as Jantz monitored the unconscious scientist, annoyed that he had to babysit the man and ignore his own station duties. Somewhere in the quiet, Jantz' musings were interrupted by a pitiful moan as Koenig stirred and tried to force his mind to focus. He was lucid enough to ramble on about his unfinished experiments and the instruments that still needed his attention.

"I don't know why you thought it appropriate to intelrrlupt... interrupt me setting up my experiments, Mr Jantz. I had nearly finished," Koenig complained, slurring slightly as he spoke.

"If I hadn't, Mr Koenig, you would have died. I have seen hypothermia at this camp many times and intervention is always necessary at these extreme temperatures."

Koenig threw back the thermal blankets and tried to rise from his bunk, but a dizzy spell sent him crashing back to the mattress.

"Maybe I was just a little too anxious to get a fix on this phenomena we witnessed last night." Koenig hoped his statement would pique Jantz' interest and free him from his prison and his jailer.

"What experiments were you hoping to conduct? Maybe I can finish off the setup," Jantz offered.

Koenig stared at Jantz as if he was a moron who knew nothing about solar science but Jantz read the mockery in his eyes.

"We set up WAVES, EPACT, SWE, SMS, MFI, 3-D Plasma, TGRS and KONUS for the Swiss team last year and they took back some impressive solar wind data." Jantz drove his point home with a steely stare.

Koenig's mouth hung open at Jantz's knowledge and he decided he may be able to assist him after all.

"I will need WAVES, SWE, SMS, MFI and 3-D Plasma. With the 3-D Plasma you will have to aim the experiment correctly, otherwise there will be a gap between SWE and WAVES."

The look on Jantz's face told Koenig he had just stated the obvious, but he continued, unperturbed.

"TGRS, EPACT and KONUS will not be necessary; gamma radiation will have no effect on this phenomena," Koenig finally conceded as he lay back down again, feeling a nasty headache creeping across his brow.

Jantz nodded his understanding and turned to leave the heated interior of the green house, when a sickly voice interrupted his escape.

"You will test each instrument, Mr Jantz, won't you and let me know of your success?"

"Consider it done, Mr Koenig. Now get some rest. I have left you some medication to combat the pain from your frostbitten face. Good thing you aren't reliant on your good looks to make a living," Jantz smirked. He could still manage humour even after the callous interruption to his day and the extra workload dropped on him by the ignoble scientist.

He was just as curious about the causes of the early morning disturbance as Koenig, and he was keen to answer his own questions. Completing Koenig's experimental set up was just a small price to pay, even though his station duties still required his attention.

*~*~*~*

The painkillers had worked a treat and Koenig slept off his ordeal throughout the rest of the day and into the night. His sleep was so intense that a repeat of the solar thunderstorm in the early hours and the resultant activity from the crew didn't disturb him.

Koenig felt refreshed, but he was annoyed that no one had woken him to monitor his instruments and observe the phenomena firsthand. Now all he had to go on was the records gathered by his instruments, if Jantz had been successful in the promised set up.

He threw off the thermal blankets from his bunk and sat up awkwardly, feeling several large ridges running across his face that stung at the touch of his hand. The painful welts made it difficult to speak or smile, and just breathing left his nose burning with every small movement and dreading the thought of a sneeze. He felt like his face had been through a severe fire.

With a quick scour of the surroundings, his gaze rested on his laptop computer open on a nearby desk and a series of communication cables running into it. He tried to smile, but quickly abandoned the idea when his face refused to stretch and a painful reminder of the unbending frostbite tore along his skin instead.

Climbing stiffly from his bed, he wrapped himself in a fur lined coat and impatiently began the process of initialising the computer, eager to see the results of the data gathered by his experiments.

Moments went by as the machine initialised, gathering data and processing it from the instruments set up on the periphery of the summit camp. He hoped the radio transmitters attached to each device hadn't been damaged by the solar activity, or the intense cold overnight.

Eventually, a long list of black figures speedily etched across the white background of his computer screen until five groups of figures subheaded under each instrument name, began to paint an awkward picture. The incredulous frown on Koenig's brow brought a painful reminder of his dismal attempts to set up his field instruments, trying to remain stone faced and prevent any further escalation in pain, but the further he read, the less this was making sense.

Concentrating hard on the computer screen and trying to interpret the results, Koenig's focus was disturbed by the door to the green house as it burst open and a stiff blast from the outside freezer assaulted the warm inside atmosphere and stole his breath, in a chilly gasp.

"Well, do you have any idea what's happening, Koenig?" Jantz' voice bellowed across the green house while he struggled to close the door and lock the cold out. Jantz couldn't tell whether the strained appearance of Koenig's face was due to the frostbite or the results of the tests he had downloaded from his instruments.

"Did the phenomena happen last night?" Koenig demanded, questioning Jantz and shivering a little.

"Sure did; nearly drove us nuts with the noise," Jantz answered, peering at the frostbitten scientist's face.

"Did all the electrical equipment go offline?"

Jantz nodded, baffled by Koenig's line of questioning. "Yeah, we spent a couple of hours re-establishing everything. What's going on?"Jantz prodded, not understanding the stalling tactics of the scientist.

Koenig's staring eyes locked onto Jantz. "The data is telling me nothing unusual happened last night."

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 49

A crowd of students gathered around Jaimon and Monette, curious to see whether Monette was serious about hanging out with the quirky freak. The gossip was that Jaimon had given Rositer a beating and now Monette's allegiance had shifted from Rositer to the smaller and younger Jaimon.

After witnessing Rositer's defeat, she gave him the brush off as he ran from the embarrassing scene. If she hadn't observed the whole fiasco herself then she wouldn't have believed it, but now she was curious to see what Jaimon was made of and the fact he was smaller and more powerful just made him more attractive. She liked dangerous and unpredictable males.

Jaimon's incredulous stare was interrupted by the warbling war siren calling students to their next round of classes and in obedience to the authoritarian device, students began to murmur among themselves and drift off to their next lessons.

Before turning to leave for her next class, Monette gave Jaimon a smile that stole his breath away and then assured him she would be seeing him again... soon.

He didn't know which way to look or what to make of the situation but this was a whole lot more pleasant than the usual round of bullying. He had no idea what Monette was trying to achieve but he was sure that Rositer wouldn't be happy and Jaimon's short reprieve wouldn't last long. He did like the attention from Monette though, and having someone like her even talking to someone like him, made his heart hammer. He watched her walking away, closely followed by a crowd of adoring friends, occasionally turning back and glancing to where he was standing and giggling to each other. As the crowd began to disperse and Monette disappeared from view, he willed his feet to move, breaking his gaze from the direction she had gone and made haste towards his next class.

Still dazed by the whole situation with Monette, Jaimon quickly disappeared from the quadrangle and headed into the west wing while a well concealed, tiny statured girl with a pair of cloudy eyes partially hidden by a thick fringe of red hair, peered at Jaimon's small frame as he hurried away. A thin smile broke out across her face, displaying a set of decaying teeth.

He was ready for the next stage of his education.

*~*~*~*

Dawdling students gathered around the door to Simons' class, in no hurry for the next teaching period and blocking Jaimon's entrance to the classroom. As he strode towards the room, the crowd opened before him and parted like a guard of honour so he could enter the room unhindered. His stride didn't slow and he walked straight past the gawking gathering, hearing the murmured whispers as he passed but not understanding their quiet undertones.

He stopped abruptly and peered down at the person sitting in the desk beside his and recognised the redheaded girl immediately. "Salena...! Where have you been?!"

The students entering the room stared at Jaimon and gave him a wide berth.

"G'day, Bob. I guess the action over the last couple of days has been a bit too much for me and Mum made me stay home for the day."

"Well, I sure am glad to see you back. You wouldn't believe what's been happening," Jaimon gushed, finding his seat and removing his books from his bags ready for Simons' inadvertent appearance.

"Oh...! Do tell. I could use a good laugh, Bob."

Salena listened intently to the explanation Jaimon gave: the big student taunting him in the change room and his hasty retreat as Jaimon felt his eyes become hot and then returned to normal; then the situation with Monette Alarn and how she wanted to hang out with him. Salena raised her eyebrows at this piece of information but he continued on, not registering her reaction.

"Everyone just seems to be afraid of me and keeps out of my way and even my family have treated me different. Surfing the portals and allowing this player access has given me... I duuno... power, I guess! What type of player do you think I have?"

Salena's knowing gaze rested on Jaimon. The door was ajar and the _camel's nose_ had entered. How long would it be before he wanted the whole camel in the room?

"How much control do you have?" Salena questioned.

"What do you mean, control?" Jaimon's brow furrowed.

Just before Salena could continue, Simons entered the room and took charge.

"Shuddup and get your books out," Simons demanded and proceeded to teach.

Salena leaned in towards Jaimon and whispered, trying to continue their conversation, "How much control do you have when you get angry? I mean, can you control the voice in your head?"

Jaimon stared in disbelief. _How did she know about the voice?_

He whispered back, keeping an eye on Simons as he spoke, "Yeah, most times."

"Okay. If you have some control of the voice, the player you have is probably a high ranking _Whimpitclasto_ or a low ranking _Bettitclasto_. Be careful not to get a big head with the power you can control. This player is small fish and if you run into a surfer with a higher rank, you will be toast."

"Reece...! Tell me what I just said?!" Simons bellowed, while the whole class held their breath and waited for Jaimon's response.

Jaimon could feel his eyes becoming hot again and an angry, raspy voice began to smoulder in the basement of his brain.

Salena saw his pupils glowing and whispered to herself, "This'll be interesting."

Jaimon's voice broke and a deeper voice took its place. "You were talking about the Westminster style of parliament and the countries that still adhere to the principals of this style of government. The teacher's handbook where you got this garbage from is wrong; and Canada still has this type of governance to this day. If you hadn't lost your notes this morning, you would have been able to teach us the truth, instead of winging it."

Simons stared at Jaimon in disbelief, his mouth opening and closing, trying to speak, while the class stared silently in utter incredulity. Simons glanced around the classroom, eyeing the reaction to Jaimon's factual account of the mistakes Simons had just made and then finding his voice and his ire, he ordered Jaimon out of his class and down to the principal's office.

Jaimon's eyes lit in full-on hatred and he slammed his desk into the chair of the student in front of him, sending him sprawling to the ground under the force of the move and then Jaimon stalked from the room, leaving Simons trying to regain the remnants of control in the battle scene.

*~*~*~*

Allan Simons reached for his lunchbox at the back of the staff refrigerator, tucked neatly into a recess in the vast staffroom wall. He had just settled into an unoccupied seat and taken a bite of a sandwich when Principal Bern approached him and took the vacant seat next to him.

"What's going on with Jaimon Reece, Al?"

Simons swallowed down the remains of his mouthful before answering. "I don't know, boss; he was mumbling something and disrupting the class and when I picked him up on it, he let loose with a whole lot of abuse and then turned over his desk, knocking young Joel Freeboard from his chair."

Simons didn't tell Principal Bern that he had been caught out teaching the wrong information and incredibly, that Jaimon knew he had lost his notes before school.

Principal Bern rubbed his forehead worriedly. "I know Jaimon Reece is a bit of a quirky kid and most of the other kids pick on him, but he hasn't given the staff any trouble before. Has he mentioned problems at home?"

Simons just shrugged. He knew about Jaimon's abuse at the hands of other students and the abuse he was suffering from his father, but Jaimon Reece was a favourite and easy target for Simons to gain control over the other pupils, frightening them into submission by his threats towards Jaimon. Simons played innocent in a stage performance any actor would be proud of.

"Not that I know of, boss."

Principal Bern patted Simons' shoulder playfully. "Thanks, Al. Let me know of any developments with Jaimon Reece."

Simons watched Principal Bern walk out of the staff room and then bit into another sandwich, unconcerned about the outcome with Jaimon Reece.

*~*~*~*

Jaimon wandered into the crowd of students milling around the quadrangle and eating their lunches–he could feel their eyes boring into his back as he walked–while he tried to make sense of the episode with Simons. It was obvious that the gossip grapevine was working overtime and somehow, the student body knew of his meeting with Principal Bern.

Bern had questioned him at length about the outburst, but he had no answers to offer him. He couldn't blame the outburst on an out of control player and when his father found out, he didn't know what the player would do, or if Jaimon could control it.

Things were turning messy very quickly.

A voice at his side startled him and Salena's question drew more stares from wary students. "Still think you have control?"

Jaimon ran his hands through his hair and stopped to face her, nervously pondering her question. "I..I don't know, Salena. I certainly didn't see that one coming. Bern gave me strike one."

"Strike one, dude, for that?!"

"Yeah, and I can just see my father's reaction to that, too, when he's told."

"Well, look at the bright side, Bob; you still have two more strikes before they expel you for good!"

"Thanks for the humour, Salena, but it really isn't helping."

"Oops, Bob, here comes your new girlfriend. Time for me to be going. I don't want to intrude."

Jaimon turned away from Salena for an instant, riveted by Monette's graceful sway as she set her eyes on him and purposefully aimed herself in his direction, topping it off with a melting smile.

He turned back to Salena, but she was nowhere in sight.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 50

Cutter's big frame reclined on the padded seat of his Harley-Davidson Fat Boy, enjoying the exhilaration of the quickly passing country scenery. The engine cackled beneath his body, leaving a wall of noise in the cycle's wake and announcing to every living creature within earshot of the road, that Cutter and the Fat Boy were on a mission from God.

The early morning air was warming up to be another balmy spring day and the speeding wind played with his wavy red locks, whipping strands of ginger across the lenses of his dark sunglasses. A broken white line marking the black top stretched out endlessly in front of him, although the turnoff to Blakely County was still a handful of miles away yet.

Feeling completely at peace with his life and enjoying the companionship of the Holy Spirit, Cutter could sense the urging of his motorcycle to run. As if he was having a silent conversation with an unseen pillion, an excited agreement was reached and he lowered his head slightly, grasped the handlebars and pulled open the throttle. The Fat Boy responded immediately, pulling up its socks and tucking its tunic into its belt, unleashing a cacophony of growling power and quickly pushing Cutter closer and closer to 200 kilometres per hour... and then some. Cutter could feel the exhaust pipe cooking the inside of his right leg as his machine triumphantly tipped 200 kilometres per hour, heading for the extreme end of 210 kilometres per hour before it ran out of breath.

The unfamiliar bridge crossing the Deakin River flashed up in the distance as the broken white line blurred into a continuous, pale skinned snake and all too soon Cutter released the throttle, calming his disappointed ride with a guttural groan just as the odometer needle nudged 210. Cutter slowed the Fat Boy, kicking down the six gears in their turn and finally bringing it abruptly to a total stop at the intersection, causing the bike to _galumph_ in a breathless idle as it recovered from its high speed jaunt.

Stationary at the intersection and supporting the bike with one leg, Cutter peered down the three intersecting roads in turn. Blakely County was to the left, across the Deakin River Bridge; Sue's Bridge was behind him; and the deserted highway to Injunoo stretched into the distance, on his right. Bairnsworth Psychiatric Hospital was less than fifteen kilometres away from the intersection and a further twenty kilometres to Blakely County township.

He pondered the trouble and opposition to the building of the institution on Blakely County soil, when irate locals took to the streets in protest, trying to block the building's approval. But as usual, the process fell onto the deaf ears of bureaucracy, intent on the financial incentives that the federal government dangled in front of them, rubber stamping the deal before a word of protest was ever uttered.

Cutter huffed despondently. The Sue's Bridge church had been handed a golden opportunity to make a difference in the Blakely County community and in the hospital environment, diffusing any biases. Instead, the church saw the situation as chagrin and not an opportunity, but a blight on their clean image, and the people sent to minister thought that the mental institution was beneath their dignity. In a matter of time, the chaplains sent to the hospital shrank from the challenge and refused to return to their designated post, escalating trivial problems into full blown crises and forcing the Bairnsworth authorities to cancel the Sue's Bridge chaplain's visits.

Recognising the value of a visiting minister, however, the chairman of the Bairnsworth board searched the local area, pleading for a replacement to step forward. After a sundry list of failed attempts and in desperation, the chaplaincy was once again negotiated with Sue's Bridge. Slinger wasn't keen to engage the troublesome ministry again and was intent on refusing, until Cutter's truancy from the annual planning meeting raised Slinger's ire. In a moment of hidden, seething rage, Slinger had proposed to the seven associate pastors to re-engage with Bairnsworth, inciting a hail of protest from those present. Slyly, he began to explain the plan and Cutter's involvement. Once the scheme had been fully rationalised and he had explained that Cutter was set to carry the burden, the group had voted unanimously in favour of Slinger's proposal – and Cutter's single-handed involvement.

Cutter's reaction to the news had broadsided Slinger, as if Cutter had been offered the opportunity of a lifetime instead of a punishment, and Slinger couldn't hide his scepticism. If he failed with the ministry at Bairnsworth, that would be grounds to get rid of the irksome biker and Slinger was sure the day he longed for wasn't far away.

With his back to the convivial sun, the heartening rays etched its way through Cutter's jacket as if it was encasing him in a hug and urged him on. He turned the Fat Boy up the road towards Blakely County and eased the clutch out, throttled up slightly until the bike was again barking along the highway. As the big bike gained speed, a new growl of power echoed through the undulating farmland with each declutch and as a new gear kicked up.

Slicing between two sprawling green pastures and bordered by a line of fir trees, a small lane just ahead caught Cutter's attention. He began to throttle back, kicking down the gears and bringing the steely motorcycle into a contemptuous crawl. A 1.8 metre tall wooden fence bordered the farmland in each direction, following the gentle undulations of the landscape as far as the eye could see and alerting Cutter to the probable entrance to the institution. After the experience of being incarcerated, he recognised the style of features surrounding a prison complex, trying not to look like a prison complex.

As he approached the lane, a small and ambiguous rusted sign, battle hardened by years of abusive stares and weathered by countless storms, whispered to the astute the possible presence of Bairnsworth, some distance beyond the tired sentry.

As Cutter turned his machine along the skinny paved road he was bumped and jostled by many ruts and potholes then after fifteen minutes, the lane opened into a long, tree-lined driveway, bordered by a high chainmail fence and topped by razor wire. A guard post, with a boom gate across the entrance, prohibited entry beyond without first checking in with the vicious human guard dog.

In just moments, Cutter sat atop his _galumphing_ motorcycle, waiting in front of the guardhouse and stopped by the boom gate across the road.

A thickset, uniformed guard stared at Cutter through a window, wondering what he was about to encounter. Grabbing a clipboard, he unbuckled the flap holding his service revolver secured and pulled open the door, separating the guardhouse and the boom gate.

Cutter found himself reliving the eight years behind bars and the regimented lifestyle he had tried so hard to forget. A small voice whispered and settled his fears, coaxing him out of his past, _"You are just visiting, beloved."_

Cutter smiled at the quiet reassurance and the guard became more sceptical and wary at the sudden gesture, eyeing Cutter's biker outfit and the tattoos with concern, and ready to react at any provocation.

"Yes. State your business, but I warn you, you are on closed circuit television and I have a loaded pistol in my belt."

Cutter tried to remain as inoffensive as possible, knowing his appearance seemed threatening and he didn't blame the guard for his stance. Cutter smiled again, wondering how his next statement would be received.

"I'm the new chaplain for the hospital. My name is Cu... Sylvester Castelano, but everyone just calls me Cutter."

Now it was the guard's turn to smile. "Yeah, right, if you're the new chaplain, Mr Castelano, I'm Mother Teresa!"

Cutter's eyes twinkled for a moment as the two men stared at each other, then he held out his hand in a greeting gesture. "Pleased to meet you, _Mother Teresa_."

The guard almost smiled at the gesture, disarming the situation. There was something about the biker that drew the guard; maybe the ludicrous situation was true and it wouldn't take much to confirm the strange story.

"Turn off your motorcycle, but stay on it. What's the name of the person who sent you here?"

"Jesus Christ," Cutter's frank reply slipped out, adding to the comedy.

"Yeah, yeah, Mister Smarty; what church are you from?"

Cutter smiled again. "Sue's Bridge Community Church and Kyle Slinger is the head dude. Do you want the phone number?"

The eyes of the guard locked onto Cutter; this wasn't the snooty suit-and-tie chaplains he was used to and somewhere inside, the man hoped that the friendly biker was the real deal.

"Nah, I have it inside the guardhouse. Don't move from there; I'm a good shot."

Cutter tipped his bike helmet in obedience to the man and settled back to wait.

*~*~*~*

Nancy Jessop tidied the array of paperwork deposited upon her desk in an unruly fashion by passing associate pastors, as they made their way out of yet another early morning meeting with Kyle Slinger, the senior pastor of Sue's Bridge Community Church. She was just about to enter the kitchen and make herself a cup of coffee before tackling her workload for the day, when an incoming phone call stopped her in mid-salivation and demanded she return to her desk.

With a sigh of frustration, she turned away from the coffee dispenser and made her way back to her desk, trying to drag up some sweetness from within her, to answer with a smile appropriate to the task and the facade she was supposed to keep up. Nancy grasped for the phone, standing momentarily over it and wobbled her head from side to side, practising the morning sweet.

"G-o-o-d... morning, Sue's Bridge Community Church, this is N-aa-ncy!"

A perturbed voice stuttered on the other end at the singing reply, "C..can I speak with Kyle Slinger, please?"

"I am sorry, Mr Slinger is still in a meeting; may I take a message?"

"Oh! Maybe you can help me then? Does a Sylvester Castelano work there?"

The name seemed somehow vaguely familiar, but Nancy Jessop couldn't place it. "I'm sorry, no one by that name works here."

"Hmm, just as I thought; thank you for your help, goodbye."

The guard put the phone down and removed his revolver, then pushed a button under the desk. It would be at least half an hour before the Sue's Bridge police would arrive; Blakely County was closer but they weren't cooperative with anything to do with Bairnsworth, and they seldom responded to a call for help.

*~*~*~*

Cutter could see the revolver drawn as the guard approached him, wondering what had gone wrong.

"Don't try anything, mister," the guard barked. "I don't know what your intentions are, but the Sue's Bridge church has never heard of you."

Cutter's look of astonishment kept the guard on edge. "Who did you speak to?" Cutter managed, while holding his hands above his head.

*~*~*~*

By the time the Deputy Clayton Jackson arrived from the Sue's Bridge Sheriff's Office, Cutter and Mother Teresa were sitting around the guard's desk, laughing about the mix up. Everyone knew Cutter as Cutter and no one knew his real name. Nancy Jessop was no exception and she apologised profusely when Cutter rang to clear up the misunderstanding.

The guard had been so enchanted by Cutter's charismatic stories that he forgot to cancel the call for help to Sue's Bridge police and Deputy Jackson was just a little ticked off when he arrived.

Jackson eyed Cutter suspiciously and thought, _Since when does a minister ride a Harley-Davidson Fat Boy, tattooed on both arms and wear a cut-off denim jacket and well worn black denim jeans, looking more like an escapee, than a minister of religion?_

Something in his appearance was familiar, but he couldn't put his finger on it, even after questioning the man. As Deputy Jackson turned his squad car for home, the haunting feeling wouldn't leave him but whatever it was about the man stayed buried in his deep subconscious.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 51

As the boom gate lowered behind him, a knot tightened in Cutter's stomach, once again feeling the foreboding, institutional walls gather about and close in, trapping him into a memory... a nightmare memory.

A stab of insecurity shuddered through him as he remembered faces and names of rabid prisoners determined to settle a score, even after he'd met the Lord, been forgiven and cleaned up his life. But through the glasses of hatred and evil, these faces chose to overlook the changes in him and only became more determined to finish him off.

Prison for the impressive biker was a constant round of survival fights, forced into a fight-or-flight mentality while every dark corner hid a new lurking threat. The Lord had sheltered him under His powerful wings and taught Cutter to love and not hate in return. Eventually the rabid faces lost interest, thinking the biker had lost his nerve and to some degree, left him alone. When he'd learnt the lessons he had been incarcerated for, Jesus released him from prison back into civilian life; and a different round of prejudice began in earnest at the hands of people who should've known better.

In the years it took to readjust to civilian life, the Holy Spirit became Cutter's closest, constant friend, encouraging and teaching him Jesus' ways and how to react to the trials his new life threw at him. As a result, Cutter acted as the Spirit led, sometimes seemingly foolishly walking where angels feared to tread, but always the consequences were incredible and life-changing for those the Spirit touched through the eccentric man.

Before Cutter was released from prison, he had studied divinity through an online Bible college and after his release, was reluctantly accepted as a graduate pastor and assigned to Sue's Bridge Community Church.

A movement behind him shook the memories from his mind and he concentrated instead on the image of the guard, Mother Teresa _,_ reflected and waving in his wing mirror. In an appreciative response, he lifted his hand above his head and waved back in a friendly gesture to his new found friend.

Accompanied by a wall of noise, Cutter coaxed the Fat Boy along the paved and kerbed driveway, bordered on each side by rich green pasturelands and adorned with a row of sprawling trees on each side, shading the road from the morning heat. Through the trees and as the Fat Boy gained speed, Cutter could see the flickering image of an imposing three-storey, red brick building filling his view as the distance grew increasingly shorter.

The road suddenly inclined sharply and turned back on itself in a tight hairpin leading to the hospital car park. The unexpected incline required a burst from the Fat Boy's throttle–announcing to all, Cutter's arrival, with a stuttering _galumph_ from the engine–at the same time rattling the institution's windows in an apocalyptic decree and disturbing the uneasy silence surrounding the sombre building. Three animated throttle-ups further rocked the building and drew dazed attention from the windows behind him. The flick of a key silenced the impressive machine, causing the exhaust to complain, crackling in the silence as the shiny metal cooled.

Cutter dismounted the Fat Boy, staring up at the monolithic building blocking his view while he removed the dog-bowl from his head and threaded his fingers through his wavy red hair, trying to straighten the indents that were normally left by his unusual helmet. A figure in a green hospital gown, waving enthusiastically from a third floor window, caught Cutter's eye. He smiled and gesticulated with a hearty wave back, causing a beaming grin in return almost audible through the window, just before someone ushered the figure away.

*~*~*~*

A small, stern woman in a white uniform stared up at Cutter's unusual attire, big exposed arms and distasteful tattoos, challenging his very existence with menacing hazel eyes. The sterile clinical surrounds, guards and booming doors punctuated by jangling keys and stubborn locks, created a numbing effect in Cutter until the woman spoke.

The high pitched threatening whine seemed out of place coming from a human being, but the voice meant business and what it articulated demanded complete obedience.

"My name is Rita Cavalier–Doctor... Rita Cavalier–and I am the superintendent of Bairnsworth, Mr...?"

"Cutter... my name is Cutter... Associate Pastor Cutter."

The questioning gaze from the woman held his with the intensity of a microwave receiver, searching for signs of treachery and if the glare detected even a fleeting indication of a perceived misdemeanour, the hazel eyes would hone in and take the owner to task.

"I will assume, Mr Cutter, that you have a civilised name and not just a pseudo-acronym hiding a jaded life of less than conducive activities and experiences."

Cutter's eyes were twinkling with delight at the disciplinarian and when she caught the mischievous glint in his eyes, a warm softness pervaded her body and she had to fight hard to regain control of a rogue smile that threatened to dethrone her stern demeanour.

"I will remind you, Pastor... Cutter, this is an institution for the criminally and mentally unstable. You may interact with the patients in the television room and nowhere else, but you will not leave the area without express permission from me and should the unlikely event of an incident arise, you must leave Bairnsworth immediately. I might add, you are in a position of trust, as your chosen vocation would indicate. So what happens inside Bairnsworth, stays within Bairnsworth. Do you understand me, sir?"

Cutter's gaze locked onto the purposefully hard hazel eyes again, but this time there was no sign of compassion and seemingly she had regained her stone facade, eager to keep it firmly in place.

The biker just nodded down at the small woman, acutely aware of why the board had chosen her to be superintendent.

"Allan!" the squeaky voice demanded.

Soon a large male arrived, dressed in white tee shirt and long white trousers. "Yes, Doctor Cavalier."

"Pastor Cutter, this is Allan; he is one of our many... _moderators_. Allan, please take the good pastor to meet the patients in the TV room and also explain the hospital routine. One last thing, Mr Cutter, every room is monitored by closed circuit cameras." The woman pointed up to the ceiling at a dome and then continued, "My eyes are everywhere, Mr Cutter; we can only assume your presence here will not cause us any difficulty."

The threat was devised to invoke total obedience from her subordinates and Cutter understood her full meaning.

"I am here to offer assistance and the love of Christ, Doctor Cavalier, not challenge anyone's authority."

The twinkle was back in Cutter's eyes but this time, Doctor Cavalier looked away, avoiding another disarming confrontation and turned on her heels to leave.

*~*~*~*

The green pastureland gave way to an array of untidy buildings on the outskirts of Sue's Bridge, a part of town Deputy Jackson knew well and visited often in his duties as a law enforcement officer. Bairnsworth's urgent alarm call had interrupted the daily routine at the county sheriff's office and sent stretched police resources scuttling to cover the emergency. Jackson could still hear the panicked voice of the dispatcher fending off a verbal attack as the sheriff bellowed in his ear, blaming him for the waste of resources and mistakenly carried across the police communication air waves, after Jackson reported in the false alarm from Bairnsworth.

Deputy Jackson felt unsettled at his inability to place the face and description of the biker, but somewhere in the deep places of his memory the biker was familiar and the frustration only mounted by the absence of recognition.

It wasn't long before the entrance to the running track passed by Jackson's police car window on his way back to the sheriff's office, causing his mind to drift back to Bayer's disappearance. It had been three days since Bayer was last seen and forensics had been tight-lipped over the evidence, citing a leak to the media as reason for their secrecy and it seemed that the sheriff was the only one with knowledge of Bayer's case and he was tight-lipped too. Jackson knew that the dispatcher, Miles Cleaver, was the leak but Jackson wasn't asked for his opinion by the powers that be, so he kept his mouth shut, trying to shield a colleague for their impetuousness.

The only information Jackson had was that the running track would be closed for several days while an investigation team set up an unofficial crime scene and scoured the area, searching for clues. Even though Kirt Ballard relentlessly hassled the police for information, nothing had been released formally and most of the town's folk treated his news reports with the usual hilarity.

Jackson's mind jolted as he tried to recall the description given by a victim of an attack on the running track the night before Bayer went missing. Suddenly he was in a hurry to confirm a suspicion and as he drove into the police parking lot, he shoved the automatic transmission into _park_ before the vehicle had come to a complete stop, causing the vehicle to rock on the transmission's parking pawl; then he threw the car door open and hurried into the office looking for Cleaver and finding the dispatcher with his back to him, he excitedly began his speech.

"Hey, Cleaver, what was that description given by the running track victim?!"

Cleaver turned to face Jackson with a telephone pressed to his ear, trying to hold a conversation while silencing Jackson's interruption with a stern finger held in the air.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 52

As he turned the piece of paper over and over in his hands, a turbulent electric current surged through Jaimon's brain and lit a feverish fire in his emotions, burning out of control and flashing into his stomach and chest while constricting his heart and stealing his breath away. Monette had cornered him on the way to his final class for the day and handed him the address. He couldn't get the image of her wanton smile out of his mind and the way her graceful body filled his senses, teasing him with her allure and the promise of something more.

The last class of the day was a total loss trying to concentrate on normality as instead, he found himself tripped up by the unabashed flirting of a temptress. Every direction he turned an image of the smiling girl pulled at his imagination, making his temples throb and his head ache with each pounding beat of his heart, cascading and stimulated by Monette's soft voice and clear brown eyes burnt indelibly into the recesses of his young brain. In the confines of his adolescent mind, a battle between decency and possibility raged, consuming his thoughts. One moment rationality reigned and he screwed the piece of paper into a tight ball, intent on disposal and then in another, a powerful surge of animal lust forced him to retrieve the crumpled instruction and iron out the creases with a violently shaking hand.

It was as if a storm of voices argued, competing for his consciousness: one laced with a whispered warning, but overpowered and drowned out by a louder, more imposing tone, pulling and igniting his mind into a fantasy of disturbing passion. Monette had lured him and now she was setting the hook firmly, ready to lead him into a harrowing place of darkness where anything was possible, but escape was impossible.

Although he knew she was way out of his league, he felt powerless to fight the siren's pull and the schoolboy desires she had ignited in him. Tingling pulsed up and down his body, craving her touch and desperate to own her, zealously excluding every other human being from occupying even a moment of her time. The overpowering urge only heightened as he recalled her shameless flirting aimed directly at him, mesmerising him with her big, hypnotic brown eyes, perfect white teeth and dazzling red lips. Drawing him into her web like a lamb to the slaughter and helpless to resist.

Jaimon stared blankly from the back row of his English lesson, watching the teacher opening and closing her mouth in a steady monotone but he couldn't hear a word she was saying. His emotions and boy-like imaginings were on a rollercoaster ride and hormones further fanned the flames of adolescent desire. His heart raced again and he began to sweat as he held Monette's note concealed in the palm of his hand.

The final war siren suddenly warbled across the high school campus, alerting students and teachers alike that the day had finally exhausted itself, spilling weary students into echoing hallways and filling the exits with chattering, homebound escapees. Jaimon waited for the classroom to empty, feeling giddy and sure that his unchecked desires were in plain sight for all to read.

Then an unwelcome voice broke into his fantasy world with the subtlety of a thunderclap, causing him to crumple the note in his hand with a reflexive, protective reaction.

"Are you feeling alright, Jaimon? You look awfully red," the voice called from the front of the room while she meandered along the vacant row down towards his desk in the emptying classroom.

Embarrassment began to gnaw at his conscience, assured the older woman could see his unrestrained thoughts and he answered her with a guilty stutter, "Y..yes, just feeling a bit hot that's all; I'll be alright in a minute."

Charged with confined, explosive passion and his safety valve boiling dangerously, Jaimon jumped from his chair before the teacher could draw closer and knocked it backwards with his hasty movements, grabbing at his school bag at the same time and then bolting for the door and freedom. He didn't want to explain the real reasons for his appearance and the closer the adult woman drew, the more repulsed he became with his thoughts and her unwelcome intrusion into his private, sordid world.

In a hurry to escape the woman, he almost ran over the top of Salena waiting patiently in the corridor for him and knocked her heavily to the ground.

"Whoa, dude, what's the hurry?!" she complained, her voice strongly miffed by his actions but trying to act calm, untangling her feet and hands from her school bag while Jaimon grabbed her arm roughly and pulled her from the floor, back to her feet.

Salena was just the catalyst he needed and her unattractive appearance melted away the strong emotions and distracted the bubbling fantasy that Monette had set in place to torment him all that afternoon. Jaimon turned to face the classroom door, searching for the teacher. Satisfied she wasn't anywhere in sight, he dragged Salena, protesting bitterly, along the deserted corridor and swiftly towards the exit.

With the powerful memories of Monette disabling his logical mind he needed some form of clarity, and Salena's advice on Monette's invitation was the wisdom he searched for. After all, his best friend was a _girl_ and _she_ would understand how they think.

*~*~*~*

Salena perched her skinny frame on the fallen tree, still nursing her bruises but amused at Jaimon's agitated pacing. With her small index finger, she forced a ginger lock from obscuring her deeply freckled face, hooking the itinerant straw behind an impish earlobe and prohibiting it from blocking her cloudy view of the gibbering boy.

She tilted her head to one side, reading the directions written neatly upon the crumpled paper while a crooked smile broke out across her face, revealing a set of brown, decaying teeth. The small figure had to measure her thoughts and form her words fastidiously before allowing them access to the ears of her pacing companion, still in awe that a basic tactic could deliver such a grandiose reaction.

The surrounding bush offered complete obscurity from passersby, but their voices still carried into the protective enclosure, prompting a cautious whisper from Jaimon until the threat had dispersed.

"Well... what do you make of it, Salena?" Jaimon's impatient question demanded an answer.

"What do you want me to make of it, Bob?" Salena's dry response confounded the agitated boy.

Jaimon sighed loudly, not impressed with her explanation. "You're a girl; what does she intend by this? Does she like me or is she just...?"

"It's not what she intends, dude, it's how you interpret it," Salena replied, watching the tormented boy.

The vacant, glaring response told her Jaimon hadn't a clue and that the next phase of his education would be swift and brutal. Salena sighed a knowing sigh. The oldest trick in the book was to place a siren in front of an unsuspecting male, give him a bit of a suggestive provocation and the response was always typically the same. She wished, just once, that the schmuck could see through the trick and call the siren's bluff.

"Listen, dude, I would say by the way this Monette dumped Rositer, she is curious as to how powerful you really are and if you have anything she can use."

" _Use_...?!" Jaimon retorted.

"Yeah, dude, use!" Salena sounded almost incredulous and annoyed, aware she was walking on thin ice and that Jaimon's player was listening, but at the same time, sure Jaimon hadn't understood her meaning.

"Look, Bob, the note is inviting you to a party at Monette's place. It's up to you whether you go or not. A word of advice: if you intend to go, just remember the player will want some action and he will be very unstable and unpredictable, so forget trying to control him. I probably shouldn't tell you this, but there may be other surfers at the party too and they may have more powerful players looking for a showdown."

Salena became increasingly annoyed and an angry expression crossed her face, knowing Jaimon was too weak to resist Monette's advances, especially stirred by his player messing with his head.

"What do you mean, showdown?" Jaimon's glare was both frightened and curious at the same time, and a change in the depth of his voice warned Salena if she didn't make her escape, the player was about to silence her.

Salena began to back away from Jaimon, but as she did, she threw a final warning at him. "Monette's party will change things forever, dude!"

Jaimon felt his eyes turning hot, staring at Salena. He tried to redirect the explosive venom aimed at his friend, but he was a passenger in a runaway train, watching the scene unfold but powerless to stop it. He saw the fallen tree rise to eye level and then fly through the air to where Salena had stood and crash to the ground, splintering into broken branches.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 53

Katu and Nikkulaat's expedition had developed into a frustrating journey. Two hours after leaving Aanasi and the outpost store, Katu's snowmobile began to falter, plagued by mechanical problems; and the sun had set by midafternoon, forcing them to make camp for the night and use the incapacitated machine as a windbreak for their survival tent. The previous night, parked unprotected in the snow at Nikkulaat's home, had taken a severe toll on the mechanical workhorse, freezing vital oil seals in the bitter cold, tearing them like brittle liquorice and spilling life sustaining oil onto the snow until the hard working machine eventually seized and died.

After a sleepless night, Katu dug the newly fallen powder away from the crippled machine while the lazy, mid-morning light divulged the extent of the damage, causing them to finally, but reluctantly, abandon the device and the sled it was towing and set off on foot, shouldering all the necessary survival equipment. Sydkap and Bjarni Kleist's small hut was now a few days hike on foot, instead of a couple more hours by snowmobile if the weather remained cooperative. The possibility of finding Bruun alive and hunting down the monster tracking him, just took a serious turn for the worst and put both Katu and Nikkulaat in the same predicament as Bruun.

The two men discussed at length the possibility of turning around and hiking back to the outpost, but a persistent, gnawing uneasiness engulfed their decision like a prominent third person and convinced them time was against them and that Bruun's survival could be dependent on them carrying on the search. Both men felt uneasy about turning back.

Whatever was out there, was not friendly and it was determined.

Nikkulaat trudged through the barren white wilderness, bent over under the weight of his load while Katu followed closely behind his friend, shouldering his own wearisome pack and with a high powered rifle clasped tightly in his hand.

Katu, lost in his thoughts and trying to divert his mind from the numbing load on his back, nearly walked into Nikkulaat as he suddenly stopped and peered around the silent landscape, surveying the white horizon with the eye of an experienced hunter. It wasn't long before Katu also silently sensed his friend's caution and began looking for anomalies in the tundra surrounds.

On foot, they were susceptible to any threat and hungry nanuq were returning to the area to hunt for a meal.

Seeing nothing to threaten their journey, Nikkulaat continued on but both men couldn't shake the imposing feeling that they were being watched.

*~*~*~*

Dysart fumbled in her shoulder bag for her apartment keys, finally placing the precious briefcase down on the carpeted corridor floor in front of her door to make an unencumbered search with both hands. Soon the ungainly bunch of keys appeared, tangled around the latest fashion in cosmetics and her purse. Near to tears and frustrated at the uncooperative mess, she tore the keys from her bag in a fit of rage, spilling her cosmetics onto the floor at her feet, assured that nothing else could go wrong today.

She sighed loudly and then forcefully unlocked her apartment door before stooping to clean up her personal belongings from the carpet and hastily deposited them back into her shoulder bag with an indignant huff and closed the door with a determined, echoing bang.

The day had not gone according to plan and the inner circle United Nations power brokers had been tight-lipped about her information and only proffered they would be in touch, literally forcing her from their presence by armed security guards.

After a heated confrontation with the U.N. hostess at her treatment and a laundry list of threats about going to the media and exposing the secretive search for the Greenland Gateway Emerald, Dysart reluctantly managed to get her briefcase back from the power brokers. But now, after she'd had time to reflect on her conduct and the people she had been negotiating with, she wondered whether the prudent action would have been to leave the U.N. building and wait for them to respond to her.

A highly stressed Annette Dysart made a bee-line for her Manhattan view and pushed open the glass door separating her sanctuary from her apartment and pondered the scene from her seventeenth floor balcony, wondering whether she had just made the biggest mistake of her life.

The polluted city air seldom gathered in any concentration at this height above the street but tonight, the smog was stinging her eyes and causing an unpleasant outlook, adding to her depressed and aggressive mood. Many thoughts cascaded through her worried mind but the threat of expulsion from her country and her career was foremost in her convoluted concerns, knowing the people she had tried to negotiate with were far more adept in the game of extortion than she could ever be.

A disturbing thought flashed across her mind and she hurried back inside the air conditioned apartment, sliding the glass door closed and shutting the irritating smog outside. Her anger began to boil again as she grabbed for the briefcase sitting unassumingly against the wall, suspecting that the contents had been removed and replaced with a decoy. She placed the case flat onto a nearby table and thumbed at the combination, working the lock until the case security gave way under the correct number sequence and allowed Dysart access to the contents inside.

She sifted the familiar documents with a shuffling motion, accounting for each piece of information until her eyes rested on an unfamiliar, plain faced file. She gasped as she held the file in her hands, realising a mistake of gargantuan proportions had been made by someone at the U.N. and she now held in her possession a detailed, official account of the most probable location of the Greenland Gateway Emerald.

This one catastrophic error just made completing her mission so much easier.

Dysart's hands trembled as she flicked through the official U.N. top secret document, wondering how she could use this to her best advantage, but a lot of the information didn't make sense to her. If she was to locate the emerald everyone was searching for and make the events contour into the shape of her bank account, she needed the help of someone equally skilled in treachery as she.

Either way, she was determined to come out of this situation at the front and smelling like roses.

*~*~*~*

The bellhop had already collected the baggage from the hotel foyer and placed it into a collection area, ready to be loaded aboard the first available limousine destined for John F. Kennedy International Airport. Even though the circumstances of Parlo's return home didn't bring him comfort, at least he would be rid of the confounded Queens' flea bag hotel.

He hadn't slept at all last night, taxing his diplomatic brain searching for an angle that would lessen the expected backlash of his failure to locate the information the council required. Dysart's file was his last attempt to redeem himself in the eyes of the Supreme Leader and now, the information he had so easily extracted from her was useless.

Somewhere deep inside, he wondered whether Dysart had planned the whole scheme but then he erased the thought, convincing himself she didn't have the mental capacity to figure out such an elaborate deception.

Parlo glanced around the room for the last time, holding the door handle in his hand as he searched and wondered where he would be this time tomorrow night. Just as he was about to close the room door, the bedside phone rang, causing him to hesitate for a moment and contemplate whether he should answer it or just let it be. He stared at the device for a long moment, coming to a decision and then curiosity got the better of him and he strode for the jangling machine, silencing it with a swipe of his hand.

"Yes, Parlo speaking."

"Mr Parlo, I have an Annette Dysart on the line for you," a nasally receptionist twanged in his ear.

Parlo hesitated for a moment, wondering whether Dysart's intentions were amorous, looking for another precarious interlude. He began to instruct the receptionist to cancel the call when he reconsidered; after all, she had given him what he wanted without reserve and maybe she didn't know that the military file had been tampered with and vital information had been removed.

"Put her through, please," Parlo's voice had switched to charming, charismatic diplomat.

The phone line clicked and soon Dysart's breathless voice filled his ear, like some polluted wave running up a tormented beach after a disastrous oil spill.

"Parlo, we need to talk. I have some information you will be very interested in, but you need to get me safely out of the country... now!"

*~*~*~*

The council embassy staff in New York worked feverishly to rearrange Parlo's flight and add a companion to Parlo's travel itinerary. Parlo's companion also had diplomatic immunity, protected by the spidery reaches of the council and able to circumvent any bureaucratic interference in any country.

Later that same night, Dysart's assumed name–Lanila Borsch–underscored her photograph on a false, diplomatic passport while an embassy logo and council crest authenticated her citizenship, allowing a safe passage through the myriad of immigration checks at J.F.K. airport and onto a waiting, transatlantic flight.

Close by, a dark figure watched the diplomatic couple board the passenger jet and then reached for his mobile phone and began to dial a well used number. Any inquisitive ear passing by the stranger would have been curious to understand the cryptic message so carelessly spilled into the public domain.

"The trap has been sprung successfully."

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 54

Miles Cleaver's morning had been busy and laced with angry people. Being the county sheriff's dispatcher, he often found himself as the meat in the sandwich and the vent people used to resolve their own fractured spleen while having to remain detached and calm himself. The sheriff was the major contributor to Cleaver's workload, often demanding his immediate response at the worst possible time and bellowing like a wounded bull when Cleaver was slow in responding.

Deputy Jackson had entered the scene, hassling for Cleaver's attention during one such storm, while Cleaver reacted with unusual annoyance and intolerance when Jackson tried unknowingly, to interrupt.

Jackson quite often observed the calm and detached figure, amazed at his ability to sooth highly volatile situations and bring sense into the work day, even to the point of gently rearranging the sheriff when his aspirations boiled over into chaos. But today, Cleaver had been pushed to the wall, accused of being the media leak by the sheriff and then followed by a string of abusive public phone enquiries. Cleaver was also blamed for dispatching Jackson to Bairnsworth on a false alarm, when the workload at the station was already in backlog due to Bayer's untimely disappearance and subsequent investigation. The sheriff was often heard bellowing at Bayer, as if she was standing in front of him, for bringing unwanted attention to the county office from bureaucratic, city crime investigators.

The phone call finally ended and Cleaver's haunted expression turned to face Jackson, his eyes slightly moist in the corners and his usually bright countenance, fallen and dark.

"What is it, Jackson?" Cleaver sighed, his voice flat.

"Things getting you down today, Miles?" Jackson replied, trying to jolly Cleaver into a more congenial frame of mind, but Cleaver just stared back at him, waiting for the next round of abuse.

Jackson held Cleaver's unflinching gaze for a few seconds, waiting for him to speak. When it was obvious Cleaver was in no frame of mind for protocol, Jackson continued on with his enquiry.

"What was the description given of the running track offender?" Jackson gently asked. Cleaver's terse disposition had worn down Jackson's enthusiastic desire to add the suspect to the persons of interest file.

Cleaver sighed again and disappeared under the counter separating Jackson from the back office, and then reappeared moments later, handing Jackson an official suspect description mandate. Cleaver continued on with his work while Jackson took the official paper and then turned it 180 degrees, beginning to read the document from the top line.

The description was vague: male; big arms; jacket with the sleeves removed; and wielding a knife.

"Is this all we have?" Jackson turned the document over, inspecting the blank underside, at the same time calling across to Cleaver.

Cleaver just nodded from his desk in a disinterested sulk, not even bothering to face Jackson.

After reading the document again, Jackson wondered whether his information was just a red herring, adding unnecessarily to Cleaver's already burgeoning workload. It soon became evident that Cleaver was waiting for Jackson to return to patrol work, allowing the already stressed dispatcher a little breathing space.

Cleaver's unimpressed voice drifted over the counter from his position sitting at his desk. "Anything else, Jackson?"

Jackson almost stuttered, watching the dispatcher's body language before requesting the P.O.I. file, knowing his hunch would add to Cleaver's workload. "I may have a very basic lead on a P.O.I. fitting the description in the running track attacker case," Jackson stated, waiting for another depressive sigh from Cleaver.

Cleaver's features suddenly brightened. "Why didn't you say so, Jackson?"

Cleaver grasped for the P.O.I. file and dropped it in front of Deputy Jackson, then began to question him about his suspect. "So who is your P.O.I.?"

Cleaver was now back to himself and full of curiosity.

"It's a suspect I questioned this morning. I couldn't place the description until I passed the running track on my way back from Bairnsworth. This P.O.I. fits what we have: he's a biker masquerading as a minister of religion, wearing a cut off jacket with big arms and I could just see him wielding a knife. In fact, his nickname is Cutter, with ugly tattoos of a knife running down his arms."

Jackson reached for his pocket notebook and flipped open the last page. "His name is... Sylvester Castelano."

Cleaver was incredulous. "Why didn't you arrest him then?"

Jackson became defensive. "On what charge, Cleaver?"

"I don't know, there must have been something," Cleaver protested.

"Like I said, it's only a hunch and I may be way off beam," Jackson admitted.

"This is going to make the sheriff's day; in fact, I'm going to call him and tell him right now." Cleaver was anxious to be the one to break the news to the sheriff and regain his good standing with his explosive boss after being accused of blabbing to the media about Bayer's case.

"He'll be out of phone range; isn't he at the Morrison farm this morning visiting Maggie Morrison?" Jackson smiled knowingly.

Cleaver huffed, remembering the sheriff's amorous morning tea visits with the wealthy widow. "Yeah... that's right!" Cleaver glanced up at the wall clock and noted it was fast approaching noon. "He should have just started on his way back in now; I'll try the radio," Cleaver suggested.

"Is that wise, Cleaver? You never know who is listening in on the police frequency," Jackson warned.

Cleaver stared at Jackson, mulling over his warning, then contemplated someone else taking the credit for such a game changing lead. "I'll use police code."

The statement was intended to convince himself as well as Jackson.

*~*~*~*

The sheriff's patrol car sped along the dirt road leading from the Morrison farm and back onto the Sue's Bridge arterial. He was in an exceptionally good mood: Maggie Morrison had finally accepted his proposal after a long and intricate courtship and now, he could retire from the force a wealthy man anytime he chose. He was lost in an excited world of rearranging his fiancée's life and riches to best suit himself, when Cleaver's voice broke into his thoughts across the police communications.

"SBCSO-1, Police Communications Base SBCSO, do you copy?"

The sheriff reached for the receiver and pushed the _talk_ button. "SBCSO-1, receiving."

Cleaver excitedly continued, "Sheriff, because of a one-zero-one and the urgent nature of a lead on our latest one-eight-seven, I believe one of our officers has stumbled across a P.O.I. fitting the description of the four-one-seven-kilo while dispatched to Bairnsworth this morning."

Cleaver beamed at Jackson, making sure the sheriff understood the part about the P.O.I. while dispatched to Bairnsworth and waited for the sheriff to respond with an expected, glowing approval.

There was a long pause before the sheriff responded. "WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, CLEAVER?!"

The sheriff's agitated voice deflated Cleaver's resolve and he struggled to respond to the explosion. "I..I was using police radio code just in case someone was listening in," Cleaver managed to relay.

An angry, audible sigh filled the air waves and Cleaver recognised the volcanic explosion about to erupt.

"JUST GIVE ME THE MESSAGE IN PLAIN ENGLISH!"

*~*~*~*

Kirt Ballard broke into a loud guffaw in the news room office, listening intently and writing furiously at the comical conversation taking place across the police communications network. Miles Cleaver had stuck to police radio protocol, causing Ballard some angst in understanding his message, but the sheriff's impatience with police protocol had handed the story to Ballard on a platter.

The sheriff's frustrated response to Cleaver's riddle demanded a simple communication, making it easy for Ballard to understand what was taking place without the need to decipher police radio codes. Although Cleaver was ordered to spell out the communication in plain English, he wisely had left out the P.O.I.'s name.

Ballard checked his watch and calculated the sheriff would be back in town in twenty minutes; everyone knew of his intentions with Maggie Morrison and like clockwork, today was his scheduled visit to her farm some distance from town.

There was just enough time to get a news crew and cameras in place before the sheriff parked his patrol car back in his reserved space out the front of the sheriff's office.

*~*~*~*

Sue's Bridge County Sheriff, Morgan Barnett, turned sharply off the street into the office parking lot only to be met by a circus of camera crews and news teams blocking his parking space.

"What's the meaning of this?!" Barnett bellowed through an open window, barking so fiercely it caused a number of the news team to jump out of his way. Then with the fender of his police vehicle, the sheriff slowly forced his way into the space marked _SHERIFF,_ parked the squad car and pushed reporters out of his way with his car door.

Kirt Ballard turned towards a television camera and nodded to the operator, then turned his attention back to the escaping sheriff. "Sheriff Barnett, my sources indicate that you have found the offender responsible for the murder of Police Deputy Amanda Bayer on the town's running track just a few nights ago."

Barnett pushed his way through the crowd of media and called out as he went, "No comment!"

Ballard followed the sheriff as he tried to escape the spectacle and pushed a microphone into his face. "Is it true the offender is connected to the Hells Angels Motorcycle Club and is currently incarcerated in Bairnsworth Mental Hospital?"

Again the sheriff responded with a deadpan face. "No comment!" Then finding the office door, he pushed it open and disappeared inside, forcing the media circus to remain outside.

Ballard turned to the camera and recapped his interpretation of the sheriff's interview. "There you have it, folks, straight from the horse's mouth. A dangerous motorcycle gang member incarcerated in Bairnsworth Mental Institution has murdered Deputy Amanda Bayer and a murder trial is set to begin in the next few weeks. The judge is tipping a capital punishment verdict; maybe this will be the first hanging in Sue's Bridge for many years. You heard it first on SBCTV News. This is Kirt Ballard signing off, live from Sue's Bridge County Sheriff's office."

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 55

Denizen ambled into the television room. He had taken his morning medication after the usual battle with Doctor Cavalier, but he wasn't happy. She always won and after the drugs took effect, he was too drowsy to offer any resistance and spent the day passively spaced out while his mind hovered above the images dancing on the television screen. Many times he had tricked the hospital staff by holding the sizeable pills under his tongue and then had spat them out once staff were out of sight, only to be betrayed by his own boisterous actions and pranks he played upon the other inmates.

Denizen's troublesome personality boiled over into a neat psychiatric diagnosis of extreme _Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder._ Born to elderly parents with no time for a baby, and a careless diet of junk food and entertained by long hours of television and video games, it seemed his destiny had been etched into history even before he understood what a parent was supposed to do. Fearing they had mistakenly created a monster in their autumn years, Denizen's parents were all too keen to accept the psychiatrist's determination and supposedly shut him out of harm's way in Bairnsworth's _rehabilitating environment_ for his own good and for the duration of his disturbed life.

Denizen would have been an inmate in Bairnsworth for ten years at his next birthday. He was four when his parents relieved themselves of their sticky responsibilities and delivered their son to the institution's care before reverting back to a rich, pampered and selfish lifestyle, unperturbed at the needs of a special little boy with a problem, fixable without the need for strong brain-injuring medical suppressants.

Today was like any other day in the institutional environment: a continuing monotone of endless sameness, stuck stupefied and helpless in front of a talking box surrounded with people claiming to be hunted by the CIA; or the incarnate appearance of the world's saviour; to criminals too dangerous to leave in prison and part way through extreme behavioural adjustment in the form of a now rarely used frontal lobotomy treatment, of which Bairnsworth was still a world leader.

That morning, Denizen had been attracted to a loud, thunderous noise that had rattled the windows on the third floor and he had waved at the figure of a large man responsible for the disturbance, before being wrestled away by Cavalier's henchman; after which another round of drugs was thrust down his throat, forcefully altering and damaging his young, developing brain while gaining the desired submission required from the hospital hierarchy.

Denizen stared at the images flickering violently across the television screen, barely able to follow the changing story as the drugs interfered with the cognitive signal pathways of his brain, riveting him quietly and stupidly to the armchair now supporting his growing weight. It took a few seconds for him to register that a stranger had been shown into the room by one of Cavalier's staff. He eventually recognised the large stranger as the man riding the motorcycle and even through the stupefying drugs, he felt an affiliation with the exciting tattooed man already.

Denizen rolled his head, resting lifelessly on his right shoulder, to the left, like an out of control boulder rolling down a steep hill, to get a better look at the man. A long drool hung over his lips and pooled on his chin, gathering a river of saliva until surface tension gave way under the strain and a strand of stupefied liquid dropped helplessly onto his green hospital gown. He watched the man shaking hands with some of the shy inmates, overawed by the big figure in biker fatigues. He caught a glimpse of the words emblazoned across the biker's jacket and their meaning confused him: _Jesus... Don't leave Earth without Him._

When Denizen finally came face to face with the stranger, he managed to blurt out, "Who is Jesus? And why is he going to leave earth without me?"

The biker broke into a huge smile at the curiosity displayed by the young boy and turned to his hospital escort, signalling his intention to engage the boy and that his minder could safely return to his work.

Denizen was confused when the male orderly left the biker to sit and talk with him. He wasn't clothed in the usual hospital greens, so that meant he wasn't an inmate.

"What did you do?!" the boy asked in an excited tone, too loud for the intimate room, eyeing the biker's unusual uniform and obviously struggling with the medication.

"I'm the new hospital chaplain," Cutter admitted in a tone that matched the boy's while his gentle smiling eyes, framed by fiery red hair, caught a crack in the boy's defences.

Denizen's face suddenly dropped at Cutter's admission. "Are you going to dob on me like that last man did and get me sent to _Alcatraz_ again?"

Cutter's face took on a half smiling, half disturbed demeanour, wondering what his previous counterpart had done to the boy and what and where Alcatraz was. Then an infectious desire to laugh tickled his tonsils and Cutter broke into a loud, welcoming guffaw. Soon the room was turned into a jolly atmosphere as patients gathered around the charismatic biker, competing for his attention. The question Cutter had been waiting for finally escaped the lips of a curious inmate and his story stole the conversation from the room, hushing the audience into a mesmerized awe.

The total absence of arguing voices coming from the television room caught the attention of the staff and they hurried to the supposed crime scene to investigate the disturbing new behaviour. When they heard Cutter's gentle tone echoing like a lullaby throughout the room, it was hard not to get caught up in his soothing influence. Assured there was nothing untoward happening, the staff trickled back to their business and reported the curious situation to Doctor Cavalier who undoubtedly would be watching the unbelievable scene unfold on closed circuit television.

When Cutter finished his story, the room erupted once again in giggling questions aimed at him by fancying female inmates, all vying for his attention. Watching from her position perched in front of a monitor and fearing the effects of the powerful influence Cutter was having, Doctor Cavalier ordered the staff to break up the gathering and usher the female patients, in particular, back to their rooms.

A loud expression of disdain filled the room as the staff enacted the doctor's orders but Cutter calmed the distress by promising he would return next week. The late morning had drifted quickly into midafternoon. His audience was hungry to hear about the effect Jesus had had on his troubled life and the significance of the words emblazoned across his jacket.

Denizen couldn't explain the warmth the big biker was exuding, but felt like he could trust him with anything. He didn't like talking about how he was feeling; he had had years of doctors prying into this secret part of his life, and refusing to answer their questions gave him some control over his very exposed emotions. In a moment of anxious pondering and feeling like he knew Cutter after his story, Denizen came to a decision and leaned across to Cutter, sitting in the chair next to him.

"I'm in love," Denizen cautiously whispered.

"Hey, that's great, Denizen!" Cutter's enthusiasm assured the young boy he'd made a good choice. "Was she in the room?"

Cutter's eyes were sparkling as he searched, sure that the desire of Denizen's eye was hiding behind some piece of furniture close by. Denizen responded with a shy shake of his head, almost making Cutter laugh at his matter-of-fact description.

"These people are all fruit cakes; you can't fall in love with a fruit cake."

Cutter understood that the boy wanted him to guess at his secret love, releasing him from an embarrassing description. "Does she live in the hospital then?" Cutter started the guessing game with the obvious.

Denizen nodded his head. "Yup!"

"Is she older than you?"

Denizen stared at the ceiling with an unsteady gaze. "I dunno?" The thought kept his attention while Cutter searched for another clue.

"Well, is she _about_ your age?"

Denizen responded with a steady nod.

"I don't know much about the hospital, Denizen, so you will have to help me," Cutter finally conceded, his gentle eyes searching the boy's.

Denizen leaned in and whispered, "I saw her when I was sent to Alcatraz a month ago and she was asleep in a cell. When the guards left her for a moment, I snuck into her room and she is beautiful." Denizen's eyes twinkled with the look of infatuation.

"How did you escape from your room to get to hers?" Cutter mused.

"There are ways," Denizen uttered, not prepared to divulge his secret.

Cutter's next question took Denizen by surprise; he thought everyone in the world knew.

"Where is Alcatraz, Denizen?" Cutter pressed.

Denizen's cloudy eyes stared at Cutter. "It's on the north wing and it's where the naughty inmates go for... _readjustment_." Denizen sighed heavily, trying to picture his love's face in his shaky memory while his next statement stole Cutter's breath away.

"Her name is Shayden."

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 56

Jaimon hadn't seen Salena for a couple of days, since the episode at their secret hiding place when he'd failed to protect her from his player and the stunt with the flying tree. He'd checked the site as soon as the player had calmed down and reluctantly given Jaimon control of his body again, but there were no signs of an injured Salena. Her extended absence concerned him and he could only hope she hadn't decided that his friendship was too costly a price for her to pay.

It was also odd that Monette wasn't at school either and without her influence the other students avoided him, not sure of his mental state and his ability to turn violent at the slightest provocation.

His dreams over the last few nights had been tormented by arguing voices and lewd images of Monette, suddenly morphing into Salena and her stern warning: ' _Monette's party will change things forever, dude!'_

He blasted awake, trembling in the near dark and shot bolt upright, kicking the huge pile of blankets off his quaking body and grasping desperately for understanding. The red digital numbers of the bedside clock reflected an eerie light across the room, adding another dimension to his confused mind and reminding him there was still a handful of hours before the safety of morning's light.

There seemed to be an intensifying war going on inside his head and as Friday morning drew closer, the war erupted into a savage frenzy of images flashing across his mind. It was as if a video player was rewinding all the past destructive incidences of his life and tormenting him with deep feelings of violation and a rapidly escalating hatred.

Most of all, he struggled to contain his anger towards his father and the image of the leather belt falling deftly across his tiny frame, with all the force the angry adult male could muster. The painful memories of each stinging assault brought a fresh round of tears, while images of his father lying motionless on the floor at his feet tantalised his thoughts.

The desire to commit justified murder dogged his psyche into a state of urgency and he fought against the strong craving to seek out and stamp out the man sleeping in the nearby room who had tormented his short life.

As he struggled to regain control of his anger, his back contorted into a tightly stiffened arch, locked into a paralysis that stole all the strength from his body while fighting desperately to ward off the murderous commands the voices were demanding and eventually, falling back to the mattress, exhausted and unconscious.

As the door slowly closed on his consciousness, he heard a faint, angry voice call from his throat and into the deepening darkness. "You useless freak... wake up!"

*~*~*~*

In a nearby room, Jaimon's mother was shaken from her sleep by something that seemed out of place in the dark, quiet house. She checked the snoring form of her husband, but he didn't appear to be the culprit. She glanced around the darkened room for signs of unidentified motion or sounds, but her husband's snoring blocked out any indicators of anything threatening. Still feeling uneasy, she cautiously sat up and peered around the room again, certain the disturbance was real and not imagined. She held her breath for a moment, listening intently and waiting for the inevitable intrusion while her gaze settled upon the black opening leading from the bedroom into the passageway and down into the dark kitchen.

But the gasping snores from her mate confounded her efforts and in a bid for self protection, she lay back down and cuddled closer to the man asleep next to her, hoping he would take the brunt of any intruder's actions.

The sudden stirring of her husband brought instant relief, even if it was at the sound of his annoyed voice. "You pick the strangest times to become amorous, Jaylene! I've gotta go to work in a few hours."

She wondered whether she should tell him of her concerns, but she decided he would probably just ridicule her anyway.

"Go back to sleep, Hank," she tried to match his annoyance and used the moments before the snoring began again to listen to the noises of the sleeping house. But before the detective in her brain could complete her task, tiredness intervened and she drifted off into an uneasy sleep, her subconscious on high alert and her dreams disturbed by an imaginary foe lurking in the uneasy recesses of her mind.

*~*~*~*

Jaimon awoke to bright sunlight pouring into his room. He hadn't remembered opening the blind, but there was no mistaking the facts. The blankets were in a huge heap on the floor too. Something had shaken his sleep violently and his head felt like a train was rumbling through it.

When he finally worked up enough energy, he threw his legs over the bed and ambled tiredly over to the dresser. Examining his face in the mirror, he was confronted by thick, dark rings around his eyes as if he had been in a fight.

He suddenly remembered it was Friday: the night of Monette's party. An eager welling of enthusiasm sprung from a place deep within and for some reason he felt euphoric. The thought of physical education for the first two periods of the day also returned an eagerness that seemed out of place. He was actually looking forward to the weekly torment.

He checked the clock on his bedside table: his usual tardiness for a Friday hadn't changed and he was running late. The shirt tail flowed behind Jaimon, trailing in the breeze as he ran down the passageway trying to tuck it in and heft his school bag at the same time.

Jaimon's mother spun around from her place at the kitchen sink and tried to engage the boy with a staccato list of commands, but Jaimon was out the door and in full stride down the driveway before his mother could get the first words out. She bellowed after him from the front door, but he was deaf to her complaint and moving away at great speed.

*~*~*~*

Jaimon searched the sandy hill overlooking the school grounds but there was still no sign of Salena. In a steadily rising panic, he ran down the road away from the school entrance and into the secret hiding place where he and Salena had spent so much time. The splintered fallen tree was still in the place where the player had flung it, but Salena wasn't anywhere to be found.

By the time Jaimon joined his classmates for sports practice, he was fifteen minutes late. A disgruntled sports teacher threatened Jaimon with disciplinary action and he could feel the telltale ire of his player rumbling as his eyes became hot. In a desperate bid to redirect his player's annoyance, he punched a nearby kicking bag, sending it ricocheting against its restraints and swinging violently. Fortunately the class was distracted by a neighbouring group of students involved in a raucous activity and Jaimon's violence went successfully undetected.

At the end of sports practice, Jaimon made his way back into the change rooms, finding the group of boys in differing stages of dress and before he knew what was happening, he grabbed for his towel, wrapped it into a twisted strand and took aim at an unprotected row of small bodies, expertly tagging a line with a single whip and resulting in a chorus of pain filled complaint.

Then he heard the threatening voice of his player coming from his own throat. "Any of you girls dob on me, there will be a big price to pay."

Jaimon couldn't believe what had just happened and he bolted for the door, dragging his sports towel behind him.

*~*~*~*

Allan Simons interrupted his speech in mid-diatribe, watching a student in the distance from his second floor classroom scurrying across the vast sports oval and heading for the boundary of the school property. His class stopped their note taking and peered up at the eloquent Simons, his voice falling silent and then following his gaze out the second floor window. Noticing the class watching him, he took heed of the time on the classroom clock and continued on, drawing the students back to their lesson.

*~*~*~*

As Jaimon entered the safety of the fallen tree, he couldn't help releasing a guttural laugh and feeling a confusing, elated but disgusted array of unchecked emotions. He peered around the protected hideaway, but he felt like he was gawking through a backseat window of a runaway automobile and he wasn't in control.

Then an overpowering desire ran through his body: he couldn't wait for tonight and to own Monette.

*~*~*~*

Lynette Jefferies was just about to close the school's sick bay door. She had spent the past two hours restocking the medical kit and carrying out a stocktake of required supplies for the receptionist to reorder. She stopped in mid stride with her hand on the door handle, when a young student limped towards her and then burst into tears, holding a hand over the back of his school trousers.

After investigating the cause of the student's ailment, she was met by a nasty, blackened bruise covering a complete cheek of his buttocks. The student was reluctant to divulge the source of the injury but after some tender loving care from Lynette, he melted into her mother-like concern and nervously offered the culprit's name.

The shock of the announcement caused Lynette to ask for the culprit's name again, making sure she had heard right. Then using the phone inside the sick bay, she summoned Principal Bern to witness the injury and make an official report.

*~*~*~*

Hayley Dean's position as school receptionist was as busy as any corporation's and when Principal Bern needed her help, she was expected to drop everything.

The telephone ring tone echoed through her headset, the device that allowed her to move around as she needed to, and still keep tabs on the busy telephone traffic entering and leaving the school administration. A sudden _click_ and the sound of a female voice on the opposite end drew her attention away from her other tasks.

"Mrs Reece?"

"Yes, speaking."

"It's Hayley Dean from the school."

"I thought I recognised your voice, Hayley. How are you?" the treacly sweet voice of Jaylene Reece responded.

"Fine, thanks. I have Principal Bern waiting to speak to you; putting you through now."

*~*~*~*

Jaimon's mother stood silently, her mouth hanging open as Principal Bern described the attacks on the other students and his _strike one_ declaration for an outburst in Allan Simons' class. When Bern asked if there was anything untoward happening at home, Jaylene stuttered and could only offer a defeated... no and that Jaimon's behaviour astounded her.

Soon after Bern terminated the phone call, Jaylene Reece flopped, stunned, into a kitchen chair; she could already see the stern, set face of her husband as he disciplined the boy.

Jaimon's disappearance from school didn't help and only added to her stress. He hadn't done anything like this before and she feared Hank's angry response, leaving the boy in no doubt of his father's displeasure.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 57

Jaylene Reece's nerves were jangling after her phone conversation with Principal Bern and at the unbelievable wayward actions of her small son.

The kitchen telephone broke into a demanding complaint, making her jump at the sudden noise. Her knees felt like jelly, as she trembled to her feet from the chair she had flopped into just a half hour ago when she'd hung up from Bern. Reaching with shaking hands, she grasped for the receiver and almost dropped the device until she regained her grip and nervously answered.

"J..Jaylene Reece."

The blood ran down to her feet when she recognised the caller.

"What's wrong with you, Jaylene?" the voice of her husband demanded.

"N..nothing, I was just having a rest."

"Nice to be some people. I wish I could just put my feet up during the day when I felt like it."

She began to speak in her defence, but the effort overpowered her words and she remained silent. The long pause began to frustrate Hank and he became impatient with his wife.

"I don't have time for this; I've gotta get back to work. I will be late home tonight: the Connor contract is going into extra time and Baxter is doing his nut! Everyone is working back to get it finished."

Emotionally spent, Jaylene flopped back into her chair, still holding the beeping phone receiver. Hank hadn't long hung up, but the storm blowing around her now was nothing compared to the cyclone on the close horizon.

*~*~*~*

Cloudy, stricken eyes peered out through the bars of his prison cage and into the surrounding bush. The sun was sinking down over the landscape, making the shadows long and threatening. He began to speak, but an unseen jailer close by silenced his speech in mid sentence and commanded complete obedience, ordering him to stay away from the bars. He was trapped and a prisoner inside his own head, completely at the mercy of his player.

Then from out of nowhere, a familiar, but invisible voice entered his prison giving him hope and reassurance. The voice was low and stealthy and hard to hear at first, but then became stronger and more reassured as the covert mission took shape.

"Salena...!"

"Ssshhh, you wanna get me killed?!" the hushed voice digressed. "Just shuddup and listen," she whispered harshly. "I'm going to buy you some time and trick your player into releasing you for a moment. Once you have control again, bolt for home, but whatever you do, don't go to Monette's party... capisce?!"

The surrounding bush came sharply into focus and Jaimon took off running, in complete control of his body now. He slowed his gait for a moment and turned around to peer back at the scene, but it was empty and devoid of human inhabitancy. Salena's warning was fresh in his mind, but he was still unsure whether he had actually heard her or wasn't going mad instead.

The driveway of his suburban home came swiftly into view and it was dark enough to see the presence of his mother's outline through the lace on the front window, amplified and reflected against the sheer curtain by the kitchen light. The family car space was empty and he considered whether his father was out looking for him. Whatever was going on, he felt a sickening, nervous growl echoing from his stomach as another unwanted confrontation at his lateness was about to begin.

The player would certainly take control again and he questioned the wisdom of coming back home and if this was the best plan. Then Salena's warning reverberated into his faltering mind, unsure why he had only heard her and hadn't seen her. The confusion was mounting and although he tried to stop and take stock of the situation, the stride into the house continued without his consent.

He grabbed for the front door and pulled it open and was immediately assaulted by a hysterical woman's voice yelling abuse at him. He could see the animated face of his mother, waving her hands around in an overstretched panic and jabbing her finger close into his face. But his gait remained determined, heading up the passageway and into his bedroom, closing the door with a _bang_ that shook the wall.

Seconds later, the door burst open again and the ranting continued. Jaimon could feel his eyes becoming hot, realising his mind had been imprisoned into the back seat of the raging automobile once more.

He was taken off guard by an angry, deep and raspy voice spewing from his throat, powerless to stop it, while the petrified face of his mother backed away from her unrecognisable son. She stumbled backwards and lost her footing, falling heavily against the passageway wall before crashing, injured, to the floor.

Then the door to Jaimon's room smashed shut with such force that it broke the hinges and shook the passage wall.

*~*~*~*

Jaylene stared at the splintered door to Jaimon's room, her body shaking with abject fear at what she had just witnessed and then she heard the unmistakable sound of shattering glass, followed by complete silence.

*~*~*~*

Jaimon drifted along through the darkened streets, unaware of where the player was taking him until the inimitable sound of angry heavy metal music bumped and vibrated through the neighbourhood streets, alerting every dark player that the portals would soon be alive with new inexperienced surfers, theirs for the picking.

The player locked onto the sound as if it was a homing signal and followed the powerful screaming voice wrapped in the intensely dark music to its source.

As he strode down an unfamiliar driveway and stopped before a closed suburban household door, the music shifted to an African drumbeat, as if it was announcing his arrival. He pushed the door open and an intense wave of earsplitting noise assaulted his senses and hit him in the chest, leaking the pulsating din out into the street behind him.

The house was alive with young people around his age and the unmistakable smell of sickly-sweet weed smoke hung like early morning fog over the dimly lit room, while alcohol bottles were scattered over every surface. Soon the voice he longed to hear called his name and he spun to see where it had come from.

He recognised Monette immediately, making a quick bee-line for him and dressed in a weird, long black robe with a pentagram hanging from a chain around her neck. She was stunning in everything she wore and Jaimon could feel the same rising passions that had dogged him during the week. Out of control and as soon as she came close enough, he felt the player make a grab for her by her long dark hair and pulled her into an electrifying, lust-filled kiss.

Monette didn't resist, but returned the meaningless action as if she was emptying her school bag. After a while, she eased clear of Jaimon's hungry lips and smiled a knowing smile, melting him in the process.

"You can have as much of me as you want, Jaimon, but we have some business to attend to first." She smiled again, setting an unseen knife at his throat and taking Jaimon by the hand, leading him into the centre of the group like a lamb to the slaughter.

The warmth and softness of Monette's hand clasping his and her proposition kept him spellbound, and then he heard her shouting an introduction to the rest of the people in the smoky room over the pulsating music. Unimpressed, glazed eyes followed Jaimon and looked him up and down, until Monette led him into another room where a group of teenagers were holding hands in a circle on the floor. Closing the door and shutting out the heavy music, Monette broke into the circle and sat down, pulling Jaimon down with her and joining in with the others.

A stupefied voice called from one of the young group members, inviting the players to the teenager's open portals. It was then that Jaimon recognised the game and that for some strange reason, he had full control of his body again.

His player had gone strangely quiet.

"Is this your first séance," Monette whispered across to Jaimon, still holding his hand tightly.

He nodded, wanting to escape the weird situation he had stumbled into and then Salena's warning reverberated through his mind. ' _Whatever you do, don't go to Monette's party... capisce?!'_

"Well, they are a lot of fun; you just never know who you will run into," Monette offered and then dropped easily into a trance-like state.

Jaimon watched the ritual as his fear rose, willing his legs to lift him from the floor, but he couldn't move. It was as if some force field was holding him down and locked into obedience.

In a matter of minutes, the room became unbearably hot and Jaimon felt his conscious mind starting to drift, as if sleep was overcoming him. A mumbled chanting began and before long, Jaimon had been lured in and he joined the monotone unwittingly.

A flash of explosive heat suddenly tore across Jaimon's mind, sending his consciousness scrambling into the deepest recess his mind would go, trying to find refuge from the rapidly spreading fireball that seemed to be consuming every part of his mind and body.

Jaimon heard a scream, but it wasn't his voice. It was a deep, guttural voice, the voice of his player being tormented and beaten deep within Jaimon's psyche by the powerful fire. Jaimon reared up uncontrollably from the floor in a desperate growl, but the voice wasn't his. His eyes were so hot he thought they were going to catch alight, and then a voice so evil commanded the room.

"I am Galillio, rabid master of the _Terrorclastos!_ Whose puny body have I fallen into?"

A look of sheer delight crossed Monette's features as she shrugged off the trance she was in and bowed to Jaimon in an act of submission.

"Master Galillio, I am yours for the taking," Monette declared.

"Out of my sight, baby witch, how dare you offer anything but a real woman, an experienced conjurer of the faith to the great _Terrorclasto?_ "

With that, the room disintegrated with such force and violence, sending teenagers scrambling for safety. Jaimon's mind had shrunk from the beast that was wreaking havoc on Monette's home, crushing everything in reach while young bodies dove to escape the mayhem.

Tormenting pain began erupting through the avenues of his psyche while his body, under the _Terrorclasto's_ control, destroyed everything in sight.

He grasped at his own shirt and ripped it from his back in awful anguish as the fire sought out his mind, chasing him down lethal mental corridors on a search-and-destroy mission; then tearing at the inside of his body with razor-like talons, gouging at his heart and searing his eyes from within, ready for another showdown with hated humanity.

Jaimon jumped through a window in a bid to rid himself of the calamitous battle, shattering it into splinters of glass and onto the front lawn as the pursuit continued. Looking for a diversion from the acid-like pain eating him from the inside, he grabbed a shard of glass and cut his arms, allowing his own blood to flow.

The action seemed to calm the war raging for a few seconds and diverted the pain back into his control, momentarily. But the beast quickly tired of his victim's pleasing distraction and ramped up the fight to an even greater level.

In an agonised shriek and half naked, Jaimon ran off into the night, screaming, trying to avoid the beast pursuing him from within and setting the neighbourhood echoing with a terrorised melee.

A small redheaded girl surveyed the damaged house from a hallway near the back door. It was as if a tornado had gone through the home, leaving it reeling from the impact. She picked her way through the mess and peered up the street from the front door and in the direction Jaimon had disappeared, watching traumatised teenagers gathered in a huddle on the sidewalk and trying to comfort each other in a communal embrace.

At the sound of emergency sirens, she decided it was time for her to leave too. She shrugged off the scene behind her, leaving the ruins of the house and mingling among the distraught group of teenagers.

"Well, I did try to warn him," Salena whispered to herself as if consoling her conscience.

The small girl glanced again down into the darkness and the direction Jaimon had run off. She could only guess where the _Terrorclasto_ would lead him and she pondered what would happen if that journey led him back home.

"I wouldn't like to be Jaimon's dad," she gibed.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 58

The day had been full of surprises. Anunya reluctantly returned to fishing for salmon while Bjarni butchered the huge bear she had shot and killed with a single slug. As Bjarni rolled up the bear's enormous pelt, he examined the bullet wound in the skull again and shook his head incredulously. The neat wound was perfectly equidistant between both eyes and positioned with surgical precision to destroy the bear's brain and death had followed immediately.

Anunya had been traumatised by the near fatality and wanted Bjarni to stay close to her and not leave her, but she soon changed her mind when the old man announced his intention to butcher the bear, collect the vital meat and fur and prepare it in meal size portions before it froze solid on the ice. She called the dogs away from Bjarni's intended activity, partly to keep them from stealing the meat, but mostly for comfort and security while she fished alone.

Anunya anxiously perched herself precariously over her fishing hole, trying to concentrate on fishing but glancing worriedly over at the old man every few seconds. The playful, childlike wilderness classroom had suddenly become an expanse of adult reality with far reaching consequences. Even her mentor, with all his capability and experience with the treacherous environment was not immune to its ability to entrap.

Anunya had learned another hard lesson and she had learned it well. The wilderness really could kill you so easily if you took your eyes off her warning signs.

Once Bjarni had loaded the apportioned frozen bear meat onto the sled and tied the bear pelt–treated temporarily by seawater–into a neat roll, he then wandered over to collect the dozens of salmon lying frozen on the ice and next to Anunya's nervous frame. He could still see the trauma alight and burning in her dark eyes as she packed her fishing equipment into a neat pile, then after the fish and the fishing gear were loaded, Bjarni walked in front of Anunya and pulled her into a hug.

"I'm so proud of you, Anunya. It's not an easy life surviving out here and especially not for someone as sensitive as you."

Bjarni could feel her arms tighten around him and then her small body began to shudder in his embrace and he figured it was more than the altercation with the large nanuq that was at play. The old man peered out to the west and up at the sky; the day was still young, but the sun was retiring to its winter bedtime routine already.

"Come on, Anunya, lets go back to the shelter before the sun sets."

He put his arm over her shoulder and led her over to where the dogs were impatiently waiting and ready to run. She wiped away the tears with her glove before they froze to her face and then jumped aboard the heavily laden sled. Bjarni gave a shrill whistle and pushed the sled from behind, giving the dogs a chance to get the load moving. Once the sled had gained enough momentum and the dogs were managing to keep it moving, Bjarni took his place standing at the back.

On the forty minute journey back to the shelter, there were several times when Bjarni peered down at Anunya, sure she was going to say something, but she just gazed out to the horizon instead and the trek back remained ominously silent. There was something on her heart and he figured if she wanted to confide in him she would do it in her own time and when she was feeling less vulnerable.

The sky was turning a burnt orange down at the horizon and stars were keenly visible as Bjarni whistled and pulled back on the reins and the heavy sled glided to a stop just outside the shelter. He stepped off the sled and once Anunya had jumped off too, they began to unload the day's hunt into a large hole cut into the ice nearby for cold storage.

"We will have to keep an ear out for foraging bears tonight," Bjarni warned.

Anunya just nodded and walked to the front of the sled to release the dogs and feed them a well earned meal of bear meat, left out of storage for this purpose. Bjarni rubbed the dogs' fur with gusto and lavished well earned praise onto the team, especially Akiak and Shtiya for their heroic efforts to stave off the hungry bear and preventing the loss of the old man's life.

Anunya noticed some strange behaviour between Akiak and Shtiya as she laid down their food. The rest of the dogs hungrily devoured their portions, but Akiak towed her meat over to Shtiya, allowing him to pick the best of her portion, the usual warning growl nowhere to be heard. Shtiya licked at the portion and then licked her ears gently, before both dogs devoured their meal in perfect peace with each other.

Anunya smiled to herself: she had seen this kind of behaviour before among the dogs she'd looked after at the kennels back in Denmark. The sudden thought of Denmark stabbed at her heart, adding another load to her downcast mood as the memories of her ailing mother played across her mind, sending Anunya into a tailspin.

"Anunya, is anything wrong?" Bjarni's concerned voice caught her off guard, making her jump. He could see the crushed look and another round of tears flowing down her cheeks. "Come on, girl, let's get in out of the cold and if you want to talk about it over our meal, then I'm ready to listen."

*~*~*~*

Bjarni carved pieces of seal blubber and placed them into the kudlik and then struck a piece of flint with his knife onto some dry lichen he had purposely stored away for fire starting. As the smouldering vegetation began to falter on the verge of ignition, he blew on the cautious mass with a gentle breath, just before it caught into a determined small blaze and set the seal blubber burning. The kudlik would give hours of light and a small amount of heat, making their shelter warm and welcoming. Bjarni melted some snow and made a brew of Inuit tea while a large slab of salmon thawed and warmed over the modest flame.

Anunya sat on her bearskin rug staring at the kudlik flame, while Bjarni went about the meal, her legs stretched out in front of her, resting her torso on her knees while her arms folded neatly under the gap made by her arched limbs. The silence inside the shelter was only interrupted by Bjarni's determined movements as he handed Anunya her meal and sat down opposite her, ready to consume his meal.

"Bjarni...?"

"Mmm, yes, Anunya."

"Do you have any family at all, anywhere?"

Bjarni stopped eating for a moment and stared at the young woman for a moment. "I think I have some cousins or something somewhere but don't ask me where. Why do you ask?"

Anunya played with her meal, measuring her words before giving them airspace.

"I never knew my dad, and Mum was always kept away from me. You're the only parent I've ever known. You look after me and look out for me and when that bear..." Anunya choked on her words and dissolved into tears

"Anunya, listen to me," Bjarni sidled over to the distressed young woman and wiped the tears away with his hand. "Someday I'm sure you will find your dad. Life hasn't been too kind to you, but things have a way of working out in the end; you just don't know what's around the next corner. I tell you what..."

Anunya lifted her head and stared at him, her eyes asking a thousand questions.

"I'm an old man and I don't know how long I have to live, but I will keep your dad's place warm for him until you find him. You can be my family and I will be yours. How does that sound?"

Anunya broke into a huge smile and threw her arms around him. "That sounds good to me... _Ataata_."

Bjarni smiled, wiping away the tears with a soft movement. "This then is your new Greenlandic word, Anunya... _Panik_."

Anunya held his gaze for a moment and then smiled big. "Daughter?"

"Yes. Daughter."

*~*~*~*

Anunya slept peacefully, deeply wrapped in the warmth of her bearskin rug but Bjarni was feeling restless, as if something wasn't right. The petite fire was burning down as the seal blubber spat and hissed, painting flickering images upon the walls of the shelter.

Bjarni figured he must have slept some, judging by the waning flame dancing in the kudlik.

Then out of nowhere, an unmistakable, bone-chilling screech he hadn't heard for nearly sixty years assaulted his ears.

In a mild panic, he threw off his muskox pelt and quietly crawled over Anunya and headed for the door. He crashed through the shelter opening, falling heavily to his knees on the ice outside, sending a painful stab from his senses to his brain. He stared up at the emerald thunderstorm engulfing the sky and blinding his eyes as the screeching tore at his eardrums, making it hard to crawl to his feet and protect his ears at the same time.

A voice yelling next to him startled him, as Anunya tried to understand the unbelievable storm erupting in front of her eyes. She shouted, frightened at the scene playing out and lighting up the tundra all around in a turbulent and twisting green light show followed by painful, ear piercing screeching.

"What's happening, Bjarni?!"

The grey disposition of her mentor's face was evident even in the stroboscopic green light. Anunya searched his features, looking for comfort, but all she found was fear.

"We have to get out of here and back to the Sydkap hut." Bjarni's words struck at Anunya and her fear escalated in response.

Bjarni swallowed hard, his thoughts on a rollercoaster ride but no matter how he tried to figure out the situation, this was not good. It wouldn't be long before the awful chain of events, buried deeply and burnt indelibly into Bjarni's hidden memories, would overflow into the present day, with devastating effects.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 59

"University Children's Hospital Recovery Ward Nurses' Station, Anna Menzies speaking."

There was a brief pause before an elderly male voice cautiously spoke. "I would like to speak to Nurse Ruth Chambers, please."

"I am sorry, sir, but Nurse Chambers is no longer employed by this hospital."

The sudden exposition of an unexpected response caused the elderly man to pause again, trying to connect what he had expected to hear, with what the nurse had actually said.

"Are you still there, sir?"

"Arr... yes... c... can you tell me if she left a contact number?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't give out personal numbers of staff–or ex staff–for that matter."

A deliberate and exacerbated sigh told the nurse that the man on the end of the line had reached the limits of his patience. "Okay... thanks for your help; goodbye."

Grayson Glenn replaced the telephone receiver back into its cradle, and pushed the wire-spoke wheels of his wheelchair into the second bedroom of the two-bedroom ground floor apartment, and sat staring into the semi-darkened room. Shayden's room was full of life and her things were just as she'd left them, the day she'd taken the bus to her new school and never returned.

The police had locked him into a cell after he'd confronted hospital staff and tried to kidnap his granddaughter from their clutches. They had only just released him from their custody and because of that, he had lost a full three days of treatment and was feeling weak, but most of all, he was missing Shayden dreadfully.

The old man was a stiff, wiry opponent and never backed away from a fight but tonight, he was feeling his age and the dastardly disease eating at his insides didn't help his resolve either. Grayson could feel his anger burning towards the foolish young doctor, so full of arrogance and believing he knew the purported truth about Shayden's sickness without the test results to back up his claims. Shayden's nurse knew the truth and he surmised her dismissal was in some way related to her support of them.

Feeling ill, tired and deflated and not knowing where to turn for help, he decided to retire for the night, but sleep wasn't a cooperative partner at the best of times and he doubted it would be any different tonight.

The long night hours were tormented by images of his Shayden, her bright, happy face contorted into pain, jolting him awake and causing him grief at his inability to make contact with her.

*~*~*~*

A foreboding sensation kept Cutter from sleep and on his knees throughout the night. The Holy Spirit was determined about something and when that happened, Cutter knew the best place was on his face before Jesus.

The small part of the puzzle that had been revealed to him was connected to Ruth Chambers and Shayden Glenn, but he didn't know how. A smile stole across his face when he remembered the warmth of Ruth's hug and the softness of her innocent kiss, so light against his cheek. He couldn't shake the memory of her beauty and the hypnotising glance that drew him helplessly into her big brown eyes and held him mesmerised by her stare. His mind was reluctantly drawn away from Ruth and back into the presence of the Holy Spirit. It seemed as if his best friend was smiling at his thoughts and a warm reassurance settled over Cutter.

Shayden and Ruth were safe in Papa's hands.

*~*~*~*

Cutter fidgeted with the telephone cord as he waited for his call to be answered, feeling like a schoolboy again about to ask his latest crush out on a date. Normally, nervousness didn't affect his interactions with members of the opposite sex but for some reason, it was different with Ruth. As the unanswered call continued to beckon its intended recipient, Cutter's nerve began to slip and he caught a glimpse of himself in a nearby mirror. Who was he trying to kid and what did he have to offer that could possibly attract a stunning woman like her?

"Hello... is anybody there?!"

Cutter's blood ran cold and he stammered, trying to respond to the softly spoken woman and it took him a few swallows to gather his voice.

"R..Ruth, it's Cutter."

Ruth's voice changed into obvious delight, but he was too nervous to notice.

She seemed happy and excited at Cutter's proposal, disclosing her own sleepless night worried about Shayden and her grandfather. The conversation paused for a moment as Ruth contemplated her decision: she had never been on a motorcycle before and didn't know what sort of a pillion she would be. But when Cutter reassured her and she realised his obvious skill with the big machine, it broke down her fears and she was looking forward to the experience.

*~*~*~*

Cutter probed through a mountain of junk in his spare room, searching for _the_ pillion helmet he had purchased along with his Fat Boy, soon after leaving jail. He stretched his tall frame, hurdling a precarious mound of _things-that-may-come-in-handy-one-day_ and turned over likely objects that had a resemblance to his trophy.

He placed his foot down on something that seemed solid and as he rested the full weight of his bulk upon it, it sagged, spilling the big man under a clattering pile of _stuff._ As he swiped away demented items intent on hiding his big frame under a mass of seething junk, his eyes rested on his prize. He grabbed the stylish new dog-bowl helmet from its resting place and carefully dusted it off, admiring its class and imagining Ruth's fine features adorning it.

Finally escaping the junk room, he turned to face the creeping mess spilling out into the hallway and determined to clean it up, but for the moment he was more interested in meeting Ruth. Using the closing door as a barrier to the rampaging juggernaut, he stuffed sundry precocious items between the door frame and the door, slamming it closed in an ultimate victory and narrowly escaping with all fingers.

With the prized helmet firmly in his grasp, Cutter wheeled the Fat Boy out of the kitchen and cranked the Harley into life.

The elderly tenants knew from the rattling windows that Cutter was on his way out, but there seemed to be an even greater urgency today punctuated by several enthusiastic throttle-ups before the earth shook as the Fat Boy sped away in a staccato of engine noise.

Soon, Cutter's Harley-Davidson Fat Boy came to a complete stop outside Ruth's apartment, _galumphing_ as it idled and telling the world it was ready to run.

Cutter caught his breath at the appearance of a beautiful apparition; she was delightful to behold and he smiled appreciatively, watching the small woman wearing a sweater and jeans run down to meet him.

Leaving the Fat Boy to idle, he dismounted the machine and coyly wrapped Ruth in a warm hug, drawing deeply of her perfume and filling his senses with her presence. He felt nervous and overpowered by her beauty, but then the shared laughter as he gently fixed the helmet onto her head, careful not to mess up her hair, eased the tension. After a brief examination of his handiwork, he held the gaze from Ruth's big brown eyes and felt warm and drawn into them, never wanting to leave. Ruth was a special woman and in her company, he felt out of control.

Cutter carefully explained how to mount the big bike and how to lean into corners, offsetting the grasp of centrifugal force by following his example. Taking note of his instructions, Ruth successfully climbed onto the seat behind Cutter and wrapped her arms tightly around him to hold on and pressed against his back. Cutter's heart raced and he smiled to himself, catching his breath. He knew there were more reasons than just image to own a Fat Boy and this was definitely one of them.

As they left the city limits of Sue's Bridge, Cutter deliberately cracked the throttle hard and the Fat Boy gained speed swiftly. The sudden burst of speed caused Ruth to pull into him even harder, but she wasn't afraid and enjoyed the thrill of the big machine. Cutter's smile nearly split his face as Ruth's arms held him tighter. Killey County was still half an hour away and Cutter was enjoying Ruth's warmth and the countryside blurring past.

_This is definitely what heaven will be like,_ he thought.

As the controlled limits of Killey County came into view, Cutter throttled back, but the Fat Boy still wanted to run. Reluctantly it obliged and growled its obedience as Cutter kicked down another gear.

It took a bit for Ruth to get the hang of leaning into corners in unison with Cutter as they motored around the streets looking for the address. Ruth, peering over Cutter's shoulder, pointed to a small apartment block and shouted into his ear.

"I think that's it there!"

Cutter nodded his understanding and brought the Fat Boy to a stop, _galumphing_ and rattling nearby windows.

*~*~*~*

Grayson Glenn felt ill and annoyed at the cacophony of noise radiating into his ground floor apartment from the street outside. Someone was unknowingly making his illness worse by their thoughtless disturbance of the morning quiet, and his ire was growing with the rolling idle of the motorcycle. He pushed his wheelchair over to a window in time for the infernal noise to die out and the street returned to silence again. He saw two people dismount the hulking motorcycle: one looked like a biker and the other was a pleasant looking young woman. He felt a little intimidated as the couple wandered over to his front door and knocked loudly.

"I don't want anything!" Grayson's annoyance sounded through the closed door.

"Mr Glenn, it's Ruth Chambers and Pastor Cutter. Will you let us in, please?"

Grayson's heart raced at the familiar voice and he almost broke down the door trying to open it. Once he came face to face with the couple, he disintegrated into a relieved mess and began to cry. He was immediately encased in a warm, gentle hug followed by a big biker hug.

*~*~*~*

Ruth familiarised herself with Grayson's kitchen and made him some breakfast and a cup of tea for herself and Cutter, while Cutter explained his knowledge of Shayden's whereabouts. Grayson hung on every word, and tears formed in the corners of his eyes as he listened to Cutter's explanation.

Once Ruth finished in the kitchen she sauntered into the lounge room, drawing a stolen, admiring glance from Cutter before she sat down on the small lounge chair beside him and noticed that Grayson appeared drawn and pale.

"Have you been in for your treatment, Mr Glenn?" she asked, worried but sure she knew the answer.

Grayson fixed his gaze on the floor and shook his head in despondency.

As Ruth tried to comfort him and explain the urgency of his treatment, Cutter was silently praying and asking the Holy Spirit whether He would intervene with the old man and supernaturally heal him. The silence from his celestial companion was deep and Cutter knew the Holy Spirit had other plans.

Ruth pressed Grayson and tried to get him to assent to re-establish his treatment, but he refused to go back to the hospital that had stolen the only good thing from his life. Finally, Ruth conceded that University wasn't the only hospital capable of treating Grayson, but they definitely had the best facilities in the state.

"If I come and get you, will you transfer to Sue's Bridge Hospital?" Ruth pleaded, holding the old man's hand.

Grayson glanced up and met the kindly, warm brown eyes pleading with him to take up her offer. He could see Ruth's genuine concern reflected in her soft gaze and in a moment of surrender, he nodded his consent.

*~*~*~*

Ruth's kindness and compassion for hurting humanity amazed Cutter. As the Fat Boy cruised back to Sue's Bridge, he could feel her warm body pressed tight against his, igniting a desire for more of her affections and feeling almost deflated when the end of their ride was in view. She was a natural pillion too and he hoped she would want to ride again, but for now, it seemed her mind was full of Grayson and Shayden.

All too soon, Ruth's apartment was before them and Cutter kicked down the gears until he brought the Fat Boy to a _galumphing_ stop by the kerb. They dismounted, leaving the idling machine unattended, both looking for a reason to stall their goodbyes.

"Well, thank you, Pastor Cutter, for taking me to see Grayson and for the wonderful ride. I hope I wasn't too much of an imposition as a pillion?"

Cutter felt awkward staring down at Ruth, wanting to wrap her in his arms again, but his nervousness derailed his attempts, being careful not to impose on Ruth's obvious good nature. He desired more than friendship with this lady, but he wasn't sure she wanted anything but acquaintance from him. He had no trouble showing affection to anyone when his heart wasn't involved, but Ruth was different, and he felt almost shy.

After a long pause he offered, "You were the best, Miss Chambers."

Ruth's brown eyes were dancing at his comments, holding his gaze and hoping he would smother her in an embrace, but when he seemed reluctant, she decided her growing admiration was misplaced and Cutter was just an exceptional human being, his only desire being to help out.

As she handed him her helmet back, their hands touched briefly and she saw a flush of red from his cheeks and a spark of electricity zapped between them.

Did she dare to hope?

"You might want to keep that, Ruth, for our next ride; and _Cutter_ will be fine for any future greetings."

His words seemed to offer a promise and she kept turning them over in her mind, wondering whether there was a hidden meaning behind them.

Cutter reluctantly remounted the motorcycle again and with a beaming smile, left Ruth waving while standing on the roadside, watching the Fat Boy disappear in a wall of noise.

Turning over the meaning of his words once again and staring down at the helmet, she decided there _was_ a chance and she breathed out a huge, pleasure-filled sigh, squealed with excitement and then skipped towards her apartment.

*~*~*~*

Cutter hadn't been home long, replaying specific moments in his mind of the trip with Ruth and chiding himself for the missed opportunity to embrace her, but at the same time, hoping the helmet would give him an excuse to see her again legitimately.

A sharp knock at the door interrupted his disappointed thoughts and startled him.

Cutter shouted to the door, "Just a moment!"

When he opened the front door, a policeman filled his view. "Sylvester Castelano?"

"Yes, that's me, officer."

"I need you to accompany me down to the sheriff's office to answer a few questions."

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 60

The transatlantic jet droned along in clear airspace just above a layer of fluffy, black storm clouds obliterating the view. The journey was smooth with an occasional bump of turbulence and far below the tedious flight lay the great North Atlantic.

Dysart stared through the window in deep thought, watching the cloudy barrier slide effortlessly underneath the plane while Parlo, sitting beside her, silently skimmed the top secret U.N. documents with a poker player's face. She glanced across at Parlo, for no other reason than to give her neck a chance to assume another position, observing the lines of his magnificent features and wondering what lay ahead.

Leaving American soil behind seemed to be the only avenue open to her, considering the people she had double crossed by taking the information they had mistakenly dropped into her lap. She wondered whether Parlo would betray her and try to steal the information for himself, cutting her out of the deal. He was heading home and to familiar territory and while the possibility of dumping her was very real, she had a little surprise of her own up her sleeve.

Dysart grabbed a quick peek at Parlo's intense eyes from her periphery and watched him scanning the information, trying to decipher the amount of understanding he had gained from the technical information he was trying to read.

But to the charismatic Parlo, the new information was beginning to make sense and a slight upturn in his lip gave away his delight. All of a sudden, Parlo felt a genuine keenness and delight to see his superiors again; but explaining Dysart would be another matter.

A flight attendant wheeled a drinks cart down the first-class aisle and stopped beside Parlo. "Would you like a drink, Mr Parlo?" the heavily accented female voice offered, flashing a pair of flirting, ice blue eyes in his direction.

Parlo placed the file down on the tray table to give the pretty young woman his full attention. "Yes, please, vodka."

Warmed by the information at his grasp, he smiled a winning smile back at the woman, entrapping her into Parlo's web and if he asked for the captain's jacket, he was assured she would get it for him.

The woman then turned to Dysart and asked the same question, only this time the ice blue eyes were a little icier.

A small bottle of vodka sat neatly next to a clear plastic cup on Dysart's tray table. It had been a long time since she had indulged in vodka, preferring instead a bottle of America's finest cabernet sauvignon from Washington State, a taste far more conducive to her delicate taste buds. As the vodka slid down over her tonsils, it took a few moments for the shock wave to find her stomach and then bounce back, warming every part of her anatomy until she opened her mouth in a silent gasp and allowed the exuberant alcohol plume an escape route, and thus preventing the shock wave from completing another mind-numbing cycle.

Fuelled by the intoxicant, Dysart leaned towards Parlo and interrupted him as he tried to continue studying the file. "Does it make sense?" she whispered.

Parlo placed the file down, leaned into Dysart and smiled, and when he spoke he was close enough that his warm breath tussled her hair. Being this close to the charismatic _Don Juan_ , she could feel his dynamo exciting her wiring and she had to concentrate hard on his speech.

"Mmm, yes, I think so," Parlo offered, "but I think there is still a critical key missing."

"Missing? What Key?" Dysart was concerned now, but this would be a crucial test and an indicator as to whether Parlo would try to keep the information for himself.

"Do you know the Greenlandic legend of Ataneq Nanuq?"

Parlo captured her interest immediately. What did a Greenlandic legend have to do with finding the gateway emerald? Dysart shook her head in tacit surprise, convinced that Parlo was about to whitewash her with a convenient distraction.

"No...! Pray tell."

Dysart's reaction told Parlo he was about to waste his time. The first time he had heard it he did the same thing, until circumstances convinced him otherwise. Parlo repositioned himself in his seat and began to settle in to explain the lengthy story to his unbelieving companion.

"Well, back before Christianity came to the Inuit now occupying Greenland, they held to a belief in animism and worshipped the spirits of the animals."

Dysart raised her eyebrows and wondered where this fantastic tale was about to lead. The journey so far had led her to leave her home and her career, so why not a little more nonsense to make a complete go of it. Besides, Parlo's magnetism was directed at her and if nothing else, she was enjoying the attention.

Parlo sensed that she was more interested in watching him speak than listening to him speak, but he continued on unperturbed.

"The biggest and most powerful threat to their subsistent lifestyle was the polar bear–or nanuq–as they called them. So it made sense that the nanuq was the animal most revered and worshipped. They believed if they worshipped the polar bear and paid homage to him then the bear would supposedly use his supernatural powers to look after them, allowing them to survive in the barren frozen tundra. The legend goes that the spirit of the massive _King Polar Bear_ or _Ataneq Nanuq_ was the gatekeeper of the much sought after Greenland Gateway Emerald and custodian of the great power locked up behind it, under the ice and in the centre of the earth. There had to be a contest between the _Rainbow Man_ who came down from heaven and challenged the right of Ataneq Nanuq to release the emerald's power on the earth, and if the Rainbow Man won, the emerald would remain hidden and the legend sealed up again in the centre of the earth. If Ataneq Nanuq won, however, then the power locked up behind the gateway emerald would wash across the earth in great power and turbidity, claiming every person for its own and establishing its kingdom, to be worshipped by all the earth's people in complete subservience."

Dysart's countenance took on a severe sceptical appearance. She seemed to be following the story, but his last statement was a bit too much of a mouthful to swallow.

"Yeah, Parlo, and Father Christmas had six reindeer pulling his sleigh!"

Ignoring Dysart's scepticism and lost in his tale, Parlo's eyes danced as he continued narrating the incredible story before Dysart dismissed it completely out of hand.

"While the gateway emerald remained hidden and undisturbed, guarded by Ataneq Nanuq from treasure hunters, the earth supposedly would remain relatively unaffected and under the Rainbow Man's laws until the next contest between the Rainbow Man and Ataneq Nanuq. Many seek the priceless emerald and the only way to take possession of it is to overcome the gatekeeper–defeat the strongman first and then plunder his house, if you will. But once the emerald is disturbed, it automatically opens the passageway into the earth and releases the restrained power."

Dysart held Parlo's gaze with an incredulous expression. "And you believe this?!"

Parlo sighed. "Why do you think the Americans have spent so much money building secret military bases in Greenland, and why the U.N. is actively searching for the gateway emerald, not to mention my country, as well! We are all looking for a way to locate the jewel and somehow exploit its power, before anyone else does. The U.N. people know of the emerald's existence. In fact, there are three huge, exquisite emeralds already known to exist and they have two locked away in a secret shrine where state heads come to worship it. The third–and biggest–is still hidden somewhere in Greenland. This emerald is the one that counts and that's why they call it the Greenland Gateway Emerald. According to the legend, if all three emeralds are together when the power is released, then the person who has them in their possession can–and will–direct a power never seen before by mankind, even more colossal than any known nuclear arsenal. Think of it! Power to dominate all other people groups and countries! Separately, they are priceless, but their real value is when the three come together."

Dysart thought for a moment, not knowing how she was feeling about Parlo's elaborate and fanciful story, and then pointed to the file lying on Parlo's tray table.

"So does that information tell you where to find the emerald?" Dysart finally decided to disregard Parlo's story as nonsense and concentrate on finding the priceless gem.

"It confirms one of a number of theories and narrows our search down to a single point. It is believed that one man alone knows the whereabouts of the treasure."

"So why doesn't someone just ask him?" Dysart espoused the obvious and felt frustrated that no one had thought of such a basic plan.

"The man is a wanted fugitive and has been on the run and eluded capture ever since they found the second emerald."

*~*~*~*

First-class passengers were always the first to disembark from the aircraft and as Dysart followed Parlo's lead from the warm interior, she was met by a freezing chill that grasped at her throat and stole her breath away.

Parked nearby on the tarmac, an official looking vehicle with the same logo on its door as the one stamped onto Dysart's fake diplomatic passport, stood waiting. Parlo ushered her hurriedly towards the waiting vehicle. Clouds of humid condensation expelled from their lungs and hung in the freezing air as they swiftly made their way towards the official car. Parlo pulled the door open to the back seat for Dysart and then when she had sidled across the bench seat to the other side, Parlo joined her and slammed the door, locking the biting cold outside. Without even so much as a greeting from the driver, the diplomatic vehicle began to move away from the aircraft and towards a gate in the fence dividing the tarmac from the airport's exterior.

Dysart could sense Parlo's apprehension as he silently stared out of the vehicle's window and into the dowdy streets of the council's capital. As she stared at the images passing the moving vehicle, it was like taking a trip back in time and landing in the 1970s, a stark contrast to downtown Manhattan.

Soon, the vehicle pulled to a stop outside an imposing square stone building, as dowdy as the surrounding landscape but blanketed in deep white snow. Parlo opened his door and helped Dysart out onto the stone steps leading up to the overbearing structure. Once they stood in front of the huge wooden doors, Parlo stopped for a moment with his hand resting on an ornate door handle and pulled in a nervous breath and exhaled it in a cloud of steam.

"Follow me," he ordered, regaining his nerve and with Dysart's file clasped tightly in his hands.

Dysart held his gaze for a moment and then followed Parlo obediently into an empty, echoing antechamber with closed doors leading from the stagnant hall in all directions. The stiff smell of stale office leather assaulted her senses and she stifled a desire to wrinkle her nose in a disgusted gesture.

Parlo stopped outside a set of doors and knocked loudly, waiting for a response.

When the door to the great hall finally opened, it was accompanied by a hollow, reverberating _bang_ that echoed up and down the antechamber. A member of the great hall guard met them at the door and ushered the couple inside.

Parlo was shocked to see the great hall filled to the brim with dignitaries and the Supreme Leader sitting at a table close by. The couple bowed in reverence to the animated leader and his statement, directed at Dysart, shocked and confused Parlo.

"Special Agent Anastasia... welcome home!"

Then the hall burst into a thundering applause.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 61

By the time Cutter had been returned home by a deputy sheriff, had his apartment searched and the sheriff's men had left empty handed, it was getting close to midnight. Cutter didn't have a solid alibi for the supposed night the police woman went missing and had spent that night praying at the church after everyone else had gone home, but no one could verify his claims.

The whole search debacle had been watched by the elderly tenants and Cutter's landlord, all shocked by the attention from the police. While none believed that Cutter was guilty of a crime against anyone of humanity, they all knew he had done time for murder before meeting Jesus in prison. There was just an inkling of suspicion and _'maybe old habits die hard',_ some of the elderly thought, casting a dark shadow over the biker's good character and his trustworthiness.

To make things worse, Kirt Ballard had broadcast a bizarre news story claiming that the running track murderer was known to police; the suspect was a biker; and was due to stand trial. Cutter was certainly known to police via his prison record; he was definitely a biker; but they couldn't understand why the police had released him if he was about to stand trial.

For the first time since the charismatic biker had moved into the apartment complex, people felt uneasiness about his presence there and began to bolster their security measures, locking themselves firmly inside their homes.

Trial by gossip and media had just begun.

The night hours dragged by as Cutter tossed and turned, wondering why he had been singled out as the prime suspect for a crime he had not committed. The Holy Spirit was ominously quiet, causing Cutter anxious concern and once again, he slid out of bed and dropped to his knees for the second time, petitioning to his best friend for guidance and understanding. That's when he remembered the terrifying dream of prison he had had a few weeks back.

Cutter's brow furrowed and his panic began to rise, pleading to his celestial friend in heartbreaking prayer, hearing nothing but silence in return. He could only surmise that a new and terrible journey was about to begin: persecution at the hands of the authorities saddled with a difficult case and looking for quick answers and a convenient scapegoat.

The signature of the presence of God in his room began in a familiar way. He could feel his heart burning within him and the tears of joy began to flow. Many hours of prayer seemed to pass as minutes, and although Jesus had never left him, He had now made His presence known. When he arose from his knees, Cutter understood well the petition from his beloved Paraclete.

' _Will you trust Me in this, too?'_

But the journey would have to patiently unfold one piece at a time while trying to go about his usual routine.

*~*~*~*

A stunned Kyle Slinger leaned in closer to the television, riveted to the early morning local news report from his armchair located on the ground floor lounge room of the executive manse, one of a number of comfortable perks for being the top man in the Sue's Bridge Community Church. His mouth hung open, watching Cutter's unmistakable figure being escorted into police custody and listening intently to the words coming from the news reporter, Kirt Ballard.

" _As you can see, ladies and gentlemen, the felon is being led away for processing before the trial begins in a couple of days. It is believed he is claiming innocence as do all felons, but as yet, Sheriff Barnett of Sue's Bridge County Sheriff's Office has not been able to extract the exact location of Deputy Bayer's remains. This has been Kirt Ballard, on top of your community news, as usual and keeping you in the loop."_

The screen cut to another story as the voice of a nasally woman anchor followed the pace with another round of partial truths, giving the early news a comedic flavour.

*~*~*~*

It wasn't long before Cutter's apartment phone was running hot from concerned friends and Bible study members. Cutter decided it would be appropriate to explain his side of the situation to the faithful people who supported him, before the media had him hanged.

His prayer team was the first to know of an upcoming meeting in his apartment and they spread the news throughout the study group.

Cutter glanced up at the kitchen clock from a chair and decided not to answer the jangling phone again until after the meeting in an hour, and left the receiver unhooked and beeping on the kitchen bench.

A tentative knock at Cutter's front door interrupted his prayer time. His first inkling was to leave the knock unanswered and continue the much needed support of the Holy Spirit, but the Spirit urged him to leave his kneeling pose and attend to the enquirer. Cutter opened the door to a small woman, her face drawn with apprehension.

"Ruth!"

"I heard the news report; tell me there is no basis to the story."

"There is no basis to the story; it's just a terrible mix up," Cutter replied, trying to calm her anxiety and reassure her while letting her into his apartment.

By the time the first concerned people began to arrive at Cutter's apartment, he had explained as much of the story to Ruth as he could put together from the police interrogation. It soon became evident, as more people arrived, that they were firmly behind their quirky associate pastor and didn't believe anything of the farcical news report. The crowd swelled, to the point that no more bodies could fit inside his small apartment and a large group spilled out onto the lawn and began to overflow onto the street.

*~*~*~*

Kyle Slinger had been informed of the meeting and as he turned the corner into Cutter's street, he was met by a snarled traffic jam of cars and people, giving an added dimension to his anxiety. Instead of dismissing Cutter in front of a few desperate followers, he now had to contend with a large number of his church members; and those who couldn't be there, wanted to be there.

Before Cutter could open his mouth, Slinger had pushed his way through the crowd and had drawn their attention with his squeaky voice.

"Community church members, listen to me," Slinger bellowed above the din. "This is a terrible predicament for the house of God to be in, condemned and embroiled in one man's sin. Please be assured that your leadership will act speedily and appropriately to distance ourselves from _ex-associate_ Cutter's black tentacles and assure the community of our innocence."

A large furore broke out among the crowd and Slinger's voice was drowned out by dissension until an elderly lady gained the floor and silenced the masses with a sharp, crisp command.

"Mr Slinger! If it is your intention to distance yourself from our Pastor Cutter, then you will be walking alone!"

The crowd followed with a unanimous... _yeah!_

Slinger raised his hands to speak and was about to debate the elderly voice, until he recognised its owner. His mouth opened and shut at the revelation and he struggled to speak.

"M..Mrs Parks! A... as I said, the leadership will have to... to... look into the situation and attempt to sort out the... the... problem."

Mrs Parks folded her arms and held Slinger's gibbering stare, expecting him to finish his speech appropriately.

"A-n-d...!" she threatened.

"And... Associate Cutter will remain at his duties... until..."

At this point, Slinger was drowned out by a huge cheer and in the process of trying to silence the crowd to speak again, his eyes rested on his secretary, Nancy Jessop, just as animated as the rest of the pack in support of Cutter.

He held his hands up to be heard above the roar. "Until...! The matter takes it course within the courts and the outcome is known. _Then_ appropriate action will be taken!"

Slinger sighed bitterly. Cutter had come out squeaky clean... again, and left him standing alone as the bad guy. The only support Slinger could rely on was his leadership team and even then he was suspicious that their allegiance had shifted, too.

Ruth smiled up at the humbled biker and admiringly touched his arm, knowing that the people of the church had seen through the lies piled against him and had come out in force to support the Godly man.

"See, Associate Pastor Cutter, when you are in the centre of God's will and things look bleak, He will speak and act on your behalf."

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 62

The Killey County Sheriff glanced up at the clock on the wall. His shift had already finished but he had no choice other than to work a doubler, trying to cope with the amount of calls to the emergency number requiring police attendance. The sheriff ran his hands through his hair as another round of emergency calls exploded onto the police dispatcher's communications and choked up all available lines.

"What is going on?!"

Dawson the dispatcher typed feverishly, entering the information onto the sheriff's job's computer, ready for allocation and action by a patrol car before moving onto the next complainant in the queue.

Sheriff Daily scrutinised the mounting jobs from his desk computer; he had never seen such a workload in thirty eight years as Killey County's top policeman. He worried how the small office would cope with the rising demand; police resources had already been stretched to the limit with one patrol car in attendance at a teenage party where someone had gone ballistic, suspected of being high on _ice_ and had wreaked havoc on the host's house, almost destroying it.

Another patrol car had been dispatched to an attempted homicide on the opposite side of town, where a male occupant had been attacked and almost killed trying to defend his family against a manic, violent intruder. The damage to the house was similar to the destruction that had occurred at the teenage party and their son was missing in strange circumstances, also instigating a missing person's investigation.

Only moments ago, his long time school teacher friend, Allan Simons, was on the sheriff's private line, hysterically demanding a patrol car be dispatched to his address. He claimed a lunatic had smashed every window in his house, while hearing the tormented screams of an unnatural sounding... _something..._ in intense pain, just before the hinges of his front door had violently imploded, tearing the heavy wooden barrier from its mounts and the door was flung a hundred metres away down the street. The sheriff had to talk fast to calm Simons down and get his own mind back onto the out-of-control night, while promising to dispatch a patrol car as soon as one came available.

Just when the sheriff thought he had overcome the worst of the frantic calls and the jobs list had stopped growing, the emergency number erupted again. This time, a young couple had narrowly escaped being seriously hurt when their amorous rendezvous in the Killey County State Forest had been interrupted by someone screaming like an animal, and then their parked vehicle was turned over by something that resembled a blood-covered, naked madman. They had escaped through the shattered windscreen onto a dark road, slipping out of the assailant's reach and managed to flag down a passing motorist, catching a ride to a telephone while the screams disappeared deep into the thick blackness of the heavily wooded forest.

Another brief respite in panicked calls lulled the sheriff into a hope that things were calming down, but as he tried to make sense of the unusual events, the calls once again flooded onto the dispatcher's communications, grid-locking police phone lines and sending Dawson into a flurry of typing fingers, working hard to answer each caller and log each complaint onto the police database. The frightened requests for help were from property owners concentrated in an area on the outskirts of town bordering the Killey County State Forest. The complaints were all stating the same thing: someone was screaming in intense pain, somewhere deep in the forest and frightening the residents half to death, demanding police presence to investigate the horrifying ordeal.

Sheriff Daily sighed heavily, trying to think through the deepening mystery that had struck at the heart of his small and usually quiet county jurisdiction. The harder he tried to fathom the situation, the more confused he was becoming and he had no idea what he was up against.

Was there a group of felons acting in unison to overtax police resources by causing a smoke-screen and pushing him and his small unit to the limit, disrupting law and order? Or maybe they were hoping to strike at the bank when things got even crazier? He had to try and reinstate rule of law at any cost before the situation got any further out of hand, but he couldn't do that with only two patrol cars and two deputies.

His dispatcher was convinced it was the work of a deranged individual and tried to persuade the sheriff to concentrate his resources on the state forest. The sheriff stared at the dispatcher, weighing his thoughts and his comments, his mind reeling from information overload before coming to a critical decision. He could see the dispatcher's point and there did seem to be a common thread running through each situation. Who–or whatever–was out there, was unusually strong and didn't have any concern for life or limb.

In a desperate bid for action, the sheriff decided to follow the dispatcher's hunch and ordered the dispatcher to call the surrounding county sheriffs for assistance in dealing with the situation, putting the person or persons responsible for the indiscriminate crime spree behind bars, and restoring law and order back into his control. The decision to call in resources from other jurisdictions wasn't looked upon lightly; they had problems of their own. While they were happy to help a police colleague in times of trouble, wasting resources on a witch hunt only brought ridicule and made enemies.

"I hope you're right, Dawson," the sheriff fidgeted, murmuring across to his dispatcher.

*~*~*~*

It was fast approaching 10 pm when a dozen deputies, all wearing their respective county uniforms, crammed into the sheriff's tiny office and gathered around the sheriff as he briefed the officers on the situation. The sheriff pointed to a map laid out on his table of Killey County State Forest and drew a circle of the search area using his finger.

"We will concentrate our efforts in this circle bordering the area most of the reports have been coming in from: Killey Road in the west; O'Brien Road in the south; Johnston Road in the north and Daystar Road in the east. All twelve of us will have a point in that circle to search, and walk towards Thunder Ridge in the middle, meeting there in a couple of hours, before we expand the operation if need be."

It was soon evident by the comments from the deputies that they all agreed with Dawson the dispatcher's summation of the situation, and were all too eager for a fight, a welcome distraction from the usual humdrum of county policing. Equipped with pump-action shotguns, powerful torches and two-way radios, the officers were impatient and excited for the search to begin, but their keenness was brought back into context with the sheriff's closing remarks.

"If you find anything, use the code word _Madonna_. If you are in trouble and need help, use _Bison_. I don't want any television crews listening in and getting in our way. Clear?"

The deputies acknowledged their understanding and were ready to depart. Just as the group of officers were about to leave the station and take up their allocated search areas, an old man entered the sheriff's office and stopped the exodus. The sheriff glanced knowingly across at Dawson and Dawson just shrugged sheepishly.

"What are you doing here, McDermott?"

The sheriff understood full well that Dawson had phoned him.

"I thought you might be able to use a couple of good tracker dogs, Sheriff."

McDermott glanced over at Dawson again and by this time, Dawson was getting edgy at the attention.

The sheriff thought for a moment and decided McDermott's bloodhounds might just be an asset. "Okay, but you stay with me, got it?"

McDermott smiled at the sheriff; he was expecting the top man to keep tabs on his dogs in the search. "Sure thing, Sheriff."

*~*~*~*

As it made its way along O'Brien Road access track, clouds of dust kicked up behind the speeding patrol car, illuminated by eerie red tail lights and reflected in the choking curtain. The police car dipped and wound over the corrugated surface, occasionally bottoming out the suspension on an unseen rut and sending an uncontrolled shiver through the lone policeman. Deputy Haining gripped the steering wheel with a nervous, vice-like grip, tasting the dust leaking into the driver compartment and trying to keep his vehicle on the skinny dirt road, at the same time trying to identify the landmarks of his designated search start point.

The headlights divided the impenetrable darkness into two congealing beams, lighting up the sinister bush into recognisable shapes but beyond that, the darkness closed in around the officer like muddy floodwaters, hiding whatever was out there in perfect camouflage.

The pale face of O'Brien Rock, washed out by the vehicle's headlights, flashed into the deputy's view. The huge granite monolith, standing on its own in the darkness and in isolation for countless years, marked his search's starting point.

Haining pulled in a deep breath and brought the vehicle to a sudden stop, allowing the dust curtain to catch up and obliterate the headlight beams and the surrounding bush in a swirling cloud of grey light. He sat in the police car with the engine idling, waiting for the dust barrier to subside and at the same time, peering around at the threatening scene.

The pump-action shotgun lay across the seat, with a loaded breech and three live cartridges waiting in its loading chamber. Haining gathered the weapon into his grasp and then checked the beam of his flashlight. Satisfied with his equipment so far, he turned down the squelch on his two-way radio until it responded with a garbled explosion of static noise. Convinced it would operate properly without the need for a voice transmission, he turned the squelch knob back up until the static silenced itself once again. Haining reached down to the ignition and twisted the key to the _off_ position, gagging the engine and adding a new dimension to his fear while leaving the headlights on for a few extra moments to search the surrounds, and listen to the night with straining ears.

The constant _tink, tink, tink_ noise from his cooling exhaust only confounded his efforts to identify any threats, and the bush remained intensely dumb. With his apprehension growing, Haining argued with himself about the timing of extinguishing the headlights. Finally, his fingers rested on the headlight button and with an animated stab, the switch closed and plunged the entire surrounds into absolute darkness.

The police officer sat in the protection of the patrol car for long moments, listening, and then he grabbed for the door handle and pushed on the door, flooding the interior with eye-stinging light and disorientating the young officer. Once again checking his equipment, he stepped into the darkness and pushed the door closed with an unsteady _click_ , encircling him in the depths of the moonless night.

O'Brien Rock came into focus when Haining pushed the button on his flashlight, giving him a slight sense of security. Warmed and encouraged by the presence of a recognisable feature, Haining pushed his unwilling feet onto O'Brien Trail and began the long search before he met up with his colleagues at Thunder Ridge.

The flashlight shone like a giant firefly through the intensity of the bush at night. Haining stopped regularly on the trail and switched the light off, disguising his position and hoping to identify the sounds of a would-be attacker. But again, the darkness and silence revealed only his own nervous breaths amplified in his ears.

Thirty minutes into the bush trail, he stood on the path with his flashlight extinguished and glanced up at the stars outlining the silhouette of the thick canopy of the forest high above him and listened, straining to hear.

The stillness was disturbing; not even the movement of the wind or a night creature could be heard.

Holding his finger on the torch button and ready to continue along the trail, a sudden _crack_ from snapping timber echoed through the silent undergrowth, bristling the hair on the back of his neck, riveting Haining to the spot and freezing him into a motionless statue.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 63

The headlights of Sheriff Daily's police vehicle lit up the car park of Thunder Ridge as it made a tight, sweeping turn through the circular dead end. At this hour of night the only visitors to the local attraction would be young people looking for a quiet spot to inspect each other's teeth cavities. But thankfully, tonight the car park was deserted; maybe the rumours of something strange happening in the area had kept potential orthodontists at another location.

Sheriff Daily parked the police vehicle in a spot close to the ridge track entrance and extinguished the headlights. As the artificial white light dissipated into a dull orange and then blacked out into total obscurity, Daily sat back in the darkness to wait by his radio and coordinate the twelve officers now carrying out an exhaustive search, starting a few kilometres away. The officers were positioned in a circle around the area of the last known sighting of the disturbance, closing in the dragnet and hopefully apprehending the culprit and culminating at the point the sheriff now waited.

He stared through the cruiser's windscreen and out into the inky blackness, the night so quiet and deep that any disturbance would carry for kilometres and attract the attention of his search team on foot.

A sudden ball of distant, white light reflected in his rear vision mirror and lit up the tips of the trees surrounding the track in a ghostlike ambience, their shadows dancing with the bumping movement of an approaching vehicle and silhouetting their obscure shapes onto the trail leading into Thunder Ridge. The light hurt his tired eyes and as it came closer, he could quite easily make out the aging lines of his padded face reflected in the rear vision mirror.

"This would be McDermott and his dogs," Daily convinced himself, feeling comfort at the presence of another familiar human being.

For reasons understood only by the sheriff, Daily found it difficult to warm to McDermott. Maybe it was the history between the two men, and even though McDermott was a good ten years older than him, it hadn't stopped McDermott from competing for the affections of Kathy, Daily's wife of thirty five years. As a young twenty year old, Kathy had made her feelings well known to McDermott and had turned the man's proposals down with as much diplomacy as a headstrong young woman could. McDermott only gave up the chase the day she'd finally walked down the aisle and accepted the ring Daily offered her. McDermott then put all of his emotional energy into raising prize-winning bloodhounds, for which he was famous throughout the state.

The sound of the approaching vehicle grew in intensity as did the light, shocking Daily out of his memories. Finally the vehicle high beam reflected into the rear vision mirror and momentarily blinded Daily. He swiped at the mirror, deflecting the powerful beam out of his eyes and then watched McDermott's minivan pull up alongside, and black out his headlights.

Moments later the passenger door opened, flooding light into the police vehicle as McDermott shuffled into the passenger seat and shut the door with a determined _bang_.

"Is anything happening, Sheriff?"

"Not yet, but the amount of noise you are making could warn half the criminals in the state of our position."

McDermott just smiled; it would take more than a sarcastic comment from his former opponent to deter his enthusiasm. Besides, this incident would make national news and if his dogs were involved in a capture, he could count on a big investment from interest generated by the publicity, both within and outside the state.

Determined to re-engage his waning senses, McDermott reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a chocolate bar; the wrapper was made of crinkly aluminium foil, making it difficult to withdraw the concealed treat without an appropriate amount of noise.

The clamour associated with the tedious task rankled Daily's nerves and he barked, "Can't you do that quietly, McDermott?!"

Unfazed, McDermott reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew another bar of the same variety and offered the treat to the sheriff. The sheriff's hard gaze softened; his belly growled and he took the bar from the older man and together, the din inside the vehicle sounded like a boilermaker's shop for a brief moment, then relaxed back into quiet as the two chewed contentedly.

A low growl emanating from McDermott's minivan riveted the two men into stiff silence and the task of enjoying their treats halted in mid-mastication. Daily pushed the light button on his watch, wondering whether a deputy was approaching the end of their search route, but it was too early for anyone to have made a thorough investigation and traverse the distance required in such a short time. The two men stared at each other as both dogs began to snarl in a low, threatening tone.

"Now what do you suppose is upsetting the dogs?" Daily whispered, and then systematically began searching the blackness beyond the vehicle.

McDermott swallowed the mouthful of chocolate and just about choked, trying to speak. "Don't know, but whatever is upsetting them is relatively close. Should we take a look?"

Daily reached over to the backseat, felt around for his shotgun and grabbed it by its barrel then in a fluid action, pulled the gun into his grasp and yanked on the vehicle lights.

The bush directly ahead of the police cruiser lit up in impromptu daylight while the areas to the sides reflected long shadows, making it hard to discern imagined shapes from real ones. But the area to the back of the cruiser remained in almost total darkness, giving an intruder complete ambiguity and able to approach with stealth.

Then the dogs once again fell silent, giving McDermott the _all clear_. This was the way he had trained his dogs to react to a threat and whatever it was, had moved on.

"It's gone, Sheriff; the dogs have fallen quiet again," McDermott sighed in relief.

The sheriff stared at the older man and then reluctantly switched the lights off, but the shotgun remained tightly grasped in his sweating hands.

"What do you suppose got them all excited, McDermott?"

"It's hard to say. There are a lot of mountain cats hanging around these parts and these two dogs have been known to chase a feline for miles, right back to their den."

Daily just nodded, not realising that McDermott couldn't see his gesture in the dark.

*~*~*~*

The deep night had given way to early morning. Sheriff Daily leaned his head against the barrel of the shotgun, gazing up at the stars through the cruiser window while McDermott struggled to stay awake. The light of Daily's wrist watch flashed on, causing McDermott to shake the sleep from his tired mind and reposition his aching body into a more comfortable posture.

"What's the time?" McDermott croaked.

"A few minutes after two; the deputies should be getting awful close and we should start to see some action soon."

Just then, McDermott thought he heard a faint, strange noise in the distance and the dogs broke into a growl again, shocking the sheriff from his sleepiness.

"Did you hear that?" McDermott implored.

"Nup, what was it?"

McDermott called across to the dogs for silence and listened again, holding his breath. A few moments passed until the sheriff heard it too.

Someone–or something–was screaming in terrible pain, a frightening and harrowing screech as if a beast had been caught in a bear trap, and it was getting louder.

The atmosphere inside the police vehicle had become tense while both men held their breath, listening to the approaching animal.

McDermott suddenly turned his attention to his van. The dogs had begun to whimper as if frightened, but that wasn't something he had trained them for. He turned his worried gaze towards the sheriff and even though covered by the darkness, the tension was deep enough to cut with a knife.

Daily's radio suddenly crackled, making both men jump in fright.

"Deputy Ramon, calling Sheriff Daily. I have contact with _Madonna;_ repeat, I have a visual on _Madonna_ , over," the whispered voice of Deputy Ramon tapered off.

Daily's quavering voice took a concerted effort to steady and maintain the professional, detached image expected by his subordinates in times of trouble.

"Sheriff Daily to Deputy Ramon, copy you have visual on _Madonna_ ; what is your position, over?"

The radio crackled in return as Ramon's whispered voice filled the airwaves again. "I am approximately twenty minutes east, north east of Johnston Road and ten minutes from the Thunder Ridge car park. _What the_...?!"

Sheriff Daily heard the tortured scream of the beast amplify through the radio receiver, and then the radio went quiet. The distant echo of the scream drifted across the heavy night air and sent a chill down Daily's back.

A tree could be heard cracking in the distance and then it came crashing down, exploding through the forest night like an atom bomb, followed by a single, reverberating gunshot.

Daily repeatedly tried to reach Ramon again, but there was no answer.

In a moment of restrained terror, he ordered the searching deputies to converge on Ramon's last known position, then grabbed the handle of the cruiser door with shotgun in hand and prepared to engage in the search himself.

"You coming, McDermott, or are you going to whimper in the car with your dogs?"

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 64

The journey from Sue's Bridge to Killey County and back took Ruth just over an hour and fortunately for her, Grayson's wheelchair folded and fitted in the small boot space with just the handles hanging out. Grayson's treatment at Sue's Bridge Hospital would take the full day and it was her plan for Grayson to stay with her once the treatment was complete, caring for him before returning him home to Killey County in a few days after he had recovered some.

Cutter offered to help her with Grayson's transport and Ruth gratefully accepted his offer, but the police had sprung an early morning raid, hoping to catch their only suspect in some nefarious game, and when they found nothing of interest, they took him down to the station for another interview, trying to trip him up in his story. They did, however, allow him to make a phone call to Ruth, leaving her worried at Cutter's fate but with no choice other than to soldier on alone. Cutter played down her concern and gently encouraged her to continue, realising that Grayson's well-being now depended on her.

During the early morning drive over to Killey County, she had tuned in to the end of a news report on her car radio: police were urging residents to stay clear of the Thunder Ridge area, but she missed the reason for the locked down conditions before the announcer shifted to another story.

Grayson barely spoke on the thirty minute trip to Sue's Bridge. Ruth could see the pain in his eyes and it worried her. She knew Shayden's removal from his care was weighing heavily on his mind too, while the three missed days of treatment had now turned into four and was taking its toll on his body.

Ruth's little car made a sharp left turn into the patient set-down area located in the hospital car park and then the vehicle came to a complete stop before she reached for her key and shut down the engine. It didn't take long for her to retrieve and set up Grayson's wheelchair before helping him from the car to the chair. With Grayson comfortably settled and waiting for her, she quickly locked her vehicle and then wheeled him into the patient reception area. A kindly nurse took Grayson from Ruth's care and wheeled him towards the treatment room.

Watching Grayson vanish into the workings of the hospital, Ruth suddenly thought and called after him, "I'll be back to pick you up once they have finished, Grayson."

Grayson acknowledged Ruth with a wave of his hand, just before they disappeared behind a set of green opaque glass doors.

As Ruth wandered back to her car, an uneasy feeling settled over her and she began to pray for Grayson and Shayden. Unable to shake the foreboding and eager to see him again, she decided to wait for Cutter at his apartment and maybe he could add his prayer support to hers.

*~*~*~*

Ruth checked her watch as she sat in her parked car, pressed against the kerbside at the front of Cutter's apartment; her wait had stretched into nearly two hours. Disappointed, she decided she couldn't wait any longer. _Cutter could be hours yet_ , she reasoned.

Reaching for the ignition key to start her small car engine, a police car pulled up behind her, painting an adoring grin on her face as Cutter got out.

"Thanks, Deputy Jackson; have a great day, sir."

Cutter waved as the patrol car pulled away. Oddly enough, Deputy Jackson waved back. Cutter wandered over to Ruth's car, opened the passenger door and climbed in.

"How did you go with Grayson? Everything alright?"

Ruth suddenly melted into despair at Cutter's warm enquiry. He caught the worry and saw the tears forming in the corners of Ruth's kindly brown eyes. The devastated look melted him and the protector in Cutter kicked into high gear, instinctively pulling Ruth into a biker hug.

"I'm so worried about Grayson," she trembled, her face buried in Cutter's jacket.

"Let's pray for Grayson right now," he offered.

For anyone fortunate enough to be present, Cutter's prayers seemed to be charged with compassion and authority, and directly linked to the Throne of God Himself. Ruth listened in awe, eavesdropping on tender moments between a Father and His son, while the interior of her car resonated with the electricity of Papa's presence.

He had heard their request.

Once Cutter had finished his simple petition, the foreboding left and Ruth was feeling charged with joy and hope.

"Coming in for a cup of tea?" Cutter suggested cheerfully, interrupting Ruth's thoughts.

She wiped away the tears from her face. "I must look a sight," she complained.

Cutter smiled and his unguarded thoughts slipped out. "You look beautiful, as always, Miss Chambers." He suddenly realised what he had said and wondered how Ruth would react.

She smiled a glowing smile at the unexpected remark, sniffed back the tears and her brown eyes danced in sheer delight. "Thank you...! You say the nicest things, Mr Cutter."

Instinctively she squeezed his hand and Cutter went straight to heaven.

*~*~*~*

Ruth caught herself staring from a nearby chair as she studied the man before her, busily navigating his way through the tiny apartment kitchen. A simple task of making two cups of tea had been interrupted by several phone calls; an elderly neighbour who dropped in a meal for the flamboyant biker and wanted his advice on some private matter; then his landlord, offering Cutter free rent for fixing a vexing problem with a tenant's plumbing that the plumber had had several goes at and failed. Cutter happened to look up and caught Ruth's soft brown eyes peering at him, studying him. He smiled back at her, shaking her, embarrassed, from her musings.

"A penny for your thoughts," he teased, finally placing two cups onto the small table surface and then settling himself into the only chair opposite her.

A momentary tug of war went on inside Ruth's head, wondering whether her thoughts were just a little too forward and inappropriate to place in an open arena. Once they had been spoken, they couldn't be taken back. After all, she wasn't sure Cutter's attentions weren't purely from a desire to help, instead of friendly. She glanced up at the rich, wavy red hair and followed the lines of his strong face, pondering his ability to cut to the heart of any problem. Then the way people appeared to be drawn to his softness and compassion, and how every request people made of him was carried out without the slightest hint of imposition.

His deep blue eyes seemed to invite Ruth into a warm and safe place, enticing her to let down her guard and allow her thoughts the freedom she was denying them. She held his gaze, trying to see inside his mind and maybe discover whether he had any hidden feelings for her, but the clear blue eyes held no treachery and his unintended, innocent charisma overpowered her, leaving her guessing still.

Cutter was dazzled by her smile and couldn't resist her admiring brown eyes any longer, desperately wanting to tell her how he was feeling and taking a big chance he might have misinterpreted her intentions and become offended by his declaration. He was either about to make the biggest mistake of his life, or the best decision ever.

Nervously, he stood to his feet and sidled around the small table until he was standing directly in front of Ruth. She followed his movements expectantly with her eyes and wondered what was coming. He reached for her hand and lifted her to her feet.

"Miss Chambers, you have the most stunning brown eyes I have ever seen and you knocked me out of the ball park the first time I laid eyes on you."

Ruth held his gaze and flushed red, stunned at his incredible statement, not believing she had heard what she'd heard.

Cutter felt vulnerable, searching her eyes, hoping he hadn't overstepped his boundaries and waited nervously for her to respond.

In desperation at her extended silence, he tried to break the uneasy situation with clumsy humour. "I have it on good authority that if you stare into the eyes of a redhead for more than ten seconds, you will fall in love."

Ruth's stunned demeanour quickly evaporated into delight and she deliberately held his stare with her dancing brown eyes, counting down the seconds in her mind.

Then her ecstatic whisper carried on a hot, emotionally charged breath like the humid winds of paradise drifting between two gently swaying palm trees, followed by the moment that changed her life.

"You know, mister, I think whoever told you that is absolutely right," she gently whispered.

Cutter almost burst, finally hearing the confession he was waiting for and slowly, but deliberately closed the gap between them.

Ruth contemplated what was about to happen and her eyes fluttered shut, holding her breath in anticipation; and when Cutter's warm lips met hers, she gasped as if she had just been hit by lightning and her heart missed a beat. The first fires of love were just how she had imagined and the two people stayed locked together, discovering their new found love.

As the passion settled, Ruth was floating and finding it hard to concentrate on her surrounds when a growing, jangling noise interrupted the moment she had dreamed of all her life.

It wasn't long before she recognised the ring of her mobile phone, muffled by the fabric walls of her shoulder bag. She stared at her handbag for a moment, until Cutter awoke her from her dream. His grin stretched from ear to ear, as if he had just been named leader of the Harley-Davidson club.

"Hadn't you had better answer that?"

"Hmm...!" Ruth's dazed response made Cutter laugh.

Her legs felt like jelly as she made a disgruntled grab for her bag, throwing the zip open, and almost punishing it for the interruption. She pushed the _receive_ button and silenced the ring.

"Um... Ruth...um... Chambers."

Cutter watched Ruth's face turn from a peachy glow, to grey and drawn as she listened to the person on the other end of the call. In a moment of great swinging emotion, a big tear dropped from her eyes onto the kitchen floor and her mouth dropped open in horror.

Cutter stood, as his concern for Ruth began to climb, waiting for her to finish the call so he could comfort her.

As the call finished, the phone dropped from her hand and clattered onto the floor while a turbulent storm of tears overtook her. Cutter stepped in and swallowed her in a big biker hug, her body shuddering in his embrace.

Fighting back the tears, she managed to regain some of her composure and stuttered into his chest, "Th... that was the hospital. Grayson is dying. They... they don't think he has long to live."

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 65

Echoing, thunderous applause erupted throughout the Great Hall of Debate, leaving Parlo's mouth hanging open and staring wide eyed, as Dysart took a bow. The words of the Supreme Leader seemed far off, as if he was speaking down a long, distant tunnel and Parlo had to listen carefully, unable to believe what had just taken place. It was as if all his worst nightmares had arrived at the picnic table together, and eaten all the zakuska before he had had a chance to sample even the smallest morsel.

"I see, Agent Parlo, Anastasia has been able to carry out her job and fool not only the Americans, but our own intelligence's head man. It is a good thing she works for us and not the Americans, don't you think?"

A sudden fist pounded down onto a large wooden table, sending a shock wave rippling through the great hall and leaving the crowd dumb and staring. Every eye focused on the Supreme Leader as his delighted face turned dour and disapproving.

" **However...!** " the Supreme Leader's words echoed to the ceiling. "Even though Special Agent Anastasia has kept an eye on your activities in America, Agent Parlo, the U.N. secret file you now possess was set up by another special agent, to keep an eye on both of you!"

Parlo and Dysart glanced at each other like two naughty students fronting the principal for cheating in a test and knowing that somehow, their individual intentions had been calculated.

"I would like to inform both of you that there now exists _two_ mail delivery jobs in Oymyakon. The last two agents who did not complete their assignments were sent there to think about their failures, but alas, their tent accommodation was no match for Oymyakon's minus seventy degrees Celsius weather and they froze... to **death!** "

The Supreme Leader's last word echoed around the hall like an apocalyptic creed, intended to give maximum, shocking effect to his listeners.

"There is one thing I wish to divulge to you both, and this being your final chance at completing your mission."

The Supreme Leader's words tapered off into a whisper and the two agents leaned in, trying to catch the important statement.

"We have intelligence from an agent among the _Politiets Aktionsstyrke_ , the special forces unit of the Danish police. It appears they have information regarding our fugitive living close to Sydkap, Scoresby Land in Greenland. Why the Danes could find his whereabouts and not our own intelligence people... **confounds me!** "

Parlo's head drooped in shame. Not only had he been double crossed and hoodwinked by someone he thought was incapable of thinking, but his intelligence department had missed the vital clues the Danes had not. The Supreme Leader's bark made Parlo jump and drew his thoughts back in to the great hall.

"There is an aircraft leaving for Kangerlussuaq, Greenland, in the morning. Miss Dysart and Mr Parlo, you will both be on it and you will find this man, and he will lead us to the gateway emerald. Do not come back without the gem or its power. **Am I understood?**!"

*~*~*~*

Grayson Glenn's features had turned a worrying stone colour, his head propped up by two big pillows in a small single bed located in Ruth's spare room. His breathing was shallow and sharp; the disease had taken its toll, prompting the hospital to turn him out, not wanting a death on their statistics for the month. They had supplied Ruth with the meds he needed to take the edge off his pain, but that was as far as they were prepared to go for a dying man.

Cutter and Ruth took it in turns throughout the night, sitting with Grayson. Ruth would sleep for a few hours while Cutter stood vigil and when she woke, she would relieve Cutter and he would crash on her lounge until it was his turn again. It was difficult to know how long Grayson would hang on for, but if he made it through the first night, he would have more chance of surviving a few more days.

Cutter read to him from John's Gospel during one of his stints and at the urging of the Holy Spirit, he explained the way to salvation.

Ruth stood at the doorway in the small hours of the morning, listening to Cutter explain the Saviour's sacrifice and the way to eternal salvation. It had only been a few weeks since she had made the same life-changing decision and she still marvelled at Jesus' sacrifice on the cross for her. She remembered Cutter's emotional voice as he had explained that if she was the only sinner on Earth, Jesus still would have died the same horrific death so she could be free of her sin and live forever in eternal paradise. She shuddered when she recalled living her life without Jesus and if she had died without accepting His sacrifice, the painful eternity that waited, separating her from God – forever.

She stood, leaning on the doorframe, watching the man she had fallen in love with, her heart filling with admiration. When he had finished speaking to Grayson, she walked into the room and ran her hand over Cutter's tired shoulder. Cutter turned to face her, peered up into her eyes and smiled.

"I love you," she whispered adoringly.

Cutter smiled big and stood up, catching her in an embrace and then kissed her, stealing her breath away.

When their lips finally parted, Cutter contentedly whispered, "I love you, too, with all my heart."

Just then, Grayson moaned and his pain-filled eyes sprang open. "Where am I? Shayden, is that you?"

Ruth squeezed Cutter's hand and made her way over to Grayson. "It's Ruth and Cutter, Grayson. You are in my house."

Grayson's breaths were coming short and sharp as he processed the information, suddenly realising Shayden was still missing. He turned his head to face Ruth and Cutter.

"I had a dream that an angel was telling me about Jesus and His sacrifice for me on the cross. He asked me if I wanted to spend eternity in a place so beautiful, with other beautiful people. I asked him if Shayden would be there." Grayson fell quiet and a tear slipped down his cheek.

Ruth took Grayson's hand and gently coaxed him to finish. "What did the angel say?"

Grayson took a breath and then glanced into Ruth's compassion-filled face. "He said she would, but not just yet. I told the angel I wanted to live with Jesus forever."

Grayson choked back the tears and dragged another shallow breath into his failing lungs. "I just want to see her one more time before I die and tell her I love her and I will be waiting for her."

Cutter's eyes were full of tears at the old man's confession and he gently prayed that the Holy Spirit would intervene, and allow Grayson to see Shayden one last time.

What is impossible for man is an easy thing for Papa God.

*~*~*~*

Cutter's Fat Boy barked along the highway between Killey County and Sue's Bridge. His mind was numb from lack of sleep, caring for Grayson, but it was Tuesday and today was his day to visit Bairnsworth Mental Hospital, a visit he was looking forward to.

Grayson had made it through the night and had woken feeling stronger, so Ruth had reluctantly urged Cutter to go about his daily business, leaving her to cope with Grayson's care during the day, but she was relying on him to return and help her care for the dying man during the night

As the flamboyant biker raced his Fat Boy toward Bairnsworth, thoughts of his beautiful Ruth stole across his mind and a smile nearly split his face around the middle.

He had fallen in love with an angel and he couldn't get her out of his mind.

*~*~*~*

Mother Teresa was on duty at the Bairnsworth guardhouse and as he skimmed the list of anticipated visitors for the day, his finger rested on Sylvester Castelano's name. He smiled and wondered how he had managed to escape police custody to keep his weekly support visit to the inmates of the hospital.

If he could work out that Cutter wasn't the murder suspect, then why couldn't the police?

He checked his watch and pushed his head outside the guardhouse door and listened. Right on time he could hear the unmistakable roar of the Harley-Davidson and Cutter kicking down the gears, ready to come to a stop.

Moments later, Cutter sat straddling his motorcycle, the engine _galumphing_ as it idled by the guardhouse; then reaching for the ignition key, he silenced the din with a twist of his wrist and the engine shut down. Dismounting and walking towards the guardhouse, he gazed through the glass windows, searching for his new friend, holding his hand against the glass at the same time and blocking the reflected sunlight. He found the guard inside at his table, filling in another round of paperwork as Cutter pushed the glass door open, offering a hearty welcome.

"Mother Teresa, how goes it with you?" Cutter's cheery disposition brought a similar response from the guard.

"Well, you don't look any worse for the wear, Pastor Cutter, especially on trial for murder."

Cutter laughed. "Now if I was really a felon, do you think I would spend my time talking to the guard and visiting the inmates of a mental hospital?"

"Seems pretty weird to me, but you never know what's in people's heads," the guard offered with a knowing twinkle in his eye.

Cutter spent a few minutes checking in with Mother Teresa and asking after his week since he'd last seen him.

When another vehicle pulled up behind Cutter's bike, he motioned to the car and the guard wrote down the number plate and began his checks once again. Not wanting to distract him from doing his job, Cutter wandered outside, mounted his motorcycle again and strapped his helmet back on.

"Am I right to go in now, Mother?"

Mother Teresa gave him the thumbs up, but as if he had just thought of something, he quickly turned his attention from the car and strode over to Cutter.

"I don't want to panic you, but there is a squad of police just arrived with a new inmate."

"Panic? Why should I panic?" Cutter was amused.

"Well, I didn't want you to be nervous about the police, being on trial for murder and all."

Cutter finally got Mother Teresa's gibe and then asked a question of his own. "Why do they need a squad of police for one inmate?"

Mother Teresa peered around, as if looking for someone listening in and then spoke in a hushed tone. "He was the nutter running naked around Killey State Forest harassing people. Did some real damage around town and gave some guy and his family a real hiding and kidnapped the guy's son. Word is, it took fourteen police and two bloodhounds all night to find him in the forest and then it took all fourteen to subdue him."

Mother Teresa leaned in and whispered as if he was sharing some great secret. "They said once they'd handcuffed him, he just broke the handcuffs as if they were paper. When they delivered him inside, he had three sets of cuffs and now he is locked in the padded cell, screaming like a demon but no one can get near him to medicate him and calm him down. Even Doctor Cavalier is at a loss with this one."

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 66

Denizen waved from the third floor window as Cutter parked the Fat Boy but today there were no guards to usher Denizen away and he just kept waving. Cutter peered up at the gown-clad fourteen year old and smiled then waved, expecting to see him escorted away, noticing instead that he was joined by other inmates, all competing for a piece of the view and all waving excitedly.

Cutter didn't think anything of it until he entered the foyer where Doctor Cavalier had met him last week and read him the riot act. As he wandered around the deserted entry, peering into unattended workstations and wondering where everyone had gone, he heard a tormented scream echo down the hallway from deep within the hospital interior, followed by the sounds of crashing doors. Cutter could hear excited voices close by, but hidden somewhere in the labyrinth of hospital corridors.

"Hello, is anybody there?!"

It didn't take long before the closed-circuit cameras had Doctor Cavalier breathing down his neck. She appeared to be flustered and equally annoyed at the interruption.

"Pastor Cutter, I wasn't expecting to see you here this week; all the news reports had you facing a murder trial."

Even though Cavalier was up to her ears in her own dilemmas, she could still find a reason to put a purported insubordinate in their place.

"Nup, they let me out on good behaviour. Sounds like you have a problem of your own back there, Doctor Cavalier."

Cavalier shot Cutter an imposing glare and her bristling thorns began to rise. "If I had known you still had intentions of keeping your visit routine this week, Pastor Cutter, I would have rung your leader and cancelled."

Cutter's eyes twinkled, kindled at the thought of sparring with the stern little authoritarian and before he could catch his words, they had tumbled out, causing Cavalier's stare to intensify.

"Can I help with anything?"

Cutter was as surprised as Cavalier, wondering what it was that a minister could do to help a severely disturbed patient.

She eyed the big biker for a moment, coming to a decision. Her haughty gaze alerted him to a new manoeuvre–a representative shot across his bow–but he wasn't prepared for the proposal and her desire to teach the interfering clergy a lesson.

"Maybe you might be able to help, Pastor Cutter, and if you _can't_ help, then maybe you will have some understanding and respect for what we do here. Follow me."

Cutter had no idea what he had just gotten himself into and as the myriad of corridors all blended into each other, the tormented screams became more intense. Soon Cavalier entered a long passageway and at the end were a dozen large orderlies gawking protectively through a glass window. It was evident from the torn white uniforms and the battered and bloody appearance of the orderlies that a scuffle had taken place and they were not the victors.

As Cutter neared the room a loud, anguished scream bellowed out from behind the padded walls, bristling the hair on the back of his neck. A sudden lunge hit the inside of the wall with such ferocity that the floor shook, causing the crowd of hospital staff to instinctively jump back from the window and the assailant's intention of doing them harm.

"Stand aside, people. Pastor Cutter is going to attempt to subdue our latest _client_."

The orderlies stood back in shock, allowing Cutter access to view the tormented patient locked inside the padded room.

Cutter approached the window and peered in and was surprised to see a small-framed boy of about thirteen, completely naked, covered in filth and bloody gashes.

"He's pretty small, Doctor Cavalier," Cutter gibed, staring at the dozen muscle-bound orderlies cowering from the boy.

Cavalier's sneering smile indicated she was about to give the minister the lesson of a lifetime.

"There's the door, Pastor. Let's see how you do against the _small boy_."

Cutter turned back to the window again and as he did, his eyes locked onto two red glowing pupils staring back at him. The sudden fear in those haunting eyes spoke of recognition and the boy backed away into the furthest corner while a deep, bone chilling... **n-o-o-o!** escaped the boy's throat.

Just then, Cutter heard the Holy Spirit speak to him. "Take authority over the demons."

As if the boy had heard Cutter's instruction, he threw himself around the padded room and screamed, cowering as far away from the door as possible, in a highly agitated state.

Cutter grabbed for the door and was about to open it when Cavalier stopped him.

"I can't let you do this, Pastor; the boy will tear you apart."

Cutter locked eyes with Cavalier. "I said I would try to help, Doctor. Just watch and see what my God can do and the authority He gives to His true disciples."

Cavalier held Cutter's gaze for a long time. This man had faith in a higher power and his faith was about to be tested severely. She removed her hand from blocking the locking mechanism to the padded cell and turned to the orderlies. "Be prepared to get him out in a hurry if the boy turns on him."

The orderlies stared at Cavalier in terror. She wasn't really going to let one man inside the room with _that._ The thing had taken fourteen men to subdue and even then it was a struggle.

Cutter reached for the locking mechanism and pulled back the bolt, releasing the door and pulled it open far enough to slip inside. The door slammed shut behind him and thirteen people peered in through the cell window, watching with bated breath and horrified expressions.

The boy backed into the corner and screamed a vile shrill, then a shocking voice erupted from the small frame. "What do you want with me, Castelano, servant of the Most High God?"

"Be quiet and speak when I command you only," Cutter demanded. "What is your name?"

"I am Galillio, rabid master of the _Terrorclastos_ ," the voice bragged.

"How many are you?" Cutter demanded.

"I am alone, apart from two who have come along for the ride."

"Name them," Cutter demanded.

Just then, Cutter felt the prompting of the Spirit to dispatch the demon, as if the demon was about to try on a new tactic.

"In the name of Jesus Christ, come out of him and bother him no more," Cutter demanded.

Just then, a haunting shriek echoed around the room and the boy was thrown violently against the wall, near the ceiling, and then dropped helplessly in a spent pile of unconsciousness.

The audience watched in horror, wondering what had just happened and keeping a close eye on Cutter as he approached the still form of the boy.

He knelt next to the boy and soon a moan told Cutter he was coming around.

"Get some clothes for him. He won't offer you any more problems now!" Cutter yelled to the window and the stunned faces watching for signs of treachery.

*~*~*~*

In a small clearing deep within the Killey County State Forest, a small fire blazed, sending tortured shadows dancing onto the thick grove of trees. Sheltering the scene from prying eyes embedded in the night's deep darkness, a group of people, including some teenagers dressed in black gowns and wearing pentagrams, held hands and chanted around the smoking blaze.

There were representatives from some of the portal hosts throughout the small state: martial arts, yoga, pornography shops, drug lords, even day spa resorts, university and high school teachers were among the group.

The interference from the Christian named Cutter was shocked news all over the dark world; and their carefully chosen sacrifice had been freed again.

They needed a spiritual heavyweight to equalise the battle and return the victory back into their hands.

Monette wailed as she threw something into the flames, causing an eruption of heat and light. Behind her an unimpressive, small redheaded girl stood watching every move she made and directed Monette's mind in an ever increasing monotonous chant, calling the Gatekeeper.

The battle had been lost, but the war was not over.

They would have to work hard to convince Jaimon not to accept the Christian's Saviour, and leave him vulnerable to an even greater demonic infestation. This sacrifice would be even more pleasing to their king... Lucifer.

The chant increased, calling the Gatekeeper, while more and more of the group emptied their minds, hoping to attract dark spiritual power brokers to their open portals, and throwing more weight behind the growing, beckoning call, joining into the low monotonous monotone echoing into the spirit realm.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 67

Ruth's morning had been busy attending to Grayson's needs and after his noon painkillers, he was sound asleep, finally giving her a chance to sit down with a coffee and relax a little. As she placed her steaming mug down on the table, she found a folded note in Cutter's handwriting. She picked the note up and unfolded it; reading its content, a euphoric smile settled across her face and her heart pounded, wanting him near to hold her again and urging the time to pass until she could feel his arms around her. She read the note and then read it again, hearing his voice whispering softly into her ear.

I love you, my beautiful brown-eyed girl.

She sighed a long contented sigh, daydreaming and replaying the exhilarating moment of their first kiss in her mind and holding his note to her chest.

As it always seemed to happen when she lost herself in her romantic thoughts, her imaginings were suddenly interrupted, this time by a loud knock on her front door. She sighed an ambivalent sigh, a little miffed that her time of relaxation had been disturbed but still feeling the warmth of her man close by. Gently she placed the note back on the table, pushed the chair out with her knees and feeling her aching feet take her weight again.

"Who is it?!"

"Courier, ma'am; I need a signature please!"

Ruth unlocked the apartment door and was greeted by a small man with his delivery van parked against the kerb, reflecting and punctuating his diminutive form against its vast signwritten white sides. He handed her an official looking envelope and then thrust an electronic gadget into her reach, requiring a signature on its screen for the delivery.

"Thank you, ma'am; have a nice day."

Ruth waved to the courier and turned the official letter over, gazing at the inscription of the Supreme Court of the United States, clearly identifying the sender's office. Then closing the front door, she turned the envelope over, curious as to the contents of such an official looking epistle.

Taking her place back at the table she checked the recipient's name once again, confirming the communication was in fact directed to her and then with surety, she gently prised the sealed letter open. She felt a growing sense of foreboding and butterflies fluttered in her stomach, sending the blood rushing to her feet. Her hands began to shake nervously holding the folded white official document and she wondered what new complications this piece of paper could add to her already stretched existence. She took a sip of her coffee to calm her nerves and then gently unfolded the crisp white paper and began to read.

Dearest Ruth

I am sorry it has taken me so long to respond to your email dated two weeks prior to the date above, but I have needed the time taken to research your dilemma as the federal laws are changing so rapidly these days.

But before I digress into the legal aspect of things, I want to focus on how proud of you we both are. When your Aunt Nina and I read your email and understood you had committed your life to Christ, I am afraid it took us a good hour to stop weeping and even as I write this, I am choked up with emotion.

As you know, losing your parents was a big blow to us as well; your father, my brother, was my mentor and friend. He led me to Christ over forty years ago and encouraged me to follow my dream of joining the judiciary. I see so much of your actions reflected in the memories of your parents; your beautiful mum was always looking after desperate people and together, your dad and mum brought so many to the feet of the Saviour. I know they would have been so excited at your decision.

I am so pleased you are keen on this motorcycling man of God. Cutter is a strange name for a minister, but he sounds wonderful and I am sorry he has been embroiled in the foul workings of a murder case.

I have some information on that too, shortly.

I'm not sure if you are aware, but your father was a member of the Chicago Outlaws Motorcycle Chapter before he became a Christian. He met and fell in love with your mother at a church dinner, and along with their Saviour, they became a force to be reckoned with.

Your Aunty Nina tells me it has been nearly two years since we last saw you and we both agree that just is not acceptable. Therefore it is our intention to make a trip to Sue's Bridge in a fortnight and maybe we can meet your fanciful man.

Okay, now for the legal angle.

I have been in contact with Sheriff Barnett of Sue's Bridge County Sheriff's Office after reviewing the evidence they have compiled against Cutter. To say the facts pointing to Cutter's guilt and corroboration in this case are anything but scant, leads me to believe this is nothing but a circumspect grasp at straws. After I pointed out the absurdity of trying to convict a man on the evidence collected, the sheriff assures me he has no intention on building a case against your man, but he is determined to exhaust every aspect of Cutter's resemblance to the suspect.

In short, Cutter is a free man, unless he has something to hide.

Shayden Glenn's situation is a little trickier.

Basically the hospital has a legal right to remove Shayden from her grandfather if they suspect that Shayden's mental situation is unstable to the point where she becomes a risk to herself or to society. Incarceration in a mental institution is not optional to an individual if a doctor has a reasonable doubt that a person's mental state requires professional care. These laws have been bolstered recently so that a person cannot refuse this kind of medical care, whereas normal medical care can be refused. Unfortunately this sometimes leads to people, governments and organisations indiscriminately using the new legislation for their own nefarious purposes, usually related to avoiding their responsibilities, paying for the substantial costs associated with legitimate illnesses.

I have been talking to a specialist doctor, a good friend of mine who has had some success in treating myalgic encephalomyelitis and he emphatically states: this is a legitimate disease. He has heard from patients over and over again regarding abuses levelled at these extremely ill individuals from medical practitioners determining they are sick in mind only, as it seems to be in Shayden's case.

The law is clear on a patient's rights (or the lack of) in this situation. However, as with all legal function there is a regimented legal procedure in removing a child from parental care and placing them in institutional care. The legal inscription of this new procedure is without a doubt, complex, baffling the minds of many astute legal counsels and leading to a plethora of confusion. In such a situation it can, however, work in the favour of an individual unfortunate enough to have been caught up in it.

So now to the good news.

After personally reviewing the case, I have found that Shayden Glenn's removal from her parental care was done in contravention to the stated act. I won't bore you with the legal terminology, but what I can tell you is: because of the contravention to legal procedure, Shayden is, in fact, being held illegally and has been ordered to be released immediately from Bairnsworth Mental Hospital forthwith.

The hospital has been instructed, via a court order, to desist from administering drugs to Shayden and prepare her to be removed from their custody. However, Shayden needs to be released into a competent person's custody other than her grandfather's, due to the fact that he is considered one of the complainants and since you have brought the case to my attention, I have nominated yourself as primary custodian. If this situation does not suit your circumstances, then email me again and I will generate another court order, placing Shayden in the state's care.

Just for your information, court orders take about twenty four hours to be enacted and a member of the police force usually delivers the child into custodial care. In Shayden's case, an ambulance escorted by a police officer will be the required means of transport. As you have been nominated as primary custodian, you will have guardianship over Shayden, so you are responsible for her well being. Technically, Shayden is a ward of the state and the state will be responsible for costs associated with her care.

Now the difficult part.

It is envisioned that the hospital will want to take the matter to court, to be heard in front of a member of the judiciary and challenge the relevance of the court order. Thankfully that process may take a couple of years to be heard. In the meantime, if Shayden responds to proper treatment from my doctor friend and gets well again, then they will not have a legal leg to stand on.

Once again, Ruth, I am sorry this official letter took so long to reach you, but I hope it is relatively good news.

Love and best wishes and see you soon

Uncle Don

Donald Chambers

Chief Justice

Supreme Court of the United States of America

Ruth stared incredulously at the document clutched in her hands, tears welling up and blinding her view of the words. It took a moment for the meaning of the document to sink in and she tried to reread the content while brushing away the blinding emotion.

Joy was bursting her seams and she jumped up and danced around the room, wanting to scream, but checking herself from disturbing the seriously ill old man in the next room. This couldn't be happening. She determined to wake Grayson and tell him the good news but then changed her mind and decided to wait. She raced into her bedroom and fell face down on her bed, buried her head in her pillow and screamed, muffling her exuberant excitement. It didn't take long for her to recognise the hand of God in this impossible situation and overwhelmed by His goodness, she again placed her head face down in her pillow and wept long, shuddering sobs.

Jesus had heard the cry of their hearts and His presence overwhelmed Ruth and bolstered her childlike faith.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 68

From a point high on a distant hill, two weary eyes followed the frozen fjord foreshore to a place where the shoreline digressed into a small bay. Although Bjarni Kleist's hut couldn't be seen from his vantage point, it wasn't far from the bay and that, he could see clearly. Sydkap was still many hours walk away and the load on his shoulders pressed his spirits into a gloomy sigh. He was tired and the angry weather drifting down from the mountains would slow down his progress, trapping him into relying on his survival tent for a third consecutive night.

Katu trudged up beside Nikkulaat and dropped his load to the ground in exhaustion. He too could see the bay hiding Bjarni's hut and the bad weather descending down from the mountain backdrop, but there weren't any signs of life as he searched the undulating white tundra. The weight of grasping his firearm had locked his hand into a painful claw, but he needed to be ready at any instant to aim and use the weapon to save his or his friend's life should they run into expected trouble. Placing his rifle down against his pack, he exercised the claw, stretching the ligaments and freeing the ache in his gloved hand while giving it a much needed break, before taking up the weapon again into the same position.

The two men had slept with one eye open and hands resting on their loaded firearms, unable to shake the eerie feeling of being watched. Then the weird happenings of the previous night as the sky erupted into an emerald thunderstorm followed by high pitched screeching, something neither man had experienced before in their frozen homeland, but causing them great concern.

Katu pointed to the sky and then to a rock outcrop with its back to the wind. "Doesn't look like we are going to make it much further today, Nikkulaat. That outcrop down there would be a good shelter from the wind and the approaching storm." Katu checked his watch: it was close to 2:30pm and twilight was already descending upon them.

Nikkulaat agreed and pushed on down the slope towards their resting place for the night, while Katu groaned to shoulder his weighty pack again and catch up with his tireless friend.

*~*~*~*

Anunya stirred and woke in her usual state; it normally took her almost an hour to clear the sleep from her mind and another hour to start to fire on all cylinders. This morning wasn't any different as she searched the inside of the igloo-type shelter Bjarni had made, looking for the old man.

She remembered the terrifying storm that had woken her in the early hours and the fear the old man had openly displayed. It was clear that he understood what was going on, but when she'd tried to engage him on the strange happenings she was met with a deep, formidable silence and a stony gaze. He would only say they had to leave Milne Land at first light; and she wasn't looking forward to the long journey back home.

She peered outside the shelter, searching the surrounds. The first purple rays of morning were starting to grow in the eastern sky but in the west, huge dark storm clouds hung over the mountains, threatening the trail back to Sydkap. Anunya wondered at the wisdom of trying to outrun the storm, but resting her eyes on the heavily laden sled, it was obvious Bjarni had weighed the risk and decided it was necessary.

Finally her blurry, sleep-filled vision settled on Bjarni. He was about to rope down the load when his eyes caught a glimpse of her.

"Can you feed the dogs please, Anunya? And then we had better make a dent in the journey home. It will be dark before we get back and we may have to weather this storm approaching."

Anunya nodded, still fighting her sleepiness and headed for a pile of frozen salmon Bjarni had left out for the dogs' meal. It was prudent to throw the salmon in groups on the ground and let the dogs tussle over who got what, or become embroiled in the dogs' panicked grab for food. Akiak was usually the first to stake a claim on any food offerings, growling a warning to anyone who came close, but this morning, she didn't seem like her usual self and left the other dogs to devour her portion.

Anunya gently rubbed her ears. "What's up, girl? Why aren't you eating?"

Akiak just stared up at Anunya, her eyes listless and her body struggling to get moving.

Just then Bjarni came alongside and anxiously asked, "Are we ready to tether the dogs to the sled?"

"I'm worried about Akiak, Bjarni; she's not eating," Anunya complained.

Bjarni bent to check his wise little companion and playfully rubbed her fur. When she didn't respond, he held her muzzle in his hands.

"What's up, Akiak?" his questioning gaze could see her normally alert eyes were struggling and she had no interest in his usual play. He wondered whether tethering her to the harness would spark up her interest. She loved to run and pull the sled in her jealously guarded position as head dog.

Anunya did a final search of the shelter for anything overlooked and then checked around the outside. Satisfied, she took her place on top of the load towards the back of the sled and pulled the muskox pelt up to cover her legs. Bjarni's whistle set the dogs barking and they strained at the tether while Bjarni pushed from the back of the sled until it slowly started to move.

Akiak seemed disinterested and struggling, constantly falling behind the other dogs with her tongue hanging out, as if she had run all day. Bjarni whistled again and pulled the dogs to a halt, his concern rising when Akiak dropped to the ice, seemingly exhausted.

He walked to the front where she had slumped and her eyes stared up at her master, as if she was apologising. Bjarni's concern for Akiak was mounting; she wasn't one to shirk her work and that only led him to think she might have injured herself fighting the nanuq yesterday. He checked her over carefully and she winced when he pressed into her stomach. Gently he untethered his faithful companion and lifted her onto the sled next to Anunya and covered her with the pelt, while Anunya stroked Akiak's muzzle, comforting the injured dog.

Shtiya seemed concerned and kept looking back at the sled until Bjarni whistled again, coaxing the dogs to run. As the team struggled to overcome the load once more, Bjarni was apprehensive that he would have to guide the team, adding to his workload and stealing what strength he retained, without the expertise of Akiak at the helm. But it didn't take long for Shtiya to step up and take the lead and he seemed determined to pull harder to get Akiak back home quickly, giving Bjarni a guarded reason to trust the big Siberian's instincts. The Siberian was a natural sled dog leader, learning well from Akiak's example.

It seemed like minutes, but in fact it had been nearly two hours before the sled bounced over the icy border of Fonfjord and onto the frozen sea ice of Scoresby Sund, leaving Milne Land behind them. Stretching before them was a vast area of flat, white open space with the occasional island of sea ice pushed up into a mound, signifying the massive power of the shifting, frozen water. Directly ahead of them in the distance was Sydkap and Bjarni wasn't wasting any time urging the dogs on towards the safety of their home.

Anunya felt sleepy, serenaded by the swishing noise of the sled rails on the ice and disturbed only by the occasional bark from Shtiya urging the team onwards as they momentarily dropped off the pace he set.

Anunya puzzled over Akiak's behaviour; she didn't appear to be injured after the fight with the nanuq. She rubbed her warm muzzle again and noticed the tip of her tongue extending lazily between her front teeth. Anunya had seen this puzzling behaviour before with female sled dogs back in Denmark and then enlightenment dawned, and Anunya giggled.

It all made sense now.

She remembered Akiak dragging her food over to Shtiya, allowing him to have first choice at her offering and then the unusual harmony between the two dogs as they ate together. Anunya beamed from ear to ear and turned to face Bjarni with her news.

He stared down at Anunya with a quizzical gaze, taking his eyes off the horizon and breaking his concentration for a moment while gently wiping away the annoying icicles from his eyebrows. "What's so funny?" he asked from his standing position at the back of the sled and in a faltering, staccato voice as the sled jolted over the corrugated sea ice.

"I think Akiak is going to have some puppies."

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 69

A skinny clergy grasped a heavy cord hanging from the bell tower and heaved downward with all his might. The wheel slowly swung the headstock back and forth until the sound bow over-centred, causing the clapper to strike the sound bow with an earsplitting... _dong_!

The sound of the heavy bronze bell clanged and echoed across the quiet settlement, bouncing off the mountains and amplified by the frozen waters of the Sund, but became muffled and lost in the eddying wind currents near the fjord entrance and the open sea. The clergy grasped the flailing cord and heaved again, repeating the process until multiple chimes rang out across the sleepy community. The church bell sang out its bellowing song in a tedious monotone, invading every quiet space and calling the duty bound to answer its beckoning call.

The clergy left the rope to dance in time with the wildly swing wheel, allowing the headstock to seesaw back and forth until it lost momentum and finally silenced the clapper, motionless against the sound bow and preserving the quiet for another week.

It was Sunday morning and the traditional church was alive with the ancient traditions stretching back to the fifteenth century, adding yet another Sunday service to a duty list of history. The things you have to do because it always has been done like this and it would always be done like this.

The heavy black cloud hanging threateningly over the mountains had a call of its own. Soon a winter storm of Arctic origin would barrel down upon the sleepy hamlet, adding another few centimetres to the strangling wind-driven snow already piled high against the village and making it even more difficult to live in the frozen, isolated township of Ittoqqortoormiit. No matter what the weather, missing church was just not something the villagers did.

Two houses back along the mountain slope and overlooking the church, the old shaman listened, disinterested, to the church bells calling his people to worship another deity, a deity they sang of from a hymn book but knew nothing about. The village people still visited him when they needed some magic or healing for their ailments and he still held the sway with the people spiritually.

Kanortoq had seen the power of this deity personally; and when He was present in the lives of those who really knew him, He was dangerous and all consuming, capable of destroying all of the spirits.

The church, two buildings down, claimed to represent this deity, but Kanortoq knew it was all smoke and mirrors, allowing him to continue on worshipping and communicating with the spirits of the animals unperturbed, and so close to the deserted sanctuary of the Christian God. Kanortoq could see the blurry shapes of villagers pass by his window on their way to fulfil their duty to the traditional church for the Sunday service. The effects of years of snow glare and the slimy white skin of cataracts almost engulfed the aged dark pupils, leaving him practically blind. Thankfully there was nothing wrong with his hearing and being the town shaman, he needed to hear the voices of the spirits echoing through his head.

The spirit realm had become more active over the last few months, excited voices chattering all throughout the night and keeping him awake with their revelations, a situation that hadn't happened since the last incident with the Rainbow Man over fifty years ago, and that could only mean one thing: it was about to happen again.

Kanortoq's excitement quickly turned sullen and angry as his mind revisited the scene and the hated face of Dan Gurst in his memory. It was only his quick thinking and convincing interpretation of the facts that had turned the people's opinion in favour of their ancestral spirits and diffused a potentially devastating situation– _for him_.

A distant and faint babbling chant echoed through his head, drawing his attention away from his sullen thoughts; there was trouble in another part of the spirit realm. Kanortoq's brow creased, perplexed at the reports of an important battle that had been lost to a Christian, working and directed by the power of the deity. He dropped to the floor and descended into a trance-like state, listening to the increasingly agitated airwaves of the spirits. The news of this great defeat spread like wildfire through the spirit world and offended the voices, large and small alike, sparking through his mind like bad electricity and increasing in intensity as another complaining and angry utterance added to the turmoil.

Among the static, he could hear the chant becoming more defined, and a sudden realisation disturbed his mind, causing him great distress. Kanortoq cried out in a twisted moan once he tuned into the chant and subdued the interfering voices, which then allowed him to interpret the demands of the chanters. Someone in a distant place needed the help of a powerful warrior, a _Reptoclasto,_ in a great battle against the deity and once he comprehended what they were chanting, he writhed in mental agony, squirming like a snake. Using a _Reptoclasto–_ the governing spirit of a nation–in this situation would be like using a bulldozer against an ant. Kanortoq was not pleased at the foolishness being broadcast throughout the spirit realm, but he knew the longer the chant and the greater the sacrifice offered by the chanters, the more likely they would receive their request.

To make things worse, they were calling the warrior away from his post and placing the complete showdown in jeopardy. His only hope was to do spiritual battle with the Christian offender causing Kanortoq so much distress, and defeat him in the spirit realm. This was a dangerous affair, because a real child of the deity could seriously overpower Kanortoq and disable or destroy his powers if they became aware of his sneaking attack.

His greatest weapon against the Christian was their ignorance of the great power they could unleash into the spirit realm just by talking to their God, having staunch, unmoving faith in their God's ability and using the power in the name of God's Son.

A lying spirit–pointing out past failures–or the spirit of depression–crushing a Christian's will–was all it usually took to disarm them. Or for the more stubborn individuals, lust and temptation brought down the tall timber.

The situation had now become a life or death affair. Kanortoq had waited fifty years to see Greenland rise in the fulfilment of his dream, while his destiny and honour depended on the warrior.

Lucifer would not be happy if he failed.

Kanortoq rocked back and forward, cutting his body with a ceremonial knife and drawing blood, waiting for a sneaking knowledge spirit to give him the name of his combatant. Normally he would have to wait for hours to be enlightened, but this time, a knowledge spirit was waiting with the name, confirming to Kanortoq the seriousness of the battle. He also sensed the abundant presence of lying spirits and lust and temptation were at his beck and call. He writhed again as the name slipped into his mind like an artillery shell being loaded into a huge gun, just waiting for him to pull the trigger and start the attack.

"CUTTER...! Servant of the Most High God." His mouth spewed the words as if it was a bitter herb.

A sudden gasp of fear took Kanortoq by surprise. This Christian individual was no slouch when it came to spiritual fights and even the mention of his name sent shock waves into the spirit realm. The Christian's name was nothing in itself, but when coupled to _that name_... Kanortoq caught his thoughts in a desperate lasso, trying not to mention the name even in his mind; for even in his mind the name could spell disaster in a cataclysmic scale for his kind.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 70

Doctor Cavalier's mood was withdrawn and introspective as she commanded the rows of beds in the recovery ward and stared at the sleeping form of a small boy, bathed and clothed and no longer a threat to anyone. She wondered how such a small human being could wreak so much devastation and keep fourteen big men at bay while he unleashed his violent maelstrom. If she hadn't witnessed the exorcism herself, she wouldn't have believed it if someone had told her.

Somehow she was sure the power of the human psyche was still to blame, but Cutter certainly knew how to deal with this strange business and the closed circuit images captured during the battle only confirmed what she didn't want to believe.

Cavalier's day had taken another strange turn: she had received an official court order signed by the Honourable Donald Chambers himself, ordering her to halt the heavy medicating required by Doctor Brooks and release University Hospital's study case specimen. The police had delivered the court order first thing in the morning and given her the rest of the day to comply, before an ambulance would be dispatched and a police escort arrived to take the child to an address in Sue's Bridge.

Cavalier turned her attention to a bed close by and watched the pitiful form of a young girl trying to escape the effects of prolonged anaesthesia and grasping for understanding at her surroundings. Her arms appeared pale and listless, while her face was burning red from a high fever. Cavalier shrugged; she was a psychiatrist, not a general practitioner and besides, the court order forbade her from intervening with medication.

She was just about to turn and exit the recovery ward when an orderly approached her and whispered in her ear.

"What? Now?! But this isn't his day," Cavalier shot back in a disconcerted mutter and then spun on her heels and flounced out of the recovery ward to confront the villain.

*~*~*~*

It was Wednesday and Cutter stood waiting for Cavalier to explode onto the scene; he figured she would be less than cordial at his off-schedule visit, even if he had proved a point to the scoffing professional. There was no doubt Cavalier would minimise what she had seen and try to explain it away as a freak of the human mind instead of crediting the powerful name of Jesus with the miracle, but the evidence was there in the form of the boy and that was hard to overlook.

Tuesday had been a day of surprises and when Cutter arrived back at Ruth's place to help her care for Grayson, he'd found Ruth and Grayson dissolved into tears. Ruth couldn't speak through her emotion and had just handed the official letter to Cutter to read for himself. He'd had to read it a couple of times before he could grasp what Papa God had done, but that night was a night of celebration in Ruth's little apartment, preparing for Shayden's homecoming. Cutter's adventure with the boy had only added to the festivities and bolstered Ruth's and Grayson's faith.

A high pitched voice, bordering on annoyance, disturbed his amazed thoughts as Cutter came face to face with the fiery little psychiatrist.

"Let me guess, Pastor Cutter, you want to heal all of my patients and clear the hospital," the sarcasm spilled from Cavalier's mouth while a hand placed upon her hip indicated her displeasure.

Cutter smiled big, disarming the aggressive little woman. "Yeah, now that would be an idea. But unfortunately, I haven't had orders from my boss to do such a thing. I have just come to check on the little guy."

"A phone call would have accomplished that task, Pastor Cutter, I can assure you." Cavalier's eyes were menacing, waiting for the request she was sure would come.

"I was hoping that you would allow me to see him for a few moments," Cutter smiled again.

"Just as I thought. You are so predictable, Cutter," the annoyed face set in a grim, rigid frown.

Cavalier held Cutter's piercing gaze for a few moments, coming to a decision. Fully intending to turn down his request, she found herself agreeing to it and that just made her more annoyed.

"Five minutes! No longer...!"

Cutter almost hugged her, but thought better of it. He had already pushed the friendship beyond its elastic boundary.

Cavalier led Cutter through the maze of hospital corridors until she pushed open a door to the recovery room. Pointing into the room, she spoke like a ancient prophet.

"I'll be back for you in five minutes, Pastor!"

Cutter approached the small form of the boy and as he did, the boy's eyes blinked open and smiled a weak smile of recognition. The eyes were powder blue, deep like a glacial river and not the red eyes of the monster he had confronted yesterday morning.

"How are you doing?" Cutter whispered.

The small boy took a while to find his voice, but once he did he rasped back, "Fine, I think. Thank you for getting rid of that thing. It was trying to kill me."

"Can you remember your name?" Cutter asked sympathetically.

"I think... Jaimon, yeah, Jaimon."

"My name is Cutter, Jaimon, and I am a pastor. It wasn't me that repelled that thing. It was Jesus Christ–the Creator–who set you free. I was just His spokesman."

Jaimon's eyes were huge. "The Christian God?"

"Oh, so you've heard of Him?"

"Salena explained about Him when..." Jaimon suddenly looked confused and then stared at the door. "Has Salena been in to see me? Have you seen her?"

Cutter had suspected something like this and was expecting his question. He cleared his throat and shifted on the spot.

"Jaimon, I cast three demons out of you. The big one's name was Galillio–he was the one doing all the damage; then there was another annoying spirit called Felon–he was intent on getting you into increasing trouble; and the third one's name was Salena."

Jaimon's eyes were round and staring, and then as the man's words made contact with his heart, a tear overflowed onto his cheek and plopped onto his pillow.

"She was a... a demon living in my head? But I could see her and touch her, and what about all the other kids at school? They would have seen her, too!"

"Did anyone ever acknowledge her at school or speak directly to her, Jaimon?"

Jaimon's stare at Cutter relented and then concentrated on the ceiling instead, thinking through all the encounters with Salena.

Realisation suddenly dawned: the man was right. Whenever he'd spoken to Salena, the other kids would just stare at him and give him a weird look, then call him freak. Jaimon finally shook his head in defeat and then a question formed in his mind, grasping for understanding.

"She towel-whipped a boy in the change rooms once!"

Cutter reflected for a while about the boy's statement and then asked, "Did anyone see _her_ do it, or did you get the blame for it?"

Jaimon contemplated for a long time, trying to remember the event and then realised Cutter was right again.

He did get the blame for it.

Cutter's voice suddenly took on a deliberate sternness that disturbed Jaimon.

"Jaimon, I need to tell you something that is really important and you need to consider it carefully."

Jaimon stared at the big biker, wondering what else was coming.

"These demons, as you have found out, can inhabit a human being if they don't have Jesus living in them and particularly, if you have invited them in. That gives them a spiritual right to be there. Some demons can even find an entry path into a non-Christian person through an extreme event, such as a vicious rape or a harrowing abuse of some kind. The Bible makes it clear, if a person like yourself has had demons exorcised from within them and you don't fill the void they've left with a positive spiritual guardian and accept Jesus as Saviour and Lord, the demons will return to take up their spiritual right and reoccupy the place they were cast out of. But that isn't the worst of it. They will invite their friends along as well–demons that are far more destructive than they ever were–to reinfest you, making your situation far more devastating than it was at the beginning."

Jaimon stared at Cutter in abject terror, drinking in the words of warning. "I... I don't know whether I am ready for this Jesus. Salena warned me against accepting Him and how do I know you aren't just tricking me?!"

The concern for Jaimon hit Cutter in his gut. This was an important decision the young boy couldn't afford to get wrong.

When it appeared he wasn't going to get through to the frightened boy and he had simply dug in his heels, Cutter backed down. In desperation, Cutter sensed the familiar presence of the Holy Spirit, and felt His gentle whisper, _I'll take it from here._ Relieved to hear the command of his Celestial friend, Cutter knew Jaimon was in safe hands and that the Holy Spirit had a plan. Obeying the familiar command of the gentle small voice, Cutter asked Jaimon if he would at least allow him to pray. Jaimon couldn't see the harm in a simple prayer and nodded his consent.

He felt a great peace and softness bubbling up as Cutter prayed; his heart felt warm and tears began to flow, a stark contrast to the craziness of the past few weeks.

Just as Cutter finished his prayer, Cavalier burst into the room and Jaimon's warmth evaporated at her stark, piercing voice demanding Cutter leave.

At the same time two orderlies arrived, pushing past Cutter to a bed close by and prepared the patient to be moved. Cutter recognised the frail form of a small girl and decided this was probably Shayden. Not wanting to give Cavalier any ammunition against Shayden and jeopardise her release, he played down any knowledge of the court order and her removal from Bairnsworth, just smiling to himself instead.

They would have plenty of time soon to get to know each other.

As the girl was wheeled past Jaimon, she lifted a weak hand and waved directly at him and smiled. Cutter saw the exchange and his curiosity burned, but he didn't have an opportunity to explore the simple gesture.

Jaimon was puzzled at the intimation from the girl and it played on his mind, wondering where he had seen her before.

His thoughts were interrupted as Cutter began his goodbye speech. In a moment of anxiety, Jaimon reached out his hand to the big man.

"Will you come and see me again?"

"You bet I will," Cutter whispered, taking the nervous hand offered.

In a matter of moments and before Cutter knew what was happening, he found himself out in the corridor and confronted by an aggressive barking terrier waving her finger in his face and demanding his immediate departure.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 71

Bjarni Kleist's legs and arms ached as he maintained a steady grip on his position at the back of the heavily laden sled; he was determined to make it back to Sydkap today, even if a developing storm and the deep darkness of the winter night stood in his way. He had seen Anunya's worried glances, but he tried to deflect her concern by smiling, sure she had seen through his bravado and to the fear hiding just below his facade. She couldn't possibly understand the gravity of the situation or what was at stake. Maybe he didn't either, but one thing he was sure of: he had to get her out of the firing line and to safety before things erupted.

Bjarni's focus suddenly shifted from his nervous reminiscing and found the horizon again; the dogs were wandering from the direction he had set and Shtiya was leading the mutiny in deliberate disobedience. The old man's exasperation culminated in a deep sigh, while the beginnings of resentment started to grow towards the big Siberian at the loss of Akiak's presence, his wise lead dog. She was like a compass and once he set her course, she seemed to understand his intentions and maintained an obedient path right to the end. But now the added workload of bringing a novice leader into a desperate situation was testing the old man's patience.

Bjarni made ready a small whip of a single strand, a guiding tool used by sledders to keep their dogs on the right path. He hadn't used the whip for many years. Akiak seemed to read his thoughts and pulled the other dogs in line, but he kept it tucked away in a fixture near his grasp at the back of the sled, just in case.

A colossal rumbling shook the sled and to Bjarni's left, a violent, crushing wall of cracking, complaining ice suddenly shot upwards, metres thick and towering above them, gouging a gaping fissure right in the path the sled had just been on.

Green seawater cascaded over the vista, thrust up by the yielding ice like a waterspout and spilling over the white scenery while sending a small wave in all directions, until it settled and froze solid atop the ice. If they had continued on Bjarni's set course, the monumental upsurge in the sea ice would have splintered the sled into rubble and probably all on board as well. Catastrophic movement in kilometres of sea ice, pushed and prodded by ocean currents and volatile winds, acted like a huge earthquake. The compressing stress built over a fault until the ice was forced to yield, leaving massive devastation at the weakest fracture point.

Somehow, Shtiya had sensed the disaster and had acted accordingly. Then without any guidance from Bjarni, he steered the sled back onto the course his master had set.

The old man grinned from ear to ear, amazed at Shtiya's uncanny ability to sense disaster, and a new appreciation developed for the maligned leader of his dog team. He rolled up the whip and placed it back into its safe keeping, convinced he would never need to use it again and shook his head in disbelief.

Even Akiak may not have seen that one coming.

Anunya stared past Bjarni, following the disappearing scene of the ice earthquake, her mouth hanging open in shock. Her questioning eyes rested momentarily on Bjarni, her expression indicating what she was thinking.

"Yeah, I know!" Bjarni shouted over the noise of the sled, fully aware they had just cheated death. "Shtiya is a fine dog; you should be proud of him and yourself for training him."

Anunya's eyes danced at Bjarni's accolade, knowing full well the worth of her minder's praise.

*~*~*~*

An itinerant early winter sun struggled to rise and in just a few short hours had run out of will, disappearing over the mountains while the usual purple and red twilight had been blanketed out by a thick layer of steeling storm clouds. Bjarni calculated the time would only be early afternoon but the darkness could be easily confused and mistaken for the depths of night. The atmosphere was eerily quiet and the only noise was the swishing of the sled's wooden rails on the ice, punctuated by the occasional bone jarring jolt as the sled hit another corrugated rut.

Bjarni recognised the signs of a developing storm and noted the direction from which the cloud had been driven. The distant mountains behind his hut had been engulfed first, meaning the wind would be blowing directly at them and if he kept the sled into the wind, the wind would guide them to their destination. But if the storm was severe and the wind started to circulate, there was always the telltale snow tongues, carved by the normal seasonal winds into the ice and pointing in the direction of home. His biggest concern was a blizzard, exposed out on the flat open ice of Scoresby Sund with no possibility of a sheltering rock outcrop. The wind chill, combined with the falling snow, could drop the temperature below minus sixty or more, freezing them in minutes where they stood.

The gusts preceding the storm struck at the sled, almost knocking him from his standing position. The first indications weren't good; this would be one of winter's finest. The old man peered down at Anunya; he could just make out the thick scarf that she had covered most of her face with, icicles and ice sticking to the fabric. His sudden shout took her by surprise and she flinched.

"You'd better pull that pelt over you; it's gonna get rough!"

Anunya opened her mouth to complain at his own lack of protection, but her words were lost in the steadily increasing wind. Instead, she pulled the scarf from her face and thrust it at him, then obediently pulled the pelt completely over herself and uncomfortably cuddled up with Akiak on top of the loaded sled.

Anunya's scarf brought him immediate relief against the biting cold and he was thankful for her sacrifice. The dogs were beginning to complain and whimper at the rising wind chill, but Shtiya kept them together, commanding a loud, encouraging bark and pulling harder, setting an example for them to follow.

The wind began to howl, circulating in every direction at once and confusing the darkness in a blinding maelstrom, slowing the dogs to a walking pace and baffling even Shtiya's sense of direction and resolve. For the first time, Bjarni began to second-guess the wisdom of his decision to outrun the storm in compromised, manic fear. These were the kinds of actions that got a person killed in the wilderness.

Panic and good sense didn't like each other – and only one could prevail.

The wilderness had sent a clear warning to Bjarni, prophesying the perils of travelling across the frozen Sund in a storm. Her power, she'd displayed only a few hours ago, and Shtiya had read her counsel perfectly and had acted accordingly. However, in the confusion of a storm, sensing the dangers while traversing sea ice was just not possible; but now Bjarni had unwittingly wandered into a situation that a seasoned wilderness man should never have allowed.

His conscience was starting to deal him a stinging blow; making a bad decision like this on his own was one thing, but jeopardising Anunya's life was another matter altogether. The trusting young woman who had stolen his heart was relying on him and he wasn't about to let her down.

Last night's screeching display was pulling him back into the nightmare of his past and he knew he had to decide: save his own skin and keep on hiding while humanity suffered at the hands of great evil; or spend himself in a painful contest against his father's old nemesis so mankind could go on, unaffected and oblivious to the sacrifice he would have to make on their behalf.

It appeared to him he was going to die in whichever road he chose to travel, but because of his love for Anunya, he was being forced to choose the path with the least impact on mankind, the same brutal people who had treated him so cruelly for so many years. But Anunya was part of the human race too, and she alone was worth the fight. He tussled with his morbid thoughts, the blizzard just a foretaste of the horrors to come, but he had to survive the storm first, before the final fight. He decided this would be a fight for her.

Bjarni bowed his head into the wind, feeling his grip on the sled weakening; his teeth began to chatter and at the same time, the dogs gave up the fight pulling the sled and settled in a curled up ball to protect themselves against the bitter cold. Bjarni could feel a tightness pull across his heart.

Maybe this was the end, but what about Anunya? The awful memories of his childhood began to play across his mind in a morose photo album of terror reflected against the dark, winter storm.

Then suddenly, the image of a man blinded him, stunningly brilliant against the darkness and beckoning to him. He was beautiful, painted in white light and clothed in dazzling colours, lighting the scene like lightning, dancing and reflecting in the icy atmosphere around him.

Bjarni recognised the phenomenon immediately from a description his father had given him, only bolstering his suspicions of a new contest, a contest that had plagued his adult life with fear and had stolen his childhood.

The obvious wounds in the Rainbow Man's hands reflected a harrowing battle He had fought long ago, and they were beckoning to Bjarni in a gesture to follow Him. Bjarni's heart began to burn with love, but he turned away from the apparition, fearfully and determinedly resisting the call. But then the tears began to flow. When Bjarni finally overcame the battle raging inside him and glanced up again, the figure had gone and the darkness had closed back in, but something had noticeably changed.

The surrounds and the storm had fallen deathly silent.

The wind had dropped completely and fine flakes of snow were falling on his face, while a deep peace descended over him, chasing the tightness away from his chest.

A small, incredulous voice interrupted his thoughts. It was only a whisper, but in the quiet of the wilderness night, it seemed like a shout.

"What just happened, Bjarni?" Anunya peered around from under the protection of the muskox pelt, confused at the quieted storm that only moments ago, had threatened their very lives.

Bjarni stared into the darkness, while his words made no sense and only confused her more.

"The Rainbow Man," Bjarni whispered.

*~*~*~*

In the profound quiet of the wilderness night, Bjarni reflected on the momentary meeting with the Rainbow Man and drank in the experience while Anunya slept an exhausted sleep, jarring with the swishing sled cutting a determined path for Sydkap and home.

_So, this is what Father had seen?_ Bjarni's thoughts distracted him from guiding the sled.

Shtiya began to bark, waking Anunya and warning Bjarni of something ahead. Bjarni instinctively searched the dark horizon and in the clear starlight, he recognised the mountainous outline behind his hut and there, waiting silent and deserted, was his weather-hardened home. The sled slid along the final few metres of the Sund before a large _jolt_ indicated they had left the sea ice and were on ice-covered solid ground again, facing the hut.

In an unguarded moment Bjarni urged the dogs up to the door, but Shtiya stopped suddenly, tasting the air like Akiak had done. Bjarni thought this was just a symptom of Akiak's example, but a low growl alerted him to trouble.

Anunya's eyes were big and round, staring at the hut; she knew and trusted Shtiya's warnings and reached under the pelt for the rifle.

Bjarni grasped the weapon and stiffly stepped down from the sled, limping cautiously towards the hut. He stood in front of the door, trying to check the snow for tracks, but the darkness hid any indicators. He carefully pushed against the door and eased it open, using all his senses to identify any threats.

In a burst of sound, Shtiya broke the silence with a menacing, warning growl, but it was too late.

The rifle flew from Bjarni's hands and he fell heavily to the wooden floor, then a strong light blinded his eyes followed by a young voice.

"Bjarni Kleist, you're under arrest."

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 72

Grayson Glenn sat propped up by two pillows on a small single bed in Ruth Chambers' spare bedroom. His breathing was laboured and wheezing, his colour almost white, but his ears were tuned in and straining for the sounds of any approaching vehicles suggesting Shayden was home.

The anxious wait was distressing Ruth too and she nervously wandered throughout the apartment trying to keep busy, but stopping frequently to check the front window overlooking the street outside.

In the distance, the unmistakable cackle of Cutter's Fat Boy was disturbing the silence, bringing a pleasing gesture to Ruth, but causing Grayson added grief, blocking out any sounds of Shayden's arrival. Ruth suspected that Cutter had seen Shayden on his unscheduled visit to Bairnsworth and hoped he wasn't bringing them bad news.

As Cutter's motorcycle came nearer, the windows began to rattle, but before he could get any closer, an ambulance and a police escort glided to a stop at the front of Ruth's apartment, followed by the exuberant biker. Cutter had deliberately followed the convoy from Bairnsworth.

Ruth ran for the front door and threw it open, excitedly calling back to Grayson as she ran, "She's here!"

Soon there was a little huddle of officials gathered in Ruth's tiny lounge room, thrusting bureaucratic paperwork into Ruth's face for her to sign before Shayden was allowed off the ambulance. Once the paperwork was done, a very ill and confused little girl was wheeled inside on a hospital gurney, grinning from ear to ear when she recognised Ruth.

Shayden reached a weak hand to the glowing woman before her and Ruth took it in her warm hand, then reached in and kissed Shayden's cheek, filling the girl with hope and warmth.

The sound of a very emotional voice cracked and echoed out into the lounge and Shayden's heart jumped when she recognised its owner.

"Pa!" she croaked, using up valuable energy searching for him in a frantic hunt and becoming distressed.

Before she could herd the people out of her lounge, Ruth took hold of the gurney and steered it into the small spare bedroom, reuniting the two anxious people.

The sounds of raw emotion drifted from the room: Grayson wanted to get up from his bed and take his granddaughter in a hug, but Ruth had to stop him before he collapsed onto the floor. In the end, the two beds were pushed together and they held hands in easy reach of each other, chattering nonstop.

Ruth gazed upon the two reunited people with fondness from the bedroom door. Cutter seemed to have been delayed and when he finally arrived and placed an arm over her shoulder, Ruth wriggled into his embrace. He was as happy as she was to see the scene before them.

"Where have you been?" she whispered.

"Talking to Deputy Jackson."

Ruth turned in his arms and peered up into his blue eyes, questions forming in her gaze. "Problems...?"

"Nah, he just wanted to know my connection here and why I was following the convoy."

"And...?"

"I just told him I fell in love with the most beautiful girl in the world and she just happened to live here."

Ruth's eyes were sparkling and she leaned into his kiss. When their lips finally parted, they noticed the chatter in the room had gone quiet and they were being watched.

Shayden was smiling, all teeth at the older couple's display of affection and she managed to whisper, "Wow, is the minister your boyfriend, Ruth?"

Ruth blushed at the implications of Shayden's whisper and quickly closed the gap to Shayden's side and placed her hand on her forehead and gently stroked it.

"Yes, he is. Is that alright with you?"

Shayden smiled and the glow lit up her face. "He's a nice man."

"How do you know that, Miss Glenn?" Ruth asked teasingly.

"I heard him pray for that nice boy back at the hospital."

"Nice boy? Which nice boy...?" Ruth quizzed.

"The boy who saved my life at school and went and got help for me when I collapsed in the hallway; everyone else just stepped over me, but he actually did something."

Cutter spoke for the first time, "Jaimon's his name, Shayden, and he's in a lot of trouble."

Shayden's eyes took on a pleading, vacant glaze. "B..but he's the only one who would help me; can't we do something to help him?"

Ruth stroked Shayden's forehead again, noticing her temperature had risen considerably. "The only one who can help him at the moment, Shayden, is Papa God; and you can help him by praying for him."

Shayden's eyes became soft and big. "I don't know this Papa God and I don't know how to pray."

Grayson spoke up for the first time, wheezing his speech. "I know Him, Shayden," he gasped. "Let me tell you what He did for me."

*~*~*~*

Kanortoq's stiff frame hadn't moved from his position, trance-stricken and cross legged on the floor for nearly twelve hours. The ceremonial knife lay by his side, active and ready to offer more of his life as the spirit kingdom required. A lust-filled roar of hysteria echoed through the spirit air waves each time he cut another gash and let his own blood flow. He could feel a growing number of wicked spirits around the room, attracted to the sacrifice like flies to a dung heap.

Finally, the spirits were engaging with him, making him feel more powerful and confident to attack the Christian named Cutter. The plan was to soften him up and attack when Cutter was most vulnerable and then finish him off, releasing the need to call the warrior away from his duty.

The chanters hadn't let up, either, flooding the air waves with their cursed calls for the power of a _Reptoclasto_ ; but not just any _Reptoclasto_ , they wanted the warrior– _his_ warrior.

They were in direct conflict with Kanortoq and his desires to be immortal in Lucifer's coming kingdom. It was a struggle to attract and convince the spirits to fight alongside him and leave the chanters powerless for their cause. Unless they did something spectacular, the spirits were with him and the fight could begin.

*~*~*~*

Cutter was filled with awe at what Papa God had done for Shayden and Grayson. Grayson had explained the Gospel to Shayden as he had remembered it in his dream, and Shayden had soaked up his story like a thirsty sponge. She could see the hope and the love in her grandfather's eyes as he explained, and before he could finish his story, Shayden interrupted him and begged him to pray with her so she could belong to Jesus too.

Cutter's buzzing excitement and the presence of the Holy Spirit couldn't wait to share with the Bible study group tonight of the incredible things Jesus had done in this week. He needed to prepare the apartment for the expected large group that filled his small home each Wednesday night. It hadn't been occupied for three nights now and he had to clean up before people started to arrive.

Ruth and Cutter shared a passionate parting kiss, thinking they were alone. But Shayden had been listening and cheered when they finally parted, causing Ruth to blush red. They enjoyed a final embrace just for Shayden's benefit and then Cutter mounted the Fat Boy, swivelling the key until the motor caught and _galumphed_ , idling at the kerb. Then with a quick wrap of the throttle and a corresponding rattle of the windows, he motored away, blowing his Ruth a final kiss.

It was only a few kilometres from Cutter's apartment to Ruth's, but far enough for him to give a hearty round of praise to Jesus. While he accelerated up to speed, the joy bubbled up in Cutter and he gave an excited shout above the engine noise, feeling like he could fly.

Out of his view, a car suddenly appeared from the darkness and ploughed into him, sprawling the bike along the road and splintering the Fat Boy into an explosion of sparks, plastic and metal.

Cutter's body tumbled over and over the road surface, tearing at his skin and finally flailing against a guardrail... motionless.

The car driver didn't stop and accelerated his damaged vehicle away at high speed and disappeared, pulling the darkness around it like a curtain on a final act.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 73

Shtiya snarled, baring his teeth and straining against the tethers holding him prisoner to the sled, making the sled jolt on the spot in response to his animated gesticulation.

Anunya saw the flashlight beam and heard the commotion from within the hut. Bjarni was in trouble and Shtiya was his only hope. Anunya's hands shook as she tried to calm her dog and untether him at the same time, but before she could release him, another snarl from behind her startled her.

Akiak sprinted towards the open hut door–defending her master firmly on her mind and backing down from her mission wasn't part of her plan.

Seconds later, Shtiya erupted from his tether, closing in on Akiak's stride and they both burst into the hut together, startling the captor and pinning him to the ground. The furious snapping jaws only millimetres from the captor's face turned him white with fear and cowering under their threat.

"Call them off!" the complaining voice petitioned urgently, fearing for his life, while Bjarni found his feet and shone the torch into the stranger's eyes.

Bjarni's shrill whistle was the only way he could be heard over the cacophony of snarls and then both dogs backed down once they could see their master was in control again.

Bjarni took the stranger's gun from the floor where it had fallen and then retrieved his own, rubbing the dogs' fur and heaping praise on his two guardians in appreciation. In a big voice he called to Anunya, announcing his safety and that the situation was under his control. Bjarni heard the sled pull up to the front door and then Anunya's cautious steps on the wooden floorboards of the hut.

Fear paralysed her for a moment, thinking she had been discovered and this person had been sent to take her back to the misery in Denmark, or worse, to the horrors of the man who had purchased her.

The atmosphere in the dimly lit hut was tense and fear bristled every dark shadow.

Bjarni handed Anunya the stranger's gun. "Keep him in your sights, Annie Oakley, and if he moves, just think of him as a threatening nanuq."

Anunya almost laughed, breaking the tension. She understood his gibe all too well, but the stranger just stared blankly at the pretty young woman standing over him.

Soon the interior of the hut burst into light as Bjarni went to work setting the stove and spilling its welcome warmth into the chilling interior. Bjarni peered around at the disturbed appearance of his home; it seemed the stranger had been here a while and had helped himself to whatever he could find, but the stove hadn't been disturbed, still in the same state as when they had left it. The stranger had obviously been waiting for their return and didn't want to warn them of his presence.

"Okay, you've got thirty seconds to start talking before I let the dogs loose again, then I will set what's left of your carcass on a rock and Annie Oakley here will use it for target practice."

"Can I at least get up off the floor and take a seat?" the stranger moaned.

Bjarni hooked his foot around the old rocking chair and with a round kick motion, dragged it into the middle of the room, scraping the old rails on the wooden floor and at the same time, keeping the stranger in his sights. The young man climbed off the floor, glancing at the dark eyes of the woman sighting him along the rifle barrel, moving with every move he made and following him as he dropped heavily into the rocking chair facing them.

Bjarni was becoming impatient at the stalling tactics, concerned he may have some surprise up his sleeve. "Okay, now you're comfortable... talk! Who are you?!"

*~*~*~*

A sudden snort broke into his dreams and his exhausted eyes exploded open, struggling to focus in the dark environment. The tiredness folded under his lids felt like sand had been rubbed into his pupils, and it stung bitterly. He grappled for the rifle barrel, its cold steel returning a welcome reassurance in his hands, then he checked his companion, but he was fast asleep.

Holding his breath, he listened to the sounds of the night, straining to hear the presence of danger, but there was nothing but quiet. Deep, eerie quiet, punctuated by the rhythmic, sleep-filled gentle breathing of his friend. That's when Katu realised the storm had dissipated and spared them another nasty experience.

Unable to determine a threat lurking in the intense tundra night, Katu guardedly settled back down into his sleeping bag, inviting sleep to return and comforted by the butt of his rifle close by.

He had just closed his eyes again when the same noise disturbed the quiet. This time, the unmistakable signature of a predator bear was close by and in a mild panic, he shook Nikkulaat awake.

"Hmm, what's going on...?!" Nikkulaat whispered hoarsely.

"Ssshhh and listen," Katu quieted his friend's complaints with a sharp, whispered retort.

Nikkulaat felt for his rifle and held his breath, listening to Katu's alarm, then he heard it and it was closer than he felt comfortable with.

"Nanuq...!"

It wasn't an ideal situation to be trapped in a tent when a hungry bear was lurking, looking for an easy meal. Katu's mind couldn't shake the image of the massive pad prints he'd seen tracking Bruun, and maybe the monster had feasted on Bruun's skinny frame and was now looking for a decent meal. If the bear was close enough for them to hear a snort, he would have picked up their scent long ago and would be ready to pounce at any moment.

Katu contemplated firing a shot through the tent, but the shot would tear the tent to shreds, leaving them completely unprotected against the elements if the bear decided not to attack. If it was the monster lurking outside, no amount of rifle fire would be able to dissuade his strike and there wouldn't be enough left to identify their remains after he had finished.

A sharp feeling of disdain rang like a bell in Katu's mind while his hands grasped the rifle till his knuckles turned white; he blamed himself for their present circumstances. If he'd taken notice of his suspicions and hadn't accepted Bruun's dubious assistance when he'd offered it, they wouldn't be in this situation now and they wouldn't be searching for the fool's corpse either. Katu kept up the bitter, silent tirade on himself, angry he had given a novice bounty hunter a firm lead on Bjarni's whereabouts. That was the worst part of his stupidity, and he clenched his jaw shut tight in frustration.

He had unwittingly sold out his long time friend and the anger towards Bruun spiralled.

The sound of the tent zipper opening shocked Katu out of his anger and he stared at his friend, working the flap open to the outside air.

"Is that wise, Nikkulaat?!" Katu whispered awkwardly.

"We'll soon see." A sudden blast of cold air entered the tent, signalling Nikkulaat had succeeded in his attempts.

Only metres away, not one, but two nanuq stared them down while the bigger male took umbrage to the interruption and reared on his hind legs, threatening the men.

It was obvious they were feeding, otherwise they would have attacked the tent already, leaving Katu and Nikkulaat as another unsolved wilderness mystery.

A sudden, horrifying thought crossed Katu's mind: maybe their meal might be the remains of Bruun, prompting Katu to aim his rifle into the night air and call the big male nanuq's bluff. The earsplitting _crack_ rang out into the still night, stunning the big bear and stopping him in his tracks.

Another volley of shots from Nikkulaat backed up Katu's, but this time the shots zinged past the nanuq, spraying him with dirt and rock.

Discretion won the day and valour took a backseat while the two nanuq scampered testily into the open tundra night some distance away. They stopped and turned to gaze back at the situation, standing on their hind legs and sniffing the air threateningly.

"They'll be back," Nikkulaat warned.

"No doubt," Katu replied. "But I have to see whether their meal was what we are looking for."

"Yeah, I thought that was your thinking."

*~*~*~*

Bjarni's senses tuned into the sounds of multiple rifle shots echoing across the tundra. Instinctively, he kicked the stove door completely closed and dowsed the lights, dropping the hut into sinister, deep shadows.

"Friends of yours...?" Bjarni whispered, keeping the stranger in view.

"I doubt it; I'm travelling alone," the stranger sighed and the action made Bjarni stare at him.

"Look, Bjarni, I'm a member of the Politiets Aktionsstyrke, the special forces unit of the Danish police but I am acting on my own. It's complicated and I had to positively identify you first before I divulge my identity. If you give me a moment, I'll tell you everything."

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 74

Nancy Jessop typed feverishly, trying to finish the extensive document Kyle Slinger had dumped on her desk fifteen minutes before she was due to knock off for the day. Her furious eyes reflected in the computer's background as she followed the words speedily traversing across the screen. She thumped the keys irrationally as mistakes appeared and a squiggly red line under the unrecognisable word thumbed its nose at her, deliberately declaring her error. She sighed and frustrated tears began to gather in the corners of her eyes as she glanced at the significant document on her desk and the hours of work she had ahead of her.

Tonight was Cutter's Bible study and she didn't want to miss it. Slinger knew she attended, figuring this was a deliberate punishment for her folly and by all accounts the workload he had set her and the timing required, would make sure she would not be present.

Nancy glanced at the office clock: it was 6:45pm and Slinger had already gone home, leaving her alone in the church office. She paused for a moment, reached for her bag, searching desperately for a Kleenex to blow her nose. Not finding the object of her search, she pushed the chair out with her knees and wandered into the communal bathroom close by. She turned on the faucet and splashed water into her face, trying to calm her anger and then dried her face on a clean paper towel from the wall dispenser.

Before she could gather her thoughts, the office phone began its annoying beckon. She sighed angrily and then spoke to herself, "I knew signing up for a ministry position was a mistake. They just treat me like a slave!"

She plopped back down in her office chair and stared at the jangling device. Defiantly, she decided to ignore the call, imagining she was punishing Slinger in some weird sort of way.

Her conscience got the better of her and she grabbed for the receiver, silencing its infernal noise. "Sue's Bridge Community Church, I'm sorry the office is closed right now but I am happy to take a message."

Nancy Jessop listened to the caller, becoming drawn into a turmoil of horror. She couldn't believe what she was hearing and when the caller had finished she slumped, shocked, over her desk and then burst into tears, wondering what to do.

"P..pray, must get people praying," she stuttered to herself and began phoning the leaders of the church.

*~*~*~*

Ruth's busy evening schedule was in full swing caring for her two patients: administering Grayson's pain medication and settling Shayden's burning temperature before she served dinner.

An emergency police siren momentarily arrested her attention, followed by the unmistakable wail of an ambulance making its way closer. As suddenly as the disturbing alarm started, it fell quiet, giving the impression it was attending to a situation close by.

Feeling unnerved, Ruth went to the front window and checked up and down the street, but it was calm and only a slowly moving car passing by disturbed the scene. Returning to the kitchen she glanced up at the clock: it was fast approaching 6:30pm. Cutter's Bible study group started in half an hour. The thought of missing the study group tugged at her heart strings; she enjoyed the fun and laughter of the group and loved learning about the mysteries of her new faith, but having two dependant people to care for meant she had to make some sacrifices. Besides, Cutter would fill in the gaps in her knowledge and make sure she continued to grow.

She settled four plates on the serving counter and began to load them with steaming hot food, carefully wrapping two plates in aluminium foil before placing them back into the oven to keep warm for when Cutter returned after the study. Ruth balanced the other two plates and entered the spare room, placing the two meals down on a bedside table ready to feed her charges. It took only ten minutes to feed Shayden, but Grayson was having difficulty in breathing and each mouthful was a marathon to get into his stomach.

After the extended episode feeding Grayson, he seemed exhausted and his colour had faded to a worrying pale grey. She had seen the telltale signs of fey in many elderly people before and she wondered whether she should prepare Shayden for the inevitable.

Becoming quiet, Shayden watched Ruth feeding Grayson as he struggled to breathe and eat. A rogue tear slipped unseen from her eyes and plopped onto her pillow; it didn't take long for others to follow, until an avalanche of silent, itinerant emotion had erupted.

When Ruth got up to clear away the dishes, she caught the telltale tear tracks on Shayden's face and noticed her eyes were puffy and red. Moved by the distraught sight, Ruth placed the dirty dishes on the floor by Shayden's bed and leaned over to hug her, then kissed her hot and distressed forehead with a motherly kiss.

Shayden's small form shuddered in Ruth's embrace, overcome with grief and then a tiny, broken voice choking on her tears, whispered into Ruth's ear, "What am I gonna do when Pa dies? I won't have anyone, or anywhere to live."

Ruth's embrace tightened while Shayden trembled in great muted sobs, holding back the dam of emotion and trying not to disturb her dying parent.

"Don't worry about that, sweetheart," Ruth whispered, trying to comfort Shayden's apprehension. "Your home is here with me."

Shayden's arms reached up from her bed and wrapped around Ruth's neck and kissed her cheek with a watery kiss. The implications of Ruth's reassurance stilled the storm and Shayden fell silent, grieving for her grandfather instead.

Ruth held Shayden for a long time, concerned for the emotional load the little girl was carrying, and allowed Shayden to process her grief safely in her arms. Finally, the warmth of Ruth's embrace helped to support the weight of Shayden's struggling uncertainty; her eyelids became heavier, resisting her body's demand for rest until her body's needs overrode her mind and she fell asleep.

*~*~*~*

Kanortoq writhed in victory as the air waves buzzed with the successful surprise attack. Not only had they shut down their enemy, Cutter, but they had also shut down the damaging prayer and Bible study and scattered the enemy troop all in one foul hit.

His joy was interrupted by worrying reports of a small prayer chain led by an insignificant woman, offering prayers to the Christian God on behalf of the waning Cutter. But the church leaders wouldn't commit to coordinate prayers in a determined effort; bickering and fighting erupted over the leadership of the operation, and Christian prayer warriors in great number were unaware of the battle.

The uncoordinated and sporadic prayer offered was like an enemy sniper picking off individual soldiers in a massive, concentrated army attack and although it took some casualties, the army easily marched on towards victory – unperturbed.

The spirits were doing a great job disrupting the Christians and throwing them into chaos. Soon he would be able to concentrate on a greater mission: the final contest.

The chanters were still calling for the warrior, but their chants were being drowned out by the buzz of an enemy defeat. It was as if they were deaf to the spirit air waves and the news hadn't got through.

*~*~*~*

Ruth awoke with a start and peered around the room, dazed. She had fallen asleep on the lounge, waiting for Cutter to come back. She drew herself to her feet, ambled over to the window and peered out into the dimly lit street. A check in both directions revealed nothing out of the ordinary and Cutter's motorcycle was conspicuous by its absence.

She swallowed down a growing concern and moved quietly through the lounge and into the kitchen, trying not to disturb her sleeping patients. A quick glance at the kitchen clock set the alarm bells ringing: it was well after midnight.

A worried knot rose in her stomach and she reached for the phone and dialled Cutter's number, but it just rang off. She started to panic and tried to think who to contact: the church office would be deserted at this time of night and the after-hours number diverted to Cutter's phone anyway.

She remembered the emergency sirens earlier and grabbed for the phone book to look up the hospital phone number. Growing fear nearly paralysed her and her hands shook as she dialled the number, having to redial when she messed up the sequence.

"Sue's Bridge Community Hospital," a machine recited. "For emergencies, press one; for patient information, press two; for the cafeteria, press three; all other calls, press four or just hang up."

Ruth's mind was in turmoil; her stomach tensed as she tried to make sense of the instructions. She knew emergencies wouldn't answer: they were always short-staffed and always busy; patient information would be unattended at this time of night; and in a moment of decision she pressed four and waited, in the meantime praying fervently, begging God to protect her man.

*~*~*~*

Juanita lay back on her lounge with two pillows propping up her feet; the baby was overdue and she just couldn't get comfortable. She could hear the delicious sleep-laden snores coming from her bedroom as Javier chased around his dreams, but he was blissfully unaware of her discomfort. She sighed and peered up at the kitchen clock: it was nearly 2am and looking like it was going to be another long night without sleep for her.

A sudden jangling disturbed the quiet house and it took a while for her to focus on the phone. A pang of fear raced through her tired mind: phone calls at this time of night only brought bad news.

She pushed with all her strength to raise herself from the lounge while her huge pregnant belly acted as a cantilever, once she'd struggled up halfway. Waddling over to the phone, she held her hand on the receiver for a short time and offered a quick prayer.

"Hello, Juanita speaking."

It took a few moments to decipher the owner of the voice and what she was trying to say through her hysteria.

"Ruth, is that you? Slow down, sweetie, and take a breath. I can't understand you."

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 75

In the early morning before she took breakfast, Mrs Parks hummed as she pottered in her vast garden, pruning, weeding and just enjoying talking to Papa God as she worked. The servants were mystified and couldn't believe the change in her since Pastor Cutter had been visiting; she was almost pleasant to work for. Poor old Classons, her butler, couldn't cope with the nice treatment he was receiving and tendered his resignation, looking to work for a properly abusive _Lady of the House_.

Yesterday was supposed to be Cutter's visit but he had cancelled due to some emergency he had to attend to. Although she was disappointed, she understood she was not the only one requiring his time. For reasons unknown to her, she decided to miss the coveted Bible study last night also; it usually was an essential part of the week, looking forward to meeting with other hungry people starving for good, powerful teaching. But as she prepared to leave for Cutter's apartment, she'd felt a check in her spirit and she obeyed.

" _Constance,"_ a whisper drifted over her.

Mrs Parks stopped her humming and held her breath. Had she heard what she thought she had?

She listened again, but no one was even remotely close to her. Besides, none of the servants knew her pet name and wouldn't dare call her Constance, anyway. It was a name her father gave her as a girl and soon her mind was lost in memories of her beloved dad.

" _Constance,_ " the whisper happened again.

This time she did hear it, and was about to dissect anyone bold enough to have interfered in her private world and studied her personal life. She searched around, looking for an offender, but she was alone.

"Who's there...?!" she retorted, becoming angrier.

" _Constance, my beloved, pray for Cutter and Ruth. They need your prayers and those of the faithful; call them to prayer, dear one._ "

A gentle softness fluttered over her and she recognised the voice.

With her heart burning within her, she made her way determinedly back inside and reached for the phone.

*~*~*~*

Kanortoq's eyes sprung open in shock. It was the first time he had allowed himself to sleep in nearly two days, and now disturbing reverberations were pulsing along the airwaves of the spirits. He threw the caribou pelt off his skinny frame and sat bolt upright on his bed, listening to the jabbering.

The enemy's man was still silent, but from somewhere, a steady and devastating prayer plea to the Christian God was growing stronger, beating out into the spirit world and taking the spirit army down in droves. Kanortoq struggled to his feet, fear rippling through his ancient veins. He could hear the desperate cries of his foul spirits, their annihilation pounding through his head. To make things worse, the chanters' message was becoming louder and the call for the warrior was gaining support.

He had to do something... and fast!

*~*~*~*

Kyle Slinger indignantly paced around the church office. It seemed he was losing grip on leadership over Cutter's accident and groups were splintering off in all directions. This was an unacceptable development and he only had his nemesis to blame for his sliding grasp. To top things off, Nancy Jessop had disobeyed him and hadn't completed the work he had expressly given her to complete the previous night: she knew it was urgent. Now, two hours after the office had opened, she was missing from her post, leaving him to man the office alone.

In a desperate bid, Slinger called his associates who were still loyal to him and ordered them to phone around the church people, calling them to an urgent meeting in the church hall. It had been a gargantuan mistake on his part giving an ex-con and a biker a position in his ministry, but now he had to put a halt to the widening split that had torn his life apart and reunite the people under his ministry once again, before he lost control completely.

Two nervous hours passed while Kyle Slinger watched the hall swell with church attendees from his office window, until there was standing room only in the vast auditorium.

The noise was incredible as indignant faces stared around from the crowd, contemplating why they had been summoned away from their workaday lives for a special meeting.

*~*~*~*

Kanortoq felt the easing of hostilities and his army regrouped while the enemy was distracted, breaking their devastating prayer barrage.

He needed to act quickly.

If he could destroy the enemy's man while his prayer support had been disrupted, then there would be no need for the warrior to leave his post and the great contest could go on without opposition.

The Rainbow Man's challenger was in disarray too, leaving Kanortoq and his hordes in the winner's seat for sure.

*~*~*~*

The emergency room at Sue's Bridge Community Hospital had been in chaos since E.R. Nurse Rhiannon Speers had clocked on at 6pm, nearly twelve hours ago: four overdoses; two knife fights; an explosion from a methamphetamine drug lab leaving three people with horrific burns; and a motorcycle accident.

Rhiannon was extremely tired and hadn't had a break all night. Her last task before she finished was to obtain 150 milligrams of flecainide acetate, a suppressant drug to regulate an extremely fast heartbeat, ordered by the resident E.R. specialist. She made her way into the drug storage cabinet area and used her key to unlock the dispensary, then searched the bottles until she found what she was looking for. Taking a new syringe, she plunged the needle into the rubber plug and drew out 150 milligrams, filled in the paperwork required then returned to the E.R. room. Rhiannon administered the drug into the unconscious patient and then checked with the specialist before clocking off from her shift.

The specialist was still busy with other patients, acknowledging Rhiannon's intention to clock off with a wave of his hand. "Oh, Nurse, before you go. Did you administer 50 milligrams of flecainide acetate into the motorcycle accident victim?"

Rhiannon stared at the specialist in horror. "Fifty milligrams?! I thought you wanted 150!"

The specialist returned her stare in shock, then hurried over to the patient and checked his vital signs.

The patient's heartbeat began to slow dangerously, while his colour began to fade into a pale white.

*~*~*~*

Kyle Slinger drew in a deep breath, standing by the office window and peered into the auditorium, now filled to the brim with church patrons. It was time to make his appearance; reassert his authority; and put a stop to the damaging prayer cells splintering into home groups, practising who knew what sort of theology at Cutter's instigation.

Slinger made his entry, trying to look confident but a round of loud, unruly questions from the audience rocked the auditorium as he stood nervously by the lectern.

He held up his hand and called the gathering into order. "Patrons of Sue's Bridge Community, I am as shocked and upset at Cutter's unfortunate accident as you all are. It does concern me that people seem to be following Cutter's strange teaching and splintering the church into factions or prayer cells."

A sudden eruption echoed across the hall and disdain drowned Slinger out. He held up his hand again for order and waited as the crowd settled.

"It is the leadership's intention to refocus our prayer groups back into the original forms–using the correct prayer books for corporate prayer and at the appropriate time during a service. Things need to be done in an orderly fashion."

Another round of dissention erupted as some people stood to leave.

" **You are wrong, Pastor Slinger! You can't keep our Lord compartmentalised in prayer books and small-minded idealism!** "

An elderly voice cut through the turmoil and stopped the arguing in an abrupt halt. The auditorium descended into deathly quiet; only the _clacking_ footsteps of the old woman could be heard as she slowly stepped up the aisle towards Slinger.

"Pastor Cutter is God's man and if you took the time to look past your hatred of this fine man, you would see how much he has impacted the lives of the people of this church and led us towards Papa God. This wonderful man has been Jesus' example to every one of us in this room and now he needs your help, your prayers–and what are we doing, arguing over prayer books."

The auditorium burst into a cheer and people began applauding the feisty old woman.

As she came closer, Slinger could see the outline of Mrs Parks pointing a thin, bony finger directly at him like some ancient prophet.

"You have opposed Papa God's work long enough, Pastor Slinger. You need to repent and get on board with what God is doing; or resign, and let someone else lead us." She then turned her attention towards the stunned crowd. "People, pray with me: Pastor Cutter is in the battle of his life."

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 76

Ruth's uneasiness was making her feel ill as she parked her small car in the Sue's Bridge Community Hospital car park. Juanita and Javier had made the thirty kilometre early morning journey from a neighbouring town to Ruth's apartment without a single objection, taking over the care routine for Shayden and Grayson while giving her time to steel herself before she confronted Cutter's condition.

All she could make out from talking to the duty administrator was that Cutter was still unconscious and his heart rate was giving them some cause for concern. The administrator didn't have any more detail to add and only offered her empathy.

Shayden had woken at the disturbance when Juanita and Javier arrived but Ruth was reluctant to give her any details, trying to spare the child any more grief. Shayden had read the fear in Ruth's eyes and somehow knew that Cutter was in trouble. The determination in Shayden's voice stunned Ruth and spoke of a wisdom far exceeding her years; she comforted Ruth by committing to pray, and exercise her new relationship with her Papa God, accepting nothing but a full recovery.

*~*~*~*

Running for the dispensary, the E.R. specialist unlocked the drug cabinet with his key and frantically searched for a bottle of epinephrine: adrenaline. It was a long shot but if he could overcome the stalling heart of the motorcycle accident victim with a shot of adrenaline, he might just have a chance.

He rushed back to the emergency room and burst into the cubicle and administered the drug, then gave orders for the victim to be moved to the intensive care wing for constant surveillance.

*~*~*~*

It took a while for Ruth to find an administrator in the sleepy hospital foyer office but when she did, they were extremely vague, setting out at Ruth's insistence to find whether Cutter was still in the E.R.

She knew from her experiences as a nurse the stalling tactics used when they were working on someone; relatives and family only complicated an emergency situation, therefore they weren't allowed in the emergency room.

The administrator's constant requests for Ruth to take a seat while she searched for information on the patient just made Ruth more nervous. She followed the instructions and perched precariously on the edge of a nearby lounge chair, watching the woman through a glass petition separating the workstation from the foyer.

Finally, the administrator put the phone down and broke the uneasy quiet and called to Ruth, "The patient is still in E.R. and they will let me know when he has been moved into recovery, but until then, you will just have to wait."

*~*~*~*

During the congregation's preoccupation with corporate prayer for Cutter, Kyle Slinger slunk off the stage and disappeared, unnoticed.

At Mrs Parks' instigation, the elders organised the people into prayer cells to pray around the clock for Cutter's recovery. Then once the prayer shield around Cutter had been established, she ordered the elders into her limousine and chaperoned them to the hospital.

*~*~*~*

Ruth peered up at the foyer clock and sighed loudly; it was just after 9am and people traffic into the hospital appeared to become busier. She had nervously paced the reception area since 4am and still there was no news. She felt alone and when she tried to pray, the worry deflected her prayers off the ceiling and they seemed to bounce back, dropping at her feet.

A disturbance by the door drew her attention; Ruth recognised Mrs Parks and three of the churches officials walking in. Mrs Parks acknowledged Ruth's haggard appearance immediately and made a bee-line for her, wrapping her in a huge hug.

"How is our boy?"

Ruth lost her composure when she felt the warmth of Mrs Parks' hug and the support she offered, no longer feeling alone and carrying the sole burden.

"I don't know; they won't let me see him," Ruth whispered.

Mrs Parks stepped back from the hug, leaving Ruth wiping tears away from her eyes. "We'll see about that, my girl!"

The older woman strode directly for the administrator's window while Ruth watched her in amazement. She couldn't make out what was being said, but the bony finger was out and hurried phone calls were being made on the other side of the glass petition.

Within minutes, a man in a suit, accompanied by a man in a white coat, appeared from an elevator and hurried to placate the dowager. They were obviously high ranking hospital officials and judging by the response, Mrs Parks was an important person to them as well.

Moments later, they were being ushered into an elevator accompanied by the officials, eventually arriving at the intensive care unit. As the doors of the elevator opened at the I.C.U. desk, shocked staff suddenly jumped into panic mode and all found another place to be.

Ruth was the first one allowed in to see Cutter. She was disturbed to see the bruised and swollen face and immediately she was drawn to the heart monitor. Her man was struggling to hold his own in his unconscious state. Tears began and she spoke softly to him, not wanting to add to his pain by touching his bruised flesh.

It wasn't long before her short visit was over and Mrs Parks was given a few minutes. The hospital officials tried to accompany the old lady but she stopped them with a stiff order, leaving her alone with Cutter.

As the door closed into the I.C.U. observation room behind Mrs Parks, she heard the small voice again and felt His power streaming like electricity through her wiry veins. She drew in a breath and pointed her bony finger directly at Cutter, then loudly proclaimed like one of the New Testament disciples, "Spirit of death, I command you in the name of Jesus to release your victim and bother him no more. He is a child of the Most High God and he has work to do for his King."

*~*~*~*

Kanortoq's skinny frame flew across the room and he crashed heavily against the wall with a loud thud, as if he had been slapped by a large hand.

The spirit world was in chaos and the army of the evil had disbanded and deserted their ranks. He could hear angry spirits gathering about him, like a hive of hornets stirred up by a devastating impact. Loud chants were calling for the warrior and the spirits added their shrieks to the call. He had no choice but to let the warrior go and offer no opposition to the new mission; his only hope now was that the _Reptoclasto_ would complete his assignment before the contest began and return in time to defend the important event. The spirits had no idea of the gravity of removing the Gate Keeper from his post, but it was obvious he had failed in his bid to route the Christian prayer warriors and defeat his adversary, Cutter.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 77

Katu cautiously approached the deserted remains of the carcass, reluctantly abandoned by the nanuq under the threat of gunfire, while Nikkulaat scanned the dark wilderness, searching for trouble. Katu swallowed hard and placed his hand over his mouth, preparing for a grizzly sight. The scene troubled his stomach as he tried to identify body parts, but he relaxed his guard when he recognised the long shaggy fur of a muskox and hoofed feet. Katu shifted his grip on his rifle and then rejoined his friend standing guard.

"It's a muskox." Katu's heavy sigh indicated his apprehension and relief.

"I think it might be a good idea to push on now that the storm has abated," Nikkulaat whispered, still searching his surrounds.

Katu nodded his approval; he wasn't keen to sleep so close to a nanuq's dining room anyway and Nikkulaat was right: they would be back looking to recapture their meal.

Not long after they had broken camp and hoisted their packs, using starlight to trace the shores of the fjord and find their direction, they heard movement behind them and the sounds of gorging bears.

Katu regularly turned around to check their rear guard but it was almost certain the threat was preoccupied by a greater need: food.

After an hour of walking, the two men climbed a rise in the landscape, glimpsing their first close up sight of Sydkap and Bjarni Kleist's hut. Smoke wafted lazily from the old chimney stack, punctuated against the mountain backdrop by clear skies and millions of tiny pinpricks of light. It was hard to gauge the hour but whatever the time, the hut was in darkness.

The sight of the smoke brought relief to Katu. Someone was alive in that hut and he hoped it was Bjarni.

*~*~*~*

The young stranger cleared his throat and glanced up at Bjarni, then across to Anunya. "Look, I have spent nearly five years researching your predicament and another five trying to track you down. My unit was sent here recently trying to locate and break up a people smuggling ring, stealing women from isolated outposts and trafficking them into slavery. I took some vacation time I had owing and decided to use the situation to see if I could find you. I'm not going to be any trouble and if anyone gets a little itchy on the trigger finger, I could be a little worse for wear."

Anunya stared at Bjarni, fear and hope racing across her mind at the young stranger's confession, while Bjarni stared the man down, boring into his eyes as if he was looking for treachery.

In a moment of decision, he lowered his gun and then nodded to Anunya, buying his story–for now–but his grasp on the weapon didn't shift from his hand.

The stranger blew out a breath, relieved the old man had at least trusted him thus far and then relaxed a little. "I am the son of Helena Bruun, the late Helena Bruun. My name is Carl Bruun." The man glanced up, looking for Bjarni's reaction, but he was poker faced.

"Yeah, so what has that got to do with me and why did you come here to arrest me?"

"Apparently, it has quite a bit to do with you and I'm sorry about the _under arrest_ thing – force of habit."

Bjarni's glaring expression indicated he was waiting for more enlightenment and Anunya was just plain confused. She had many questions of her own about this young intruder and his connection to trafficking, but this wasn't the time to ask. She still didn't know if she could trust him. Many men in her life had claimed to be a lot of things and turned out to be deceitful. She would need more assurance that this person wasn't a bounty hunter sent to recapture her.

Bruun took another cautious breath, unaware of how the old wilderness man would cope with the next piece of information. "Helena Bruun's maiden name was Helena Gurst... she was your sister!"

Bjarni crumpled under the weight of Bruun's statement, reeling from the blow. Anunya's eyes were big and staring; she had no idea what was happening, but was concerned for Bjarni's well being.

"Helena was born soon after you and your father left on a mission's trip into the isolated village of Ittoqqortoormiit to set up house among the Inuit. Your mother–my grandmother–was then heavily pregnant and couldn't journey with you and your father so she stayed back in Denmark until Helena was born. But complications arose with Helena's birth and Helena remained a sickly child right up until her early adulthood. This changed your parents' plans and before they could pray and seek God's will, this terrible incident splintered our family and cast great doubt over the family name."

Bjarni's face was white, listening to another man reciting his life story. He was still angry with his father's God, who had appeared to have let him down so many years ago when he'd begged Him to spare his father's life – but didn't.

Bruun carefully continued, "Soon after your father, Wilhelm Gurst, died and you disappeared into the wilderness, his belongings were sent home to your mother, but it wasn't until recent times that Wilhelm's diary mysteriously appeared and shed light on the truth of what took place that horrible day. Daniel, what happened that day nearly sixty years ago wasn't your fault. It's all written in your father's handwriting. If you will allow me to get the diary from my pack, I can show you."

Bjarni was speechless, shocked into silence and didn't reply. Nobody had called him Daniel for over half a century. He had taken on _Bjarni Kleist–_ an assumed name–instead, trying to remain ambiguous. He had no idea he had a sibling either and that just made the heartache even greater.

Bruun could see the difficulty Bjarni was having and tried to authenticate his explanation further. "With her dying breath, my mother, Helena, begged me to find you and explain what really happened nearly sixty years ago."

Anunya stepped aside, wide eyed and confused as Bruun cautiously picked his way around her and reached for his pack. Shtiya growled a warning as Bruun dug into his belongings and retrieved the diary, then handed it to Bjarni.

Even after sixty years, he recognised the book immediately. Apart from his Bible, the diary was his father's most treasured possession; he had been precise in recording the daily activities and seldom missed an entry. Bjarni turned the book over in his hands, dumbfounded. He held a piece of his history and he was uncertain if he had the courage to revisit the life of pain he had tried so desperately to forget.

Shtiya and Akiak were silent and laying at Bjarni's feet, enjoying the warmth radiating out from the stove. Akiak raised her head to listen and then began to sniff the night air; Shtiya joined in with her probing and then broke into a warning snarl, echoed by Akiak.

"What is it?" Bjarni whispered to the dogs, gripping his rifle and preparing for some new distraction.

From outside, a chorus of snarling barks erupted; the dog team were still tethered to the sled and something was upsetting them. Bjarni grasped his rifle tightly and strode for the door. Bruun followed with his torch and then finally, Anunya.

In the cacophony of noise, Bjarni searched around the darkened landscape while Bruun's torch cut through the darkness like a knife.

Bjarni recognised the stench of a long forgotten oppressive presence, putrid in invisibility, but nonetheless threatening and it appeared to be watching them, remaining concealed. Recognition played with his mind while the hair on his neck bristled and a deep fear ate at his nerves.

_It_ was back to finish what it had begun nearly sixty years ago, that same unforgettable choking odour, overpowering with the promise of death, dragging up the dreadful memories associated with its stink.

Suddenly, the dogs' snarling barks subsided and they settled down into tasting the air again. Shtiya and Akiak lowered their noses to the ground and followed the scent away from the hut, while Bjarni and Bruun followed behind them. Anunya raised her rifle, following the men, ready to shoot if a threat challenged them.

She heard Bjarni exclaim, "Here look at this!" and then Bruun's torch settled on something on the ground. Anunya scurried up to join them to see what they were looking at.

Her mouth dropped open at the size of the pad prints stamped so heavily into the snow. They were huge, far bigger than anything she had seen before.

"What is it, Bjarni?" she whispered.

"Ataneq Nanuq, Anunya. He's back to settle the score. The light storm we saw a few nights ago is connected to his coming."

Bjarni searched around for the direction he had gone, but the tracks were confusing him. It seemed as if he had jumped from the last pad prints... but never landed.

His face contorted in fear, not believing what the tracks were reporting.

"He's just disappeared!"

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 78

A solitary orderly walked the north wing corridors; his shoes _clacked_ on the polished tiled floors and echoed throughout the cavernous, deserted labyrinth as he paced. A myriad of doors faced onto the brightly lit passageway, but behind their locked facades lay a darkened room, hiding a secret world of hospital life.

Since the crazy boy had taken on the lumbering hospital system and exposed its gaping cracks, life in the wards had settled back into a form of normalcy, like leaves falling from a tree and drifting into a pattern on the ground, directed only by the driven wind.

Great debate existed in the staff break rooms; the unnatural strength of the boy and his bizarre behaviour dominated conversation, while each member of the staff had an opinion and argued fervently for its validation. However, each argument fell apart and the combatant dissolved into silence as soon as the minister's courageous actions were mentioned.

He was a piece of the puzzle that just didn't fit.

Tonight the north wing lay undisturbed, while the recovery room had only one occupant. One solitary client lay strapped to a gurney among a row of neatly arranged gurneys. This fact alone was unusual; clients often misbehaved in a determined effort to break the medicated grasp Cavalier had over their lives and ended in Alcatraz, as they called it.

The orderly stopped outside the recovery room, holding a tray of medication and peered in through a glass panel in the door. The semi-dark room appeared normal as it reflected the quiet behaviour contained within its walls; the only illumination came from an emergency exit sign, but it was enough light to see the full extent of the calm. The orderly paused for a moment before entering, the boy's aggression still fresh in his memory and if the boy suddenly went berserk, there wasn't anyone to help him escape. The straps holding this patient to the gurney were no match for what he had been seen to do.

He pulled in a long breath and then precariously balanced the tray, unlocking the door into the recovery room at the same time. The stroboscopic start up of the florescent lights added a new dimension of fear until the room completely flooded in white light, exposing every possible threat.

The boy squinted in the sudden light, unable to rearrange his tethered limbs and shade his eyes. "Can you please release these straps? My back hurts and I can't move to get comfortable," the boy complained. "And when can I get out of this room? It's creepy in here all alone."

These were the normal complaints of a teenage boy and his face seemed innocent and young, not the threatening monster of a few days ago.

"Not until Doctor Cavalier gives the okay." The large orderly kept his distance and Jaimon could see the caution in his eyes. "Here, take your medication; it will help you keep calm."

"I am calm and I don't need medicating!" Jaimon complained.

A fit of unwise teenage mischief crossed Jaimon's mind, conspiring to cash in on the obvious caution the orderly exhibited and have some tedium breaking fun while sharing his pain.

As the orderly approached and commanded Jaimon to stick out his tongue to receive the pills, Jaimon suddenly yelled, " _Boo!_ "

The orderly tumbled backwards, sending the tray and pills sprawling in every direction and then scrambling for the door he panicked, swiftly locking the boy behind the solid partition and hurried away, leaving the lights on.

When the orderly arrived at the closed circuit television station his companion, watching the drama on multiple screens, broke into outlandish laughter and chided the man for being a coward.

"Yeah, well, you're a hero sitting behind a television monitor; let's see how you go giving the kid his meds!"

The challenge to confront the boy suddenly calmed his laughter and he stared at his companion with an expression of, _I've got other more important things to do._

"Yeah, just what I thought, Mr Big Mouth! It's easy to laugh at someone else."

"I..I'm not afraid of the kid," the stutter gave away his true feelings. "Where is his schedule and _I_ will give them to him."

"It's scattered all over the recovery room floor; I am sure you will find them while I watch from here."

The roles had been quickly reversed and the orderly settled into his companion's chair in front of the monitors to watch the humour unfold.

Meanwhile, Jaimon had laughed himself breathless and was expecting another attempt any moment. He didn't have to wait long until another cautious big man unlocked the door and entered the room.

"Very funny, little fella; you scared my companion half out of his wits. But it's not going to work on me. Take your meds or I will suggest to Doctor Cavalier a longer stretch in isolation for you, and an extended stay in Bairnsworth before they ever consider letting you out."

The new orderly appeared to be shaky at the start, but he grew in confidence. His threats stymied Jaimon's fun and he took the meds without further incident.

*~*~*~*

Jaimon's mind descended a steep staircase into a world of vibrating, floating images as his body seemed to hover above a half-finished canvas painting and then dove head first into a sea of thick, globular paint, swimming sluggishly through intoxicating colours.

"What are you doing, freckle?!" an astonished voice reverberated through his private dream.

"Who's there?" Jaimon demanded, but his voice was slow and struggling, his tongue sticking to his teeth in a drug-induced fog.

"Even after our little journey, you still aren't very smart, are you?"

Jaimon suddenly surfaced from the sea of paint, his body pummelled by thick, multicoloured waves curling and breaking over him, then a distant memory flashed into his mind and he fell silent. He had heard this voice before in his subconscious, but it wasn't a pleasant memory.

"Ssselana iss that you...?" his voice called in twisted dialogue.

"Hooray, freckle! Top points for you."

Jaimon became angry. "You deceived me, Salena. I thought you were my friend."

"Get a grip, Bob. All's fair in deception and war where I come from. Anyway, you still belong to us. Just because that... _pastor_ _e_ victed Galillio and Felon, doesn't change anything! We still have a legal right to inhabit you and I have a _real_ powerful friend that's just so eager to occupy you and lead you onto your destiny. Have you heard of the Gate Keeper Warrior, Bob? He makes Galillio and his power look like a Girl Guides' picnic."

The scene before Jaimon quickly changed from his foggy dream to a featureless black, having no definition, floor or ceiling.

A small lizard-like creature appeared before him, so ugly in its features, Jaimon raised his hands before his face to shield the sight. It spoke and he recognised Salena's voice.

"Jaimon, stupid Jaimon, meet the Warrior, the Gate Keeper!"

A presence so dark and foreboding rose over the top of Salena and filled the view for as far as he could see. He recognised the same evil intent of Galillio, but this thing's putrid power far overarched the _Terrorclasto_ and it flashed around like lightning, drawing his soul from his body and choking any part of decency from his adolescent mind.

Even from a distance, Jaimon could feel the evil magnetism distorting his features and pulling the flesh from his bones as if it was decaying inside him.

Jaimon struggled to think, gawking at the presence engulfing him like an approaching desert dust storm.

Images flashed across his mind and Cutter's face broke into his panic, shouting at Jaimon in frenzied passion.

" **Call Him, Jaimon! Call Him!** "

" _Jesus, please help me!_ "

*~*~*~*

A sleepy orderly turned towards the closed circuit television monitor and scanned the multitude of screens, checking every part of the deserted hospital interior. He had heard something, but everywhere he searched, the rooms were silent and peaceful.

He settled his gaze on the recovery room in the north wing: the lights were on again and he could see an illusion of the boy's face, smiling and shining on the screen. But he was sure he had turned the lights off when he'd left the boy after he took his meds.

He leaned over to his companion, snoozing in a chair behind him and shook him awake. "Can you go and turn off the lights in the recovery room? Cavalier will have a fit if she finds out I left them on."

The snoozing orderly shook the tiredness from his mind and gave his friend a scowling glare, then decided to comply with his request and not scald him for forgetting a simple requirement of hospital policy. He stammered to his feet and headed towards the recovery room. Once he arrived, he found the lights _were_ out. He glanced through the window slit in the door to the boy. He was awake and gave the orderly a smile that warmed him to his heart, and he couldn't help but smile back.

Once the tired orderly returned to the T.V. monitor he chided his friend. "You must be going crazy; the lights were off."

They both peered up at the screen; but this time, the room was dark.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 79

After nearly six decades of solitary existence, Bjarni Kleist's life once again began to fill with humanity. Anunya had proven her trustworthiness and she was like a daughter to him, but this young Bruun character was claiming to be his sister's son, a sister he knew nothing about.

From a quick glance, the worn leather binding surrounding his father's diary appeared to be genuine, but anyone could have researched his story and manufactured a counterfeit. There were parts of the diary's story that his father had deliberately concealed to baffle treasure hunters, people who could unknowingly place their lives in mortal danger by challenging Ataneq Nanuq's territory in their lust for wealth. The Greenland Gateway Emerald was priceless, but it was called the gateway emerald for a reason, and his father had developed a code within the text of his writing to hide its exact location. As far as Bjarni knew, he was the only person, other than his father, who understood the elaborate ruse.

As Wilhelm Gurst had predicted, Ataneq Nanuq would once again return and challenge the right to unlock the prison surrounding the emerald. The strange–but familiar–emerald lightning storm that had just begun again, accompanied by the presence of the screeching, only confirmed Bjarni's suspicions. But even more worrying, Ataneq Nanuq had reappeared and been so close – close enough to strike.

Kanortoq, the village shaman–his father's old rival–couldn't break through the spiritual interference set up by the Rainbow Man, prohibiting Ataneq Nanuq from disclosing the emerald's exact location and keeping the shaman from disturbing the site. He assumed Kanortoq himself, in later years, suspected the location had something to do with Wilhelm's Bible or his diary.

The strange presence of Ataneq Nanuq's tracks surrounding Bjarni's hut only confirmed Bjarni's suspicions and increased the viability of Bruun's story and gave credence to the validity and authenticity of the diary, now in Bjarni's possession; and to whom Bruun was claiming to be. Unknown to Bruun, Ataneq Nanuq would have been searching for the diary, putting Bruun's life at risk; but the sudden, strange disappearance of the creature baffled Bjarni.

Just when Ataneq Nanuq was so close to capturing the vital clue, he'd disappeared without trace.

*~*~*~*

Anunya still felt uncomfortable around the policeman and eyed him suspiciously, even though Bjarni now seemed to trust the man. Her world had settled into a safe, stable theatre with the man she had adopted as her father. He had won her trust and she was jealous of that relationship, not wanting to make room for a rival.

Bjarni seemed distracted by his thoughts and took a seat in his old rocking chair, trying to make sense of the strange events. Anunya settled on the floor next to Bjarni, sitting cross-legged and peered worriedly up at her mentor. Bjarni's distraction digressed and his gaze fell on Anunya's troubled eyes. In an act of vulnerability, she reached for his hand and Bjarni moved to quell her fear and took hold of her hand.

Bruun stood close by, watching the interlude between the old man and the young woman. His policeman curiosity got the better of him and he broke into the trusting moment between the pair.

"Is Anunya related to us, Daniel?"

Bjarni stared up at Bruun's interruption, thinking through the implications of his question and not wanting to betray Anunya's trust. Ignoring the question, he glanced into the woman's dark eyes and searched the fear lurking in every part of her emotions and then nodded to her.

"You wanted to help your mother and find your real father, then I think we can trust Mr Bruun with your story."

Anunya's fear went off the scale at Bjarni's apparent betrayal of her secret past and it reflected in her round, dark eyes.

Bjarni saw her fear and felt her hand slipping from his. He grasped it again and whispered to her, "I wouldn't do anything to hurt my _panik_ ; I've had confirmation of his trustworthiness in the words of this diary. If you can't trust him, then trust me to trust him."

Anunya peered into the old man's eyes and felt warm and secure. Her mind stretched back over the weeks since she had first met him and how he had taken her under his wing and how she had accepted him as her father figure. Now it was time for the greatest test of his father's love for her. Her grasp on his hand tightened and her eyes danced with adoration.

"You can do it, Anunya; this man is the key to your future."

Bruun lowered himself onto the corner of the bed and settled in to listen to her story, while Anunya bowed her head and searched for a place to start.

By the time Anunya had divulged her story and purposely left out the personal stuff, Bruun had taken his policeman's notebook out and made many notes on names, places and events. He felt camaraderie with the young woman who had suffered so much, but the information she had given him was invaluable to the mission of the special police unit and a break that would have far-reaching implications.

Shtiya suddenly jerked his head up from in front of the stove and followed Akiak to the hut door. The sudden movement stopped all conversation while all three people listened and watched for signs of movement outside. Bjarni knew from the dogs' reactions that it wasn't Ataneq Nanuq again, but a threat just the same.

He reached for his rifle and eased himself up from his chair while Bruun and Anunya watched the wilderness man, wondering what he was planning. The dogs outside the door began to bark, prompting Shtiya and Akiak to bark in unison. Then a voice called from the darkness, some distance away.

"Bjarni, its Katu and Nikkulaat; call off your dogs!"

Bruun heard the shock announcement and wondered whether Katu had found his note and the money he'd left to pay for the goods he'd supposedly stolen. If not, the purpose for their visit was probably his doing and he hoped they would ask questions first and then shoot later.

Bjarni couldn't believe what was happening, wondering why Katu and Nikkulaat had journeyed so far, and on foot too.

*~*~*~*

The crowded scene inside Bjarni's small hut was intense, to say the least. Katu scalded Bruun with such ferocity that Shtiya began to snarl, expecting that the stranger may turn on either one of his masters. Katu's rifle point accentuated his disdain while Bruun appealed for calm, feeling sure Katu had every intention of doing him a serious mischief. Bruun quickly explained his note and the amount of money he'd left by the till back in Katu's store which explained the whole debacle. But it was obvious from Katu's appearance and his expression, he hadn't found either.

It wasn't until Bjarni explained the diary and Bruun's connection to his family line that Katu halted his angry tirade and began to calm down. Bruun then produced his official police identification, leaving no doubt he was who he claimed to be.

Assured the rifle shots he had heard earlier were from his two friends, Bjarni re-lit the hut lighting and stoked the small stove, spilling welcome light and warmth into the dim interior.

With surprise, Katu's eyes settled on a pretty young woman hiding behind Bjarni, obviously frightened by the presence of the men and Katu's angry treatment of Bruun. Katu studied her face, taking in the pink scars that blighted her beauty, but something was disturbing him about the woman, something that he couldn't place.

"Who is this?" Katu questioned, still aggravated from berating Bruun and causing Anunya to retreat further behind Bjarni.

"This is Anunya; I have adopted her as my _panik_ , and she searches for her father who is lost somewhere in the wilderness," Bjarni explained.

Then he turned to Anunya and tried to pry her out of her isolation. "It's alright, Anunya; both of these men are very good friends and they wouldn't hurt you. In fact, Katu knows most of the wilderness people and where they live; maybe if you explain something of your story to him and the names of your parents, he may be able to help you find them."

It was only Bjarni's affirmation that drew her out of her shell, but her trust was stretched to the limits and it took more coaxing from the old man to open her mouth.

A sudden ray of hope flooded Anunya's mind; she would trust these men because Bjarni said she could. Anunya stared at the floor and held onto Bjarni's arm, working up the courage to speak. She sighed heavily. All these new people were a baptism of fire for her and she would have run from them if Bjarni wasn't beside her. She finally gathered her courage and directed her speech towards Katu, a growing excitement playing with her mind, but she was nervous at the same time.

Just maybe this man did know her father and where to find him. Then her father could rescue her mother and they would be reunited as a family for the first time. Her nervousness intensified and butterflies fluttered around in her stomach, making it difficult to speak, but then she finally blurted it out.

"My father's name is Erneq and my mother's name is Nigaq."

Katu gawked at the woman in shock, dropping his rifle to the floor with a clatter.

An anguished groan bubbled up, bending him over at the stomach as if he had been punched, then he dropped to his knees, gasping for breath.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 80

Katu's reaction to Anunya's speech shocked all those around him, thinking he had suffered a heart attack or something similar. Nikkulaat helped his friend up from the floor, troubled that Katu's appearance had turned a pale white colour.

"Are you alright, Katu?" Nikkulaat whispered, concerned at the tears that had formed in the corners of his eyes. He grasped his friend's arm and pulled him back to his feet.

Katu steadied himself and then faced the young woman again, noticing her appearance was red with concern and how she used Bjarni as a shield for whatever this man was preparing to tell her. Katu's throat constricted, trying to spill the words.

"Your parents' names are Erneq and Nigaq Olsvig."

Anunya coughed and then gasped, reeling from his speech and then began to cry, leaning on Bjarni for support and nodding her head in affirmation. When she could speak again, she sniffled back the tears, wanting to know what Katu could tell her about her father.

"Do you know my father and where I can find him?" she pleaded.

Katu nodded. He did know her father; and then he added a statement of his own. "Your mother has dazzling green eyes."

Anunya stared at the stranger, wondering how he knew this intimate detail. "The prettiest green eyes you could ever hope to see," she whispered.

Katu broke down at the confirmation and sobbed, trying to speak at the same time. "Anunya, I am your father. I changed my name to Katu because I couldn't stand hearing the name your mother loved. When she was taken, I spent years searching for her until finally, I resigned myself to her disappearance and lost myself in the wilderness. The pain was so intense I couldn't even bear to speak her name."

Anunya stared at Katu, her dark eyes round in shocked disbelief and tears spilled onto the wooden floor.

Bjarni whispered and encouraged her, "Your father, Katu – Ataata, is a fine man. Go to him."

Awkwardly, Anunya crossed the floor towards Katu and they melted together, holding each other and crying. When he could speak, Katu asked about Nigaq, rekindling the long forgotten hope. It took many hours and many tears for Katu and Anunya to catch up, but when she'd filled in the missing years, he was anxious to rescue his beloved Nigaq and make the people who took her, pay.

Katu's attention turned back to Bruun, the fire of a fight burning in his eyes. "Can't you use your contacts to help us, Bruun?"

Bruun smiled big and held up a satellite phone. "Already on it, Katu. The bust should be happening right about now and as soon as my colleagues find her, she'll be on her way home, courtesy of the Danish government."

*~*~*~*

The tiny hut exploded into a carnival atmosphere. What had started out to be a morose affair, ended up in celebration. Hope and warm chatter pervaded the people inside while everybody dug in to prepare a feast, and when they gathered around the small table to eat, many wilderness stories awed those listening.

During a brief respite when all mouths were full of food, Bruun ventured a question and all eyes settled on Bjarni.

"Tell us about the _real_ legend of Ataneq Nanuq, Bjarni."

The chatter and laughter died away, like someone pulling an electricity lead from the wall plug. Katu took another bite of food and stared sideways at Bjarni, wondering whether he would respond to Bruun's question.

Bjarni leaned away from the table and sighed heavily. "It's a long story and I'm not sure it's over yet."

All eyes settled on Bjarni, until Anunya leaned over and cuddled him. "I have two ataata now, because you encouraged me to trust. I took a chance and it paid off. We are your family, Bjarni; you can trust us."

Bjarni thought long and hard, peering into Anunya's happy eyes and then agreed. "Okay, but it's pretty weird, then again, I guess it's even weirder because it's true."

Bjarni's countenance lost all emotion and he sat poker faced, staring past the present into a distant world of darkness and misery. The memories were coming back and taunting his aging mind. When he did speak, his voice seemed flat and lifeless, the protection mechanism he had used to cover his shame and grief.

"It starts back when I was a boy of twelve, I think. My parents were missionaries based in Denmark. After many years listening to them pray, seeking their Jesus, they finally felt Him calling them to Greenland and in particular, Ittoqqortoormiit, a village about fifty miles from here. Their aim was to establish a Christian church other than the traditional one; it was well known the local people still dabbled in animism, with a good dose of traditional religion in the mix. The two coexisted comfortably with each other and Dad considered many who attended church faithfully didn't even know the Saviour Jesus at all. My father, Wilhelm, and I boarded an ice breaker in Denmark and set out to find a house in the village once we arrived. I now know mother was pregnant." Bjarni glanced over at Bruun and Bruun acknowledged him with a nod.

"It appears she was having a difficult time with the whole ordeal, so my father and I went on and left mother in Denmark, close to medical assistance; the plan was for mother to join us at a later date and once we had things established. Not long after arriving, we came under the notice of the town shaman, Kanortoq. Father told me of great battles he had had with this man in the spirit realm, locked in prayer. To say the least, Kanortoq did everything in his power to oppose us settling in Ittoqqortoormiit and stirred up the local people against us. We struggled at every turn and couldn't establish a house, let alone a church, and from where I stood, it looked like Kanortoq had won.

"Father had different ideas. Kanortoq and a group of villagers confronted us one day and challenged my father's God to a contest against his god and the Warrior Gate Keeper, Ataneq Nanuq, the King Polar Bear spirit worshipped by Kanortoq. The prize was unhindered access to the villagers, and Kanortoq would leave his home and live in the wilderness, alone. However, if Kanortoq won, Wilhelm was to be sacrificed alive. It is believed a great and powerful race of evil spirits once used to roam the earth freely, causing great mischief among the earth dwellers. So the Rainbow Man imprisoned the powerful spirits down in the bowels of the earth and then placed the gateway emerald over its entry, hiding the whole thing under a massive ice shelf, and subduing Lucifer's power until the appointed time.

"The legend goes, at the confession of the Rainbow Man, the spirits incarcerated behind the emerald would one day be free again to roam the earth and command impressive power, forcing the earth dwellers to choose whom they would worship: the Rainbow Man or the screeching spirits.

"Somehow, over time, the legend took on a more sinister facade and Kanortoq believed that if a true disciple of the Rainbow Man was defeated in a spiritual contest and sacrificed alive, as the key to unlock the prisoners contained behind the gateway emerald, then the spirits would be freed and Kanortoq would command their power."

An uneasy murmur rippled across Bjarni's audience, but they were eager to hear more.

Bruun shifted nervously in his seat and weighed a puzzling question carefully. "So, if the perceived key to the Greenland Gateway Emerald was the sacrifice of your father, why did Ataneq Nanuq guard the emerald and not just guide treasure hunters there to the spot to steal the gem and release the spirits?"

Bjarni wriggled uncomfortably. "Because the emerald only marked the location; it wasn't the prison door. As I understand from Father, the door is spiritual and not physical; and the only one who can open it is someone who is sinless and perfect in every way... _the Rainbow Man._ Because Lucifer is not all-knowing like the Rainbow man, Ataneq Nanuq guarded the emerald so when the ice hiding it melted, the exact location of the prison wouldn't be lost; and when Lucifer was allowed, he could find the tomb and call out his evil and powerful warrior spirits to do his bidding."

Bjarni glanced around the room at the intense faces trying to grasp at his meaning and then he continued on.

"Although Ataneq Nanuq is an overpowering evil spirit, it's as if the Rainbow Man sealed the spirit to the entrance of the ice prison by huge amounts of ice, and forbade him to divulge its exact location and the truth behind the prison's key until the appointed time. But when the ice melted, Ataneq Nanuq took advantage of his freedom and came looking for a way to break the Rainbow Man's restrictions. However, in the meantime, people like Kanortoq would continue in a futile challenge against the Rainbow Man's people, unaware that the Rainbow Man Himself was the only one who could release the evil contained behind the emerald."

Bruun nodded, his face pensive while he chewed on the incredulous story.

Bjarni continued, "There were a few similarities between today and the event that took place sixty years ago, the most notable being the ice melt and back then, Greenland was in the grip of a huge thaw, similar to today. It appears that Ataneq Nanuq remains buried in the ice–with the gateway emerald–until the ice melts enough to reveal the emerald. Then he can roam and carry out his great mischief at will. But when the ice cap buries the emerald again, Ataneq Nanuq is once again confined to his icy prison, waiting for the next big thaw.

"The emerald thunderstorm and the screeching that we heard a couple of nights ago, Anunya, was just as noticeable and prevalent then. I heard the same frightening thing when I was a boy. The common thread is the unusual ice thaw."

A puzzled frown settled over Katu's face and he interrupted Bjarni, "We heard what you just described a couple of nights ago. What is it?"

Bjarni shifted in his seat and held Katu's gaze. "It's the spirits screeching in agony in their prison deep inside the earth and desperate to be freed, while the emerald is reflecting the heat of their confinement and projecting it onto the night sky like a lightning show. Under normal winter conditions and ice thickness, the strange event can't be seen or heard."

All conversation stopped as they reflected on Bjarni's description, while Bjarni peered around at the group. "I told you it was hard to believe."

Bruun drew Bjarni's attention with another sceptical question. "Grandfather's diary talks about the emerald having a specific geographical location. Surely all this is just a fanciful legend with a tragic history and not a real place."

Bjarni was waiting for the scepticism and sighed. "I know it has a geographical location... I've been there."

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 81

"You've seen the gateway emerald?!" Bruun was incredulous and he stared at Bjarni.

"Yep, it wasn't far from where... " Bjarni tapered off as the memories came flooding back; his face lost all colour and he appeared like a dead man standing.

"From where Grandfather died. It must have been awful for you to experience such a wicked thing and then be blamed for it," Bruun finished Bjarni's sentence.

Anunya could see the toll the story was having on Bjarni and she intended to put a stop to the horror haunting her mentor. "I think that's enough. You don't have to relive the terrors of your childhood, Bjarni."

Bjarni could hear someone speaking and they drew him out of the terrifying memories, but knowing it wasn't his fault, somehow made it alright and he felt able to continue.

"It's okay, Anunya, I have to face it once and for all."

Bjarni settled back and drew open the curtain hiding a painful page in his history. The images were as real as the day it happened, indelibly burnt onto his memory.

He cleared his throat and then continued, "The contest was to take place the following day, a dogsled journey into the wilderness at a place Kanortoq used for sacrifices. The screeching thunderstorm played out all the previous night, as if the spirits knew of the contest and they expected to win. For all intents and purposes, it was a battle between Kanortoq and Dad, but there weren't any witnesses. The locals wouldn't follow them to the site, superstitious that ordinary villagers trespassing on a sacred place would bring bad luck to the village.

"Once we reached the awful place, I could feel a deep, oppressive presence tearing at my insides and it was difficult to think. Wilhelm took out his Bible and began to march around the area, reading Bible verses and claiming Jesus' victory over the evil one. Each time Wilhelm spoke, Kanortoq cringed and doubled over in pain.

"Then out of nowhere, the massive white figure of Ataneq Nanuq filled the sky and stood over Dad and was about to pounce. I'm not sure whether Wilhelm saw him, but I panicked and grabbed Dad's rifle, then took a shot at the figure. Instead of a clean shot, the rifle jammed and misfired; then I saw Dad drop to the ice, a river of red flowing around him!"

Bjarni was shaking as he remembered the scene, then he flinched as Anunya smothered him in her arms, trying to deaden the painful images. Her face set in worried concern and tears filled her eyes for the terrified little boy.

Bruun spoke up and compassionately broke the unpleasant silence, "The part you didn't get to see, Bjarni, was Kanortoq's rifle pointing at Grandfather. Wilhelm had seen the whole thing and even though he was bleeding to death, somehow managed to write down the sequence in his diary before he died, praying that Jesus–the Rainbow Man–would get the book back to your family and then someday, clearing you of all wrong doing."

Bruun hesitated for a moment, calculating, and then continued, "The weird thing was, Kanortoq knew he had lost the contest that day, overpowered by the words written in the Bible and by the Rainbow Man. Killing Wilhelm and silencing the power of his words was the only way he could stave off defeat and save face with the locals. He took Wilhelm's body back to town as proof–he couldn't offer a dead sacrifice–and blamed you for killing your father to stop the ritual's success, inciting the local people against you and clearing himself. But by this time, you had disappeared into the wilderness, carrying the guilt of a crime you never committed. Wilhelm's body was buried in an unmarked grave in the village cemetery but somehow, and after many years, Wilhelm's diary suddenly turned up in the post at my mother's place. Grandma had passed away by then and my mother was too ill to traipse around the wilderness of Greenland looking for her innocent brother."

The hut fell into silence as everyone contemplated the terrible story that had robbed a good man of his life.

The sounds of pages turning in a book broke into the quiet, like a jumbo jet flying through and all eyes rested on Bruun as he approached Bjarni with the final entry of his father's diary. Bjarni read the shaky handwriting of his dying parent, absolving his only son from a murder he didn't commit.

Bjarni's body silently shuddered in Anunya's embrace. She was crying too and when she peered around through watery eyes, she could see the tears of Bjarni's only family, supporting him through the realisation of a wasted life. Time seemed to stand still as the quiet inside the chilly hut intensified, until Bjarni's croaking voice interrupted the hush.

"I blamed the Rainbow Man for so many years, angry that He didn't protect us. But I can still remember Dad telling me about the spiritual battle we all are thrust into; the beauty of the next life; and the price the Rainbow Man paid for my salvation. I need to find him and apologise."

*~*~*~*

In the small hours of the morning, five people scattered across the floor wrapped in bearskins, laying asleep in the safety and warmth of Bjarni's hut.

One set of eyes flickered open, listening to the sounds of sleep and then sat upright, while replaying the image of the Rainbow Man beckoning to him in the storm. Bjarni felt dejected with himself that he hadn't gone to Him when He'd beckoned, but now he had to find the Rainbow Man and thank Him for His faithfulness and put things right.

Bjarni quietly donned his thick furs and animal skin boots and then carefully picked his way through the sleeping people. He turned and faced the only family he ever knew and paused for a moment and called to the Rainbow Man, whispering, "Jesus, keep them safe." Then quietly, he slipped out the door and walked towards the frozen Sund.

Where he was going, there was no need for a rifle.

He took a step onto the ice and there before him, a glowing image of a man appeared, reflecting every colour of the rainbow around him.

*~*~*~*

Anunya sat in a chair while her feet rested against a wooden post supporting the store's balcony roof, and stared tearfully out into the flat, open tundra wilderness. The wooden sunglasses Bjarni had fashioned for her lay in her lap and she lovingly examined every careful stroke of the craftsman's hand, before she dissolved into broken sobs.

Beside her, Shtiya whimpered in concern while Akiak lay next to him, feeding five hungry Siberian husky pups; her head lay upon her paws, searching the open tundra, waiting patiently for her master to return and take her home.

Anunya sniffed back her tears and tried to stem the river of emotion flowing out of her heart.

Two sets of arms wrapped around her from behind, feeling her pain too. Katu and Nigaq held their daughter and let her cry. They, too, owed Bjarni Kleist a debt of gratitude.

Anunya sniffed and grasped the loving arms of her parents and tried to speak, "Do you think he found the Rainbow Man, Ataata?"

Katu knelt beside Anunya and peered into her eyes while Nigaq cuddled her shoulders. "Whatever happened that night he left, Anunya, we will never know. The lightning storms and the screeching stopped from then on and somehow, Bjarni had something to do with it ceasing."

Katu turned to face the wilderness and just as he did, a huge arching rainbow stretched magnificently from horizon to horizon and awed the three people watching.

"There's your answer, Anunya." Katu pointed to the sky.

A warmth pervaded Anunya.

Somehow she knew Bjarni had found what he was looking for.

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 82

Chief Justice Donald Chambers balanced regally on a chair beside a pretty little thirteen year old girl, lying ill and desperately upset while she stared at a laptop computer screen perched across her chest.

He and his wife Nina were career professionals and didn't have time for a family. Now as they tried to comfort the grieving girl, they regretted their decision. Ruth had been their surrogate daughter and a source of intense joy when her parents passed away unexpectedly, and left him and Nina balancing a young girl's welfare and a demanding occupation as well.

The screen on the laptop described a deserted stage and an unattended lectern, but behind the camera you could hear the sounds of sombre people entering and taking seats while whispered echoes crashed and banged with the furniture, as the camera relayed each unintended sound.

Finally, an unrecognisable man in a black suit filled the computer screen and stood behind the lectern calling for order, his booming voice reverberating through the sanctuary, causing silence to pervade.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have gathered this morning to celebrate the life of Grayson Albert Glenn; a man of principle, fine character and best of all, child of the living God."

A thunderous applause erupted across the building as people realised this wasn't the end for Grayson, but simply a new adventure safe in the arms of his Saviour, Jesus.

He waited for the crowd to settle back into silence and then continued, "He is survived by his granddaughter, Shayden, and unfortunately she is too ill to be here today, but she is watching via computer link."

Nina and Don hugged Shayden as she broke into sobs.

"I won't take any more time; the service is to be led by a figure you know very well and have come to love. He's a bit beat up after trying to rearrange the county's guard rail system though. Please welcome back Pastor Sylvester Castelano... Cutter!"

A thunderous applause echoed through the building as Cutter made his way onto the stage. It was a big surprise for Shayden too and she coughed through the tears, smiling at the same time; her hand touched the screen as if she was reaching out to him.

Cutter stood at the lectern and motioned for the crowd to sit before he began his eulogy. "Thank you for your kind welcome but the praise belongs to Jesus."

Thunderous applause erupted again; every person knew Cutter standing before them was a miracle, an act of God.

When the sanctuary quieted again, Cutter peered directly into the camera and spoke, "Shayden, baby girl, I know you're watching. Pa is in Papa God's hands and one day too, honey, you will see him again. This is my solemn promise to you straight from your Jesus' mouth."

Shayden broke down and was immediately mobbed with hugs, but Cutter's promise lodged in a deep part of her heart where her treasures were kept.

Cutter went on to describe Grayson's life: how he considered himself a good person and did good things, assuming he was good enough to enter a perfect eternity on his own merits, but his disturbed idealism shattered when he put Papa God to the truth test and came face to face with Jesus, then realising _his_ good wasn't _good enough_.

The service went on and the building erupted into laughter and joy at Cutter's antics, but showing great respect for God and Grayson at the same time. At the very end of the service and once the final sounds of laughter had faded away, Cutter peered at the floor and took a moment to gather his thoughts while the commotion in the sanctuary drifted into complete quiet, wondering why Cutter had so obviously paused.

Shayden held the screen in her hands, her face alight with worry, staring at the image and concerned that he might be in pain and suffering.

Once he peered up again, there was an impish smile on his bruised face as if he had been confiding in someone and they had given him an instruction. When Cutter spoke again, his voice was rich and buoyant.

"Grayson gave me one last request when we were alone together, and just a few days before he died. Can Ruth Chambers join me on the stage, please?"

A murmur rippled across the stunned sanctuary and Ruth's face was glowing, as if she was akin to Cutter's instruction. She picked her way through the seated crowd, finally finding her place at Cutter's side. She wasn't used to seeing him in a suit, but even with the bruises still apparent on his face, he was a handsome man.

She smiled up at him and Cutter took her hand and kissed her gently, causing a shocked murmur to ripple through the sanctuary. Only a select few knew of Cutter and Ruth's romance, while Cutter smiled a knowing smile and then explained his actions.

"I'm not accustomed to kissing the ladies in this church, so don't worry; Ruth has consented to be my beautiful wife."

Cutter held up Ruth's hand so everyone could see the diamond ring and before long, the sanctuary was on its feet applauding for the couple.

Holding the computer screen, Shayden squealed with delight; somehow she knew this had implications for her, too.

*~*~*~*

Neither Ruth nor Cutter could see any reason to stall their wedding, leaving just enough time to make the plans and engage the facilities. Nina and Don extended their stay by a couple of weeks, taking care of Shayden while the future bride and groom made their plans.

Interspersed with wedding plans, Don Chambers had organised with his doctor friend to visit Shayden and it wasn't long before the diagnosis was made official: _myalgic encephalomyelitis._ Shayden's treatment regime began and before long, the disease had loosened its grip on her, allowing her a brief respite and even moments out of bed, although her face became red and her temperature spiralled out of control if she overdid her out-of-bed experience and used up vital energy, risking setting her progress back days, weeks or even months.

Ruth asked Shayden to be her bridesmaid, if she could get her doctor's approval, but she would have to rest and conserve her energy for the big day. Shayden was determined she was going to be there, even if it was in a wheelchair.

*~*~*~*

The day dawned to a nervous, but beautiful bride, attended by a very ordered Mrs Parks barking commands to her entourage. Shayden was dressed by Nina, as Ruth prepared.

Donald was sent to take care of Cutter, and Cutter was thankful for his calming presence, helping him tie his bowtie, something Cutter couldn't make head nor tail of.

The morning progressed and the sanctuary overflowed with well-wishers streaming into every available seat and then spilling out into the car park. The altar was highly decorated with white flowers and streamers of white roses hung over each wooden pew.

Cutter stood nervously, waiting for Ruth to arrive. His best man, aware of Cutter's nerves, leaned in to encouraged him, causing Cutter to be thankful Deputy Jackson had a day off and had accepted the role Cutter offered.

Before long, the music started and the men turned to face the entrance. As he turned, Cutter caught Mother Teresa's animated grin from the pews, filling the biker with joy and chasing away the nerves.

As Ruth came into view, Cutter's jaw dropped, watching an angel walking towards him, a beautiful apparition that made his knees feel weak and stunned him speechless.

Behind Ruth and holding her train, Shayden mirrored Ruth's outfit, making her debut and pushed in a wheelchair by Uncle Don, with a smirk so big it almost split his face in two.

*~*~*~*

By the time the bridal party had been for photographs, Shayden was wilting badly. But Don had conspired with Mrs Parks, and a hospital bed, highly decorated with wedding decor, had been set up for her at the bridal table and her doctor had a chair close by to attend her.

The festivities ran into the late afternoon and celebrations weren't showing any signs of winding down.

A sudden rattling of windows and bridal crockery made Cutter's heart skip and then a tumultuous _galumphing_ as a shiny, brand new Harley-Davidson Fat Boy idled its way down towards the bridal table, shakily ridden by Mrs Parks. She shut off the motorcycle in front of a dumbstruck Cutter and handed him the keys.

"It isn't any good having a biker pastor without the proper bike. Just don't make scrap metal of this one."

Mrs Parks disappeared into Cutter's embrace, followed by Ruth's.

*~*~*~*

Jaimon nervously paced the school boundary at the predetermined meeting point, waiting, hoping he didn't have to face his new school alone.

Then in the distance, he heard a disturbance and reassurance settled over him. A tumultuous noise came closer and closer, rattling the school windows and drawing incredulous stares from other students being dropped off for another day at school.

The motorcycle finally stopped, _galumphing_ as it idled, while the sight of a biker with black denim jeans and a jacket with sleeves cut off and _Jesus... Don't leave Earth without Him_ emblazoned across its back, drew admiration from gawking students.

A small, pretty girl in school uniform unfolded her arms from around the biker and sidled off the seat; then she leaned over and kissed him. "Thank you, Daddy!" she shouted over the noise.

"Be back at noon to pick you up, baby," the biker shouted back, returning her kiss. "G'day Jaimon, how's it going son; talking to Jesus?" the biker shouted.

"Fine thanks, sir, and yes, we have quite a dialogue going."

Jaimon took Shayden's hand and they started to walk down into school together while the Harley-Davison Fat Boy roared off into the distance.

A group of students gathered around Shayden and Jaimon. "Wow, how cool! Who was the dude on the motorcycle?"

Shayden answered with obvious adoration, "That's my dad and he's senior pastor of Sue's Bridge Community Church."

*~*~*~*

## Chapter 83

Five hundred people make up the inhabitants of the small hamlet of Oymyakon and today, news of two new people joining the close knit community settled them into a chilling buzz. Winter had arrived with such force that all the weather instruments had frozen solid; not a good welcome for the new arrivals.

Located deep within Siberia and high in its remote mountains, a sprawling valley is trapped by the Arctic cold, lying dormant and unmoving over the village for months on end. Many, many miles from warm sea currents, the temperature for six months of the year is below minus fifty degrees Celsius and when it really gets cold, it can drop to minus seventy-two. Any hope of the warmth generated by the sun is reflected by the snow straight back out into space. At minus sixty, breathing becomes impossible and damages the lungs instantly unless the mouth and nose are covered and protected by fur, while exposed flesh freezes in minutes. Exhaled human breath turns immediately into rustling ice crystals; the inhabitants knowingly call this strange phenomenon _the whispering of the stars_.

Svetlana rubbed the fog from the only window in her modest house and peered out into the failing daylight. A light dusting of snow had begun to fall over an overexposed white landscape. The sun had only been up for two hours and twilight was descending on her home among the village already. Today, young Michaela was in charge of feeding the fires in the town's boiler house which heated water to warm the villagers' homes, a crude central heating device, but she could see the ice crystals forming on the inside of her roof which meant the lazy good-for-nothing boy was loafing at his job again.

She had just wrapped her seventy year old body in furs and was about to leave her house to find the boy and give him a piece of her mind, when she saw another antagonised villager making a bee-line for the boiler house, murder written in the trail of rustling ice crystals following close behind. Within moments, the icicles hanging from Svetlana's roof began to melt and the temperature inside her home became bearable again.

Across the frozen village, her gaze settled on a large reindeer herder's tent, a government accommodation facility. It was vacant at the moment, since the last occupants had been found frozen to death. Svetlana shivered at the thought of living in such crude housing, especially if people weren't used to the extreme cold associated with a Siberian winter.

*~*~*~*

Dysart's leg jiggled up and down, trying to put the pain in her bladder out of her mind. It had only been an hour since she'd last demanded a comfort stop and neither the driver, nor the other passengers in the antiquated small Siberian bus appreciated the interruption to the extremely cold journey. Even though passengers sat almost on top of the complaining engine, making conversation impossible, most of the heat generated dissipated before entering the bus cabin. Opening any door lost vital cabin heat, and the struggling vehicle heater took many uncomfortable miles to regain it. At these extreme temperatures, rubber tyres turned brittle and steel chassis could snap at the slightest provocation, so interrupting the journey only confounded and amplified these risks.

Parlo appeared unamused and defeated as his fur-hooded head lay against the bus window, staring out into the dark, Siberian night. He hadn't said two words since leaving the Supreme Leader and the Great Hall of Debate some three thousand kilometres behind to take up their new assignments as postal representatives for Oymyakon. The threat of living in a tent in these extreme conditions seemed inhumane, but the Supreme Leader wasn't known for his ability to exaggerate.

A barrage of complaint rippled through the bus as Dysart called out to the driver again, requesting yet another comfort stop. They had only travelled 200 kilometres in the 700 kilometre journey from Yakutsk, the largest populated centre in the remote district to Oymyakon, their new home.

*~*~*~*

The bone jarring bus ride finally came to an end, entering the outskirts of Oymyakon after nearly twelve hours travelling. Dysart peered out through the bus windows and around at the wooden houses, fenced by frozen timbers and corralling hapless thick maned horses, accepting their fate to a frozen existence and streaming foggy breath left hanging in the extreme air. The village was draped in a claustrophobic shawl of white. Spindly trees bordered the boundary and bowed under the weight of the ice and snow. Wooden houses seemed to steel themselves against the imposing cold, but bleached and cracking in the quest for survival. This was a desert of cold and devoid of colour; imposing white covered human and non-human alike.

Dysart's heart sank as she gazed around, dumbfounded; nobody seemed to be moving in the freezing environment. Her heart sank even further as her gaze settled on the promised tent, and the driver delivering her meagre property to the canvas door.

As she exited the bus, a grasp of biting cold grabbed at her throat and threatened to choke her; she stumbled against Parlo, who had already covered his mouth and nose. He seemed indifferent to her plight and only stepped away from her, allowing her to suffer her own deadly fate. Cruel memories of Manhattan seemed like another lifetime away.

A group of villagers gathered around them, intent on welcoming them to their way of life but quickly lost interest and dispersed when it was apparent the newcomers just weren't interested.

Dysart threw back the tent flaps in a disgusted flounce; she could feel a tantrum coming on as she peered around the frozen interior. A small stove sat in one corner, still and lifeless, but a stack of timber close by gave a little hope that warmth could be attained if she only knew how to set the fire.

Parlo's depressed form slinked inside the tent and fell face down on a dank smelling reindeer hide covering a wooden bunk. The oppressive cold was making his depression worse and he searched for a way to escape it.

Both Parlo and Dysart turned their attention to face the tent door when an old woman entered, disturbing their grief. She smiled a toothless grin and hugged Dysart and then sternly called Parlo up from his bunk and hugged him too.

Parlo felt a small flicker of warmth and held the old woman longer than was proper, trying to absorb some of her body heat. Svetlana was immediately drawn to Parlo's embrace and his magnetism, wanting more of his charm.

"Why don't you come and live in my house; it's nice and warm," the toothless smile appeared again.

The offer of warmth and a house was too good for Parlo to refuse and he grabbed his belongings and left Dysart to her fate.

Dysart's mouth hung open and she squeaked a complaint, beginning to shiver, "What about me?!"

Svetlana turned back to Dysart as she was leaving with her prize. "I have ugly older brother; he has nice warm place at outskirts of town; I send him to pick you up."

*~*~*~*

THE END

###

*~*~*~*

AUTHOR'S NOTE

G'day,

As the world becomes more hostile to the things of Papa God and to us as His devoted followers, it is always good to know that He has given us the final page of history in the words of Revelation. In the final battle against Satan and the world – we win; and Papa God will reward his true kids who hang on through these dark days until He snatches us out in the events of the Rapture. Those who choose against Jesus Christ as Saviour and Lord, choose to endure the darkest times in history, so dark that if Papa did not cut them short, no one would survive. It doesn't end there: without Christ's redeeming blood in our lives, eternity stretches on in a painful nightmare, set up by Papa God Himself in the Lake of Fire prepared for the devil and his evil angels where the pain never stops.

_The Legend of Ataneq Nanuq_ is fictional, but its theme is not. We are in a spiritual battle against the wicked forces of the air (Satan and his forces); and his intention is to destroy _everyone_ made in Papa God's likeness.

If you are human, that's you!

If you are dabbling with Satan's power, it WILL eventually destroy you. Choose today to get on board with Jesus Christ, the _only_ way out and the only one who has your best interests at heart. But don't take my word for it, put Jesus Christ to the test and find out for yourself. See, I have told you to! If you want to rid your life of Satan, then follow me in this simple prayer:

Jesus, I know I am a sinner and I have done wrong and I understand that my sin separates me from You forever. I want to be forgiven of my sin and live forever with You in a beautiful place free of pain, death and hopelessness. I understand that You are the Son of God whom He sent to Earth, to die on a cross and shed His blood as a perfect sacrifice to cover my wrong doing and allow me to be forgiven. I understand that Jesus absorbed my sin upon Himself and entered the grave and took it with Him and buried it forever; and when He was resurrected three days later back to life, I also was reborn, without the sin that separated me from God.

I accept You, Jesus, as my Saviour and Lord.

Please understand, the Lord Jesus died for you and all you are required to do is accept His death and resurrection in this simple prayer and believe. If you did pray this prayer and meant it, please find some Christian people who can help you to grow in your newfound faith or contact me via my website.

*~*~*~*

If you have a comment about _The Legend of Ataneq Nanuq_ , I would love to hear from you. Your thoughts are important and if you take the time to leave me a comment, I will respond. And **your comment could be selected** for my next book. Go on, put finger to keyboard... you can do it!

Jack

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jack Dey, born to adventure, lives in the beautiful rainforest of tropical North Queensland, Australia. He has four loves in his life: Jesus; the Editor–his wife of 30 something years; writing adventure novels; and the Sand Flea. _The Legend of Ataneq Nanuq_ is Jack's fifth novel. He is also the author of MAHiNA _;_ Paradise Warrior _;_ Aunt Tabbie's Wings; The Secrets of Black Dean Lighthouse; The Valley of Flowers and La Belle Suisse _(co-authored with Dodie La Mirounette)_. As this book goes to publishing, his next novel, Zero, is being written and soon to be released. Jack writes only to please Papa God and considers his writing a ministry, demanding nothing from the reader for his e-books. If you like Jack Dey's books and would like to support his ministry, please consider praying for the team at Jack Dey and telling your friends about his other titles. New books are constantly being written with the intention of being a pencil in Jesus' hand and bringing joy and encouragement to you, the reader.

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CONNECT WITH JACK

Thank you for reading my book. I enjoyed writing it for you. If you enjoyed reading _The Legend of Ataneq Nanuq,_ please tell your friends and take a moment to leave a comment at Smashwords or at my web site, JackDey.com. Please also _like_ my Facebook page. I invite you to read my other novels, MAHiNA; Paradise Warrior _;_ Aunt Tabbie's Wings; The Secrets of Black Dean Lighthouse; The Valley of Flowers and La Belle Suisse _(co-authored with Dodie La Mirounette)_. Click for an exclusive preview of my next novel, Zero, which is currently being written and soon to be released. I invite you to connect with me online, leave a comment or review and that is where you will find out more: JackDey.com

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DISCOVER OTHER TITLES BY JACK DEY

MAHiNA

Paradise Warrior

Aunt Tabbie's Wings

The Secrets of Black Dean Lighthouse

 The Valley of Flowers

La Belle Suisse

Zero

*~*~*~*

Exclusive Preview of Jack Dey's First Novel

MAHiNA

Things are not always what they seem. A compelling novel of mystery and exotic intrigue loosely based on historical fact.

The faded blue paintwork of the converted trawler, _Annemarie,_ made him wince. He could not afford to paint her again. She was a sixty foot, forty year old fishing boat and in her heyday, she was the fastest and tidiest vessel in the northern fleet. Since the government had cracked down on the fishing industry and developed great allotments of marine park in the lucrative fishing grounds of the greater northeastern coast and Torres Strait, Damon and most of the other vessel owners had fallen on hard times. His misfortunes continued until he had to sell his fishing licence just to keep his beloved _Annemarie_. He peppered his disdain for his demise with large, toxic amounts of alcohol that should have killed any other man. In the morning, he was clear headed again and at the helm.

Damon was known amongst his peers as a tough, no-nonsense skipper. He prided himself on his skill and ability to conquer and tame the sea in any of her moods. His crew did what he said without question, otherwise it was a long way to swim, as some of his past crew had found out. He was a tall, dark haired man, built on solid muscle with a face worn hard by continuing battle with the sea. He looked a lot older than his thirty-eight years. He had a knack for sniffing out trouble and on more than one occasion had to use his fists to clear his nostrils.

Below decks, _Annemarie_ had a good sized galley; sizeable cabins along the port and starboard sides fitted out with bunk beds; a common toilet and bathroom; and plenty of room undercover. All in all, she could comfortably accommodate ten people. Her hull was a deep vee, all steel, and she cut through the water like a well sharpened knife, perfectly at home in the roughest of seas.

Damon was reduced to running _Annemarie_ on joyrides into the Torres Strait for rich tourists. It pricked his pride and irked him to have rich boys climbing all over his boat. Still, it was money, even if he had to play along with these snot noses. They paid to keep his vessel in the water.

Today was a strange charter. A young woman had hired his boat and his crew to take her to Bathurst Bay on some secret mission. She paid cash up front. There was a mythology amongst the fisherman of the Torres Strait: to anchor in Bathurst Bay was considered bad luck. It all stemmed back to some cyclone that had snuck up on the pearling fleet in Bathurst Bay a hundred and fifty years ago and wiped out the fleet anchored there. Legend has it, at night when the southeast gales come, you can hear the souls of the lost, crying out for help in the pitch darkness. Damon shook the thought from his mind and wiped his mouth, immediately accepting the young woman's cash. He had not seen so much money in cash for a long time. The destination would remain concealed from the crew, for the moment. He did not want them getting spooked and abandoning ship.

After all, if he didn't take the charter, someone else would.

The woman was covered head to toe. Khaki long-sleeved shirt, long pants, hat and sunglasses. He wasn't any good at guessing women's ages but if he had to take a stab, he would say twenty-five.

"Mister," she said.

"Damon," he replied.

"Damon, let me get something up front straight away. I am chartering your boat for a specific purpose. I will not tolerate any interference in my business. I expect you to keep to your business. Are we agreed?"

Damon's hackles went up, but he swallowed them back down. After all, she had paid good money for the charter. "Whatever you say, Miss...?"

"Elishia. Elishia will do fine."

He helped her onboard, had one of the crew show her to her cabin while the others stowed her gear.

It was nearing mid morning when Damon eased _Annemarie_ from her berth on Thursday Island. It was close to high tide, so there was plenty of water in the southeastern channel. If he was delayed a couple of hours, the tide would be too low and he would have to take the western channel. That would add nearly a hundred nautical miles to his journey. He had taken on fuel, food and water the day before in anticipation of the voyage. The crystal clear, emerald green waters of the Torres Strait still took his breath away, even after twenty years. He was doing what he loved and that was all that mattered.

Horn Island was to starboard. He had been involved in a lot of fights there, usually at the local bar, sitting minding his own business. A drunk local would recognise him and want to settle a score. It was a rough place, where the dregs of the earth seemed to inevitably find a home. He did not care for the uncivilized rough-necks that hung around looking for trouble. Thursday Island, however, just twenty minutes across the harbour by boat from Horn, was civilized and comfortable, with a family feel to it.

A contrast that he did not understand.

The other islands surrounding Thursday Island were primitive and sparsely inhabited. Usually by people looking to escape something, or someone.

The harbour at Thursday Island was a naturally occurring safe haven protected by Hammond Island to the north; Palilug Island to the northwest; Gialug to the southwest; Muralug to the south; and Horn to the southwest. Several tidal channels allowed shipping to enter and leave the harbour safely at high water. _Annemarie's_ engine, just above idle, pushed the sixty foot vessel slowly through the calm waters of the harbour. Damon steered her into the southeast channel and pushed her throttle forward to wide open. _Annemarie_ dug her stern in and the bow lifted, like a racehorse given its head, unlocked from its stall.

Elishia was standing against the railing at the bow, just staring into the expanse of emerald water. Her long, auburn hair danced crazily behind her in the wind. She was directly in front of Damon's view as he skilfully orchestrated the vessel's controls. He found himself staring at her form and there was no doubt, she was a stunner.

_Annemarie_ burst out of the southeast channel and was now in open water, the swell gently rocking the vessel like a mother lulling a child to sleep. Damon pushed the buttons on the chart plotter: 14 degrees 25 minutes South, 144 degrees 23 minutes East, set, enter. The apparatus _beeped_ as it accepted the instruction. Set auto pilot, enter. Another _beep_. _Annemarie_ was acting on her own now, which left Damon to attend to other things. The voyage would take 12 hours.

Damon opened the wheelhouse door that led to the forward deck where Elishia was standing. He startled her when he spoke and brought her back to herself. She had been a long way away and judging by her facial reaction, he was intruding on some sacred moment.

"Beautiful, isn't it? The sea, I mean."

She nodded.

"I don't mean to intrude, but you..."

"Damon!" she interrupted in a low voice that he had to struggle to hear. "I thought we had this discussion before we left T.I."

His dark eyes narrowed as he met hers. Fury burned and he turned and stalked away.

Read more of MAHiNA

*~*~*~*

Exclusive Preview of Jack Dey's Novel

PARADISE WARRIOR

Sometimes it takes an accidental hero. A riveting story of courage, redemption, love and friendship. Warning: Paradise Warrior is not for the faint hearted. Don't read it alone!

Mendacante rocketed skyward, his tiny frame blurring as he sped high above the community. Two _Yellow Lights_ were close on his tail, grasping at the air as he slipped out of their reach. Below, groups of people gathered and pointed skyward, marvelling at the sight. He corkscrewed backwards and dived, gathering speed as he plummeted towards the ground. The Yellow Lights, although bigger than he, were caught off guard by his manoeuvre and overshot him. Incensed by Mendacante's tactic, they threw themselves at a blinding rate towards the little Grey Light, gathering speed and closing the gap. Just as Mendacante was about to hit the ground and within reach of the Yellow Lights, he suddenly shot sideways and the Yellow Lights disappeared into an explosion of colour, ploughing headlong into the ground.

"Daydreaming again, little Grey?" came a gruff voice beside him, shaking him from his pleasurable thoughts. "How do you think you are going to earn your colour, if all you do is shirk your training?!"

Mendacante recognised the owner of the voice. It was his drill sergeant. He wore his yellow and blue coloured light proudly, shining all around him like a light through a prism. The superior being made sure his subordinates understood they were not yet worthy of the prestige that came with colour.

"I..I was just going through some tactical procedures in my mind, sir."

"Report to the colonnade and join your platoon. You will see what awaits those who do well."

Mendacante made his way slowly to the colonnade. His dream of becoming a hero and enjoying the adoration that came with colour seemed further away than ever, after the rebuff from his commander. He wondered if he would ever make it out of the Grey Lights, the lowest in the ranks of the Army of The King. He brightened when he remembered that his friend, Detanyun, was amongst those being honoured today. He momentarily forgot about his troubles and hurried to join the other Grey Lights gathered around the great structure.

An impressive throng assembled around the place of honour, each in their respective colours and each in their ascending ranks. There were the Grey Lights at the back; next were the Yellow Lights; then the Blue Lights; Green Lights; and finally, the Red Lights at the front. The platoon commanders wore a base light of red, interspersed with bands of coloured light. The higher the rank, the more coloured bands.

When a warrior did well in his training, he was honoured at the colonnade and depending on his achievements, was assigned a higher coloured light. The newly honoured warrior was then given an assignment for The King, to prove himself worthy and maybe earn a coloured band if he did well in his assignment. Every warrior knew the assignment meant crossing over through the door in the dimensions that led into the Tempter's kingdom and the confines of four dimensions. Being chosen for dimensionalism was a distinguished honour, but it carried terrible dangers, restrictions and extreme temptations to indulge in the ways of the creatures of the earth.

In the legends of the phenomenal battles of Heaven, it is said that Lucifer, the impressive Fallen One, had led a revolt against The King and was thrown out by the High Prince Michael. When Lucifer fell, he took a third of the warriors with him and in so doing, they lost their light and their honour, never to return. Dwelling forever in a place caught between dimensions, in an eternity of darkness, these fallen warriors roamed the dimensions often, finding entry points into the human world when invited by humans looking for supernatural power. Once indwelling a human host, they could command terrific power and significant evil in the world using the host.

The Son of The Great King Himself was the only one to take on four dimensions, become human and not indulge in the Tempter's kingdom. He was adorned with pure white light, an honour reserved only for the greatest warrior. He came back scarred and disfigured, beaten beyond recognition from His battle, but He succeeded in releasing the chosen ones from the captives of the Tempter's kingdom.

There were rumours among the ranks of an ensuing battle, soon to take place, where The Great King would send His Son back to the earth, to rid it of the Tempter, judge the creatures identified by the Tempter's mark, and do away with the restrictions of the four dimensions, forever.

Today however, there were murmurings that the impressive warrior, Michael, was going to be present, to honour a special warrior and assign him a dangerous mission. This was the stuff of dreams, the epitome of every warrior's desire, to be honoured by the prodigious and humble warrior prince. From his distant position among the Grey Lights, Mendacante could see his friend proudly walk out into the middle of the colonnade with three other warriors. Detanyun's light shone a brilliant yellow among the three other Blue Lights.

Although Detanyun was a rank above Mendacante, he by no means treated Mendacante as if he was inferior. In fact, Detanyun had tried to coach the little Grey Light in all forms of combat, but giving up as the little Grey stumbled over, tripping on himself. However, Detanyun became aware of Mendacante's ability to plan a battle strategy that left even his wiry skills stretched to the limit and trapped in an embarrassing defeat. As Detanyun became hopelessly ensnared in Mendacante's trap, the sly little Grey would excitedly proclaim, "...and check mate!" his crooked little smile evidence that he was enjoying Detanyun's embarrassment. Though they were worlds apart in capability, their friendship was strong. For many years, they had grown together in the Grey Light platoon, until Detanyun had been honoured and moved up a rank. Now Mendacante spent most of his time dodging the drill sergeant and dreaming of glory.

A sudden ' _aww_ ' rumbled through the colonnade. A huge figure appeared, dressed in red light with six bars of colour, one on top of the other and topped off with a band of white light. Michael had made his entry and the gathering fell silent at the sight of the majestic warrior, while Michael's booming voice echoed across the gathering.

"Fellow servants of The King, messengers and protectors of the chosen ones, we have come together to honour the achievements of these, your brother warriors. Through their impressive performance, training as warriors of The King, they have been chosen to represent Him in a commando assignment behind enemy lines. Their ability to carry out their assignment is imperative, to set the ground work for the plans of the next, looming battle against the Fallen Ones."

Michael then walked up to the four warriors, dwarfed in his presence and nodded toward each one. The three Blue Lights immediately turned green and the warriors smiled in appreciation to Michael, obviously proud of their promotion. Detanyun gazed up toward the great warrior and Michael smiled directly at him. Detanyun's Yellow Light turned red, sending a ripple of disbelief through the gathering. Michael reached down and handed Detanyun a medallion, a small gold circle, encircling a six-sided star on a chain. The medallion awarded to The King's elite warriors.

Mendacante broke protocol and cheered from the ranks of the Grey Lights and was immediately castigated by his fellow Greys for drawing attention to them. He didn't care. He was living his dream through his friend. Michael and Detanyun glanced towards the direction of the ruckus and Detanyun smiled. He couldn't see Mendacante, but he knew his voice.

Michael then handed Detanyun a red folder, with the star emblem on the front. He commended the four warriors and made his way determinedly back to stand in the presence of The King.

*~*~*~*

Mendacante buzzed around Detanyun like a fly attracted to a dead carcass while Detanyun sat with his back against a tree, staring dejectedly at the folder lying in his lap. Mendacante's euphoria at his friend's promotion to a Red Light warrior and his acceptance as a member of the special Forces suddenly ceased as he surveyed his friend's downcast features.

"What's wrong, Detanyun?" Mendacante asked with concern.

"My assignment is to watch over a baby Earth girl," Detanyun replied disappointedly, "an assignment any other colour, including you, could do. Am I to be a babysitter after many years of intensive training? And now the Prince chooses to embarrass me, with this."

Mendacante sat next to his friend and thought for awhile. "This baby must be very important if she is to be assigned a Special Forces Red Light. I am sure there is more to the story, otherwise the Prince would have chosen someone else."

"Yeah, I guess you're right, Mendacante."

"When does your mission start?"

"Tomorrow. Michael will open the dimensions for me to cross over, first thing in the morning."

"Are you scared?"

"No, just a bit disappointed."

*~*~*~*

Gabriel, who also stands in the presence of The King, met Michael at the entrance to the throne room. "How did he take it, Michael?"

"As expected. He thinks we are sending him in as a babysitter," Michael responded.

Gabriel waited for a moment and then spoke again. "The King wants to give him the heart of a human as soon as he crosses over," Gabriel whispered, fearing for Detanyun.

"The heart of a human?! That's a heavy load for any warrior to carry," Michael answered, sharing Gabriel's concern.

Michael thought for awhile. "The King is the Great Wise One. He sees things from every angle, at every moment in time. He must have a plan, Gabriel."

*~*~*~*

Detanyun stood expectantly by the tree that marked the opening to the four dimensions. It was early morning and as he searched the surroundings, he could see Michael's huge outline approaching, moving swiftly towards him.

*~*~*~*

Concern gripped Michael as he drew near the tree to the dimensions and Detanyun waiting nearby. He knew the warrior wouldn't have any of his heavenly assets on Earth and for his own safety and the success of his mission, his identity would be masked while operating deep inside enemy territory.

Michael approached the tree and commanded the dimensions to open. Mendacante stood nearby, hiding, hoping to stay out of sight but also wanting to see his best friend leave. A doorway appeared and Detanyun stepped towards it. Mendacante glanced at the place where Detanyun had been sitting and saw his medallion lying there. He rushed in and scooped it up and then sped towards Detanyun. Just as he was about to hand it over, the dimension closed and both Detanyun and Mendacante tumbled through.

Michael watched the scene unfold in front of him and then spoke softly to himself, "So this is the plan of The King."

Read more of Paradise Warrior

*~*~*~*

Exclusive Preview of Jack Dey's Novel

AUNT TABBIE'S WINGS

A beautiful story of love, adventure, struggle and redemption

The old Bible, dog eared and fraying, lay closed on the old woman's lap. She painfully flipped the cover open and stared down at the inscription. _To my beloved Father, Sergeant Major Pell (Bluey) Burns. All my love, Tabbie._ Running her finger over the dedication, a tear slipped from her eye and plopped onto the back of her gnarled, skinny hand lying across the open Bible. The chrome wheelchair was parked hard against a large window overlooking the garden and her legs were covered by a homemade, knitted woollen blanket. As she sat peering out into the warm afternoon sunshine, her praying lips began to slowly move, but making no sound.

Tabbie was sixty, but she looked more like ninety. Rheumatoid arthritis had invaded her body at an early age and now, painfully swollen joints made it impossible to do much but sit and stare. The nurses did all they could to make their favourite charge comfortable and ease the pain, even though she didn't complain. Tabbie would always enquire into the happenings of the lives of the nurses, her deep blue eyes full of compassion and wisdom. It wasn't unusual to see a nurse sitting next to Tabbie, sobbing violently as she emptied her heart to the old woman, basking in the love and hugs of which she seemed to have in volumes.

Everyone lovingly called her _Aunt Tabbie_.

There was something about Tabbie that drew people to her. A warm smile, a charismatic personality and a deep love for troubled humanity. She had a word of encouragement for everyone, from the doctor to the ones who emptied the rubbish bins, and very observant too, leaving the nurses to wonder whether she could actually see inside a person.

Tabbie's skinny frame worried the doctors. She hadn't been well for many months now and the arthritis was engulfing her ever faster. Asked if she was feeling well, she would often reply with a twinkle in her eye, "My times are in the hands of my Father in Heaven."

Tabbie had a busy visitor schedule. Every day, well wishers would engulf her, hoping to bring comfort to the old lady, but in most cases, the visitor would leave receiving the comfort. However, Tabbie's protective nurses became annoyed when people visited just to take from the giving woman, using her as sounding board for their own problems; and by the end of the day the caring staff could see Tabbie's strength starting to fade, becoming distressed physically, until they forbade any more visitors. Even after the exhausted woman was wheeled back to her room, her phone would ring incessantly into the evening, still giving and giving, until Matron put her foot down and the phone was diverted.

Although the night hours were racked with awful pain, that was the time she spent in the presence of Father, learning from Him and sitting at His feet in prayer. But the door to her room was never locked and the nurses kept careful vigilance during the night, monitoring her pain level. Even though Tabbie never complained about the discomfort, the nurses knew when the pain level was becoming intolerable with her sharp blue eyes clouding over into an icy grey, before relief was administered and Tabbie drifted off into another world.

*~*~*~*

Matron Jillian Miles took her job seriously. She was a large, stern woman with a round face and ran the nursing home like a tight navy ship. Crisply in command, nothing escaped her notice and if the nurses did anything wrong, they owned up to it immediately. Some had tried to conceal their guilt when things got out of hand but when Matron discovered the covert plot to deceive, she let the culprit have it with both barrels once they were discovered. Needless to say, the guilty party didn't try it on again. Not only was she known for being decisive and tough, she also had a huge compassionate heart which wouldn't allow her to hold a grudge; and as experience dictated, it was best to remain on the leeward side of the staunch disciplinarian and confess all shortcomings to survive on the turbulent sea of nursing home protocol.

Matron glanced up at the clock on the wall and sighed. 9:30 am. Time to do her rounds, but she hadn't even started the mountain of paperwork left for her from the nightshift staff and the doctor was already making a steady path towards her desk to join her on her morning duties. Just as she had shifted gears and mentally prepared for the doctor's arrival, the phone on her desk began to ring, calling her attention away from her mounting workload. A frustrated huff escaped her lips, watching the doctor rapidly approaching and contemplated leaving it to ring, but gave in to her natural curiosity and answered it.

"Matron Jillian Miles."

A timid voice she didn't recognise answered her query. "Hello, Matron, this is Senior Constable Ian Palmer from the Juvenile Justice Department."

"Yes, Constable Palmer, what can I do for you?"

"I know it's an unusual request but you've helped us out with our _Young Offender Programme_ in the past. I was wondering if we could bring a young fourteen-year-old, at-risk female to see Aunt Tabbie. The last time, she facilitated a turnaround in a very tough case and this time, it's even worse."

Matron's ire went from cooling breeze to boiling point in just a few shaky seconds. "Constable Palmer, Tabbie is not well. I understand that she has an immense love for people, but she is in a nursing home for a reason!"

Palmer sensed the passion in Matron's reply and could almost feel the receiver earpiece temperature rising as the stern woman gave him a taste of her stinging tongue. "I... I understand your concerns, Matron, but the Young Offender Programme is falling helplessly behind and is failing this child. If I don't do something, this child will self-destruct!"

Matron's sternness imploded in on itself, listening to the desperation and concern in the young policeman's voice, sensing she had just become a victim to her own good heartedness. "I will talk to Tabbie and _if_ she agrees, then you may bring her here. On one proviso..."

"Name it, Matron!" the young constable was about to agree to anything.

"The moment she starts to show signs of distress, you and the child are to leave. Immediately. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Palmer quickly responded.

*~*~*~*

Two nurses helped Tabbie shower and dress and after she was presentable, Matron entered her room but taking one look at Tabbie's pained demeanour, Matron was already reconsidering her offer to the policeman.

"A young policeman has made a request, Tabbie. He has an at-risk juvenile female whom he is hoping to bring for you to talk to. I have tentatively agreed to his request, providing firstly you agree and secondly, that you are well enough to take on such a situation."

The two nurses gawked up at Matron in surprise, their gazes saying, _you are not serious_.

Tabbie's blue eyes were brilliant in the morning light. She nodded and smiled affably, as if this meeting had already been arranged and she was expecting the child at any time. "Of course she can come!"

Tabbie gasped as the nurses lowered her into her wheelchair and then placed her woollen blanket over her legs.

*~*~*~*

Ian Palmer strolled up to the glass front door of the nursing home accompanied by a distracted young girl. The unimpressed juvenile female protested loudly at coming to an old people's home, so Palmer gave her a choice: the old people's home, or back to Greyton's tough and regimented institution for hardened juvenile offenders and take her turn swabbing out the filthy ablution block.

Settling on Palmer's first option, the young girl felt uncomfortable out of her peer situation, with piercings all over her face and boot-polish-black, short cropped hair. She wore a traditional institution uniform, Greyton's dark green long trousers and shirt, with her young face already showing signs of setting into a hardness beyond her years. Intentionally, her severe dark appearance purposely deflected any interest in her disguised femininity, making it extremely obvious she didn't trust anyone, especially men.

Palmer pulled the door open for the girl and she slipped in without offering a word. They walked down a polished corridor, his shoes making a _clip-clop_ sound, echoing in the quiet as he walked. The girl looked around in horror at the sights she was taking in. Old people were being wheeled around, or slumped and parked in wheelchairs next to windows, just staring.

"Why did you bring me here?!" she squirmed, peering over her shoulder for a quick exit and back onto the streets.

"There is someone I want you to meet."

"Well, I don't want to meet them!" The girl was becoming agitated.

"Calm down, Casey. There's nothing to fear here."

"I'm not afraid!" she suddenly spat.

"Okay, Wonder Woman, prove it."

The obvious challenge calmed her down. No one spooked out Casey Lowe.

They rounded a corner and pushed open a glass door, entering a large lounge room. An old woman in a wheelchair sat at the end of a lounge and smiled as they entered. Casey was immediately taken by the depth of the old woman's blue eyes and she seemed to be surrounded by a peacefulness and warmth she had never felt before. Her smile drew Casey and she fought against it, closing her mind, not wanting to trust anyone.

"Casey, this is Aunt Tabbie."

*~*~*~*

Tabbie's acute mind surveyed the forlorn figure of the troubled young girl perched uneasily on the edge of the lounge. She silently winced at the pieces of metal forced through the young attractive facial features, pondering the reasons a pretty young woman would deliberately try to mutilate her beauty, but quietly, Tabbie understood the signs of deep self-hatred. The girl's disturbing eyes reflected the hollow, destructive paths of violent storms not too distant past and the emptiness of a short life full of pain, etched in distrust and her harrowing story written vividly across her face.

"Casey, is it dear?" Tabbie asked quietly.

"Yeah!" the girl retorted sharply as if the old woman had no right to ask.

"Would you like to tell me something of yourself?" Tabbie gently prodded, bracing herself and all too certain of the girl's reply.

"Fat chance, lady!" Casey spat, glancing rebelliously around at Palmer.

"Casey...!" Constable Palmer chided.

Tabbie eyed the constable for a moment and then filled the uneasy silence. "Mr Palmer, would you excuse us for a moment, please?" Tabbie pointed to the door.

Reluctantly, Constable Palmer rose from his seat next to Casey, gave Tabbie a glance of concern and started for the entrance. "I'll be just outside!" he threatened.

Tabbie followed him to the door, pushing her wheelchair with her skinny arms. Once he was safely outside the room, Tabbie thrust it shut and locked it behind him. A bewildered expression on Palmer's face, as he rattled the door from the outside, made Casey laugh. But she quickly brought herself back in check, not wanting to find any reason to connect with this old lady.

Tabbie then wheeled herself directly opposite Casey. "Now, if you can't tell me about you, would you allow me to tell you about me?"

Read more of Aunt Tabbie's Wings

*~*~*~*

Exclusive Preview of Jack Dey's Novel

THE SECRETS OF BLACK DEAN LIGHTHOUSE

Adventure. Danger. Intrigue. Love. Courage. Redemption. Come on the journey but be warned, there is no turning back and the consequences will leave your head spinning. A haunting mystery with a sting in its tail.

Katie stood transfixed on the beach. Her hands shook slightly and her stomach tightly knotted. Her dark hair whipped around her face and stung her eyes, driven mercilessly by the approaching storm. This was the first time in years she had returned to Contention Island since... she pulled in a shuddery breath at the memory, hung her head in her hands and collapsed to the beach sand. The tears began all too easily again. The familiar ache returned as if it was just yesterday, let alone twenty years ago.

Maybe it hadn't been long enough.

Curled in the cold sand and with her face buried in her hands, she thought she had overcome the demons lurking in her past and was ready to make sense of the circumstances that had so drastically altered her life. Sobbing, she castigated herself for being so stupid. Obviously she was wrong and this wasn't such a good idea after all. She raised herself to her knees, her tear stained eyes searching the blackness of the sea behind the breakers. Searching, always searching, just like in her nightmares.

A blinding flash lit up the dark winter night closely followed by a deep, opulent rumble. The intensity hit her in the chest, making her scream in fear and cover her ears against the tumultuous cacophony.

She had come a long way in her recovery just to be standing in this place, the place that had haunted her sleep and stolen so much of her youth. Over the years, the relentless nightmares and cowering fear had faded, giving her a reckless sense of strength, but tonight, she was living her past again. She imagined she was strong enough now and if she confronted her tormenter, things would change. Things would become normal.

Whatever normal was.

But standing here on Contention Island, it was all too clear she had overestimated her strength and wasn't ready to take such a drastic step. She still had a long way to go to reclaim her life.

It had been a night exactly like this, dark and imposing, raging at the foot of an unnatural storm. The rain began with such tenacity, it chilled her to her core and she began to shiver. Raising herself to her feet, she kept searching the sky beyond the breakers, her arms crossed over her chest against the teeming rain and wind driven chill.

Then she saw it, not once but several times. The walls of fear, undermined and partially dismantled by many years of absence from Contention Island, began to build its foreboding prison about her again. Katie grappled with the nightmare scene, clutching at her hair in desperation. Her mind refused to believe what she had just seen. It was still here, waiting for her to return.

To trap her again.

Her knees buckled under her and she collapsed to the sand, her mind shutting down under the immense shock.

*~*~*~*

From a place outside of her line of sight and buried in the night, another pair of eyes watched her motionless form with a cat-like stare. Stalking through the sand and leaning into the wind and rain, the figure stooped over the place she had fallen. Searching deliberately around the scene for prying eyes, he cautiously scooped the unconscious figure into his arms and effortlessly disappeared into the shadowy night without a trace, carrying his prey.

The sudden movement brought Katie around momentarily. She focused onto the black, cat-like eyes of her captor and screamed, but nothing came out. It was all happening again, as if history were repeating itself. She had been a fool, lured back into her past by the same events that had trapped her in her youth, seduced by the idea of gaining control over her nemesis and finally breaking free of his power. Her strength stolen – trying to stop the circle of events – her body went limp and she blacked out again.

*~*~*~*

A scream broke into his deep subconscious and activated his fight or flight sense. He sat bolt upright in his bed, ready to deal with any intruder. It took only a moment to realise where he was and what was transpiring. The dark room, only illuminated by the red digital numbers of the clock radio, was light enough to see the pained face of his wife battling in a nightmare.

"Becky, wake up!" he gently shook her awake.

The bedside lamp erupted, dividing the formidable darkness, paining their eyes and driving the world of fear back into the shadows. The confused look on Becky's face, her brow moist from the battle, was an all too familiar indicator of the depth of her enchantment. Recognising the familiar world around her, she spoke, exhausted and in a low, perplexed voice.

"What happened?"

"It was Katie again, wasn't it?" the concerned voice of her husband, Brett, enquired as he pulled her into his arms.

"She was back on Contention Island," the worried frown deeply furrowed on Becky's face, her voice muffled in her husband's shoulder. Becky hadn't dreamt of Katie for years and now, for some reason, Katie was troubling her subconscious again.

Katie had been a regular visitor into the young couple's lives at first. Unknown to Brett, Becky had been plagued by nightmares of Katie throughout her life. Once they were married, Katie's invasion of Becky's subconscious lessened, but was regular enough for Brett to form a picture of Katie and her troubled adventures through Becky's commentary of the nightmares she suffered. Becky had no idea how she came to dream of Katie. She had never met a girl named Katie in real life, let alone become friends with one. Katie's arrival back on Contention Island was not a welcome revelation. Brett now knew enough of the nightmares to surmise Katie's anguish was set to get deeper and Becky would suffer as a result.

He had to get to the bottom of these nightmares, and find out who Katie was and why Katie affected Becky's dreams so profoundly.

Read more of The Secrets of Black Dean Lighthouse

*~*~*~*

Exclusive Preview of Jack Dey's Novel

THE VALLEY OF FLOWERS

Out of your heart the tears I keep and when I am no longer, your knowledge is complete.

Dear Diary,

Today was the worst day of my life. Mum dropped by to see Dad but I was hoping she'd come over to patch things up and move back in with us. My hopes evaporated when I peered through the curtains in my room and saw 'him' sitting in the driver seat of her car, waiting for her to finish talking with Dad. Turns out she'd only dropped by to deliver the divorce papers and she didn't even take the time to stop by my room and talk with me.

I feel really hurt!

Things have been tense around Dad since she dropped her bombshell and moved out. The walls are so thin in this house and sometimes I hear him crying late at night in his room, although around me he tries to maintain his composure, but I can't help thinking their breaking up is somehow my fault. Maybe if I had been a better daughter, not so moody or so fat, maybe if I was prettier or helped her more around here... IDK!

I 'HATE' coming home to an empty house after school too. It freaks me out and I check behind each door and in every cupboard, then lock myself inside my room once I feel kinda safe. Scaredy cat, maybe... I guess; I should stop watching horror movies before bed. It's pretty late when Dad finally walks in from work and I'm sure I can smell alcohol on his breath. I try my best to take the load off him and I know I can't cook to save myself, but he usually doesn't want any dinner anyway – don't blame him really. So I end up eating in my room... I feel so empty and alone!

Sorry, Diary, I smudged your beautiful pink pages with my useless tears. Don't go away, Diary, I need to blow my nose... I'm back; did you miss me?

Tina knows something's up, but I feel too embarrassed to tell her. She keeps asking me if I'm alright and I keep telling her I'm fine, but I know she knows something's wrong and she won't give up until she's got the 'gos'. She's spending a lot of time with Danny Dickson lately, too. Yuk...! I can't stand the guy, but Tina likes him and I think she's intending to go all the way with him. I hope she thinks about it a lot before and isn't making a big mistake. I don't know what I would do without my BFF!

I just don't get life and what it's all about. It all seems so pointless and sometimes I feel like the world would be a better place if I just died! No one would even realise I was gone or miss me once they found out, I'm sure. Although! Mr Bryce stopped again to have a chat in the hallway at school; he's always so positive and encouraging and I always enjoy talking to him. Wonder if he wants a daughter? No, I guess not! He reminds me a lot of Grandpa Dan; I wish he wasn't so sick and we could spend time together again.

Why does everyone want to leave or get sick when I'm around?!

I should finish now, Diary; I still have some homework to do but I feel too depressed and can't be bothered. It's only maths and I can't stand maths!

*~*~*~*

Elly Parker's finger hovered over the _start_ button on her small laptop, contemplating watching another horror movie before turning out the light and trying to sleep. The movies seemed to resonate with the horror of her short teenage life and in some strange way, the images on her screen shocked her into a fantasy world, leaving her own desperate world far behind and in the shadows. She drew in a long breath, holding it trapped in her lungs while she studied the outline of her pink laptop.

In a moment of decision she released her breath, closed the screen with a _click_ and checked the bedside clock. It was just after midnight and the passageway light was on, signifying her father was still up. She combed out the length of her long blonde hair, the hairbrush crackling with static electricity at each deliberate stroke. When she had finished preparing for bed, she reached for the bedroom door handle and cracked it open. In a raised voice she called to her father, "Goodnight, Dad...!"

No answer.

She sighed and closed the door again then made her way to her bed and climbed in, pulling the blankets up to her eyes. Soon after making a mental check of her surrounds, Elly disturbed the neat blankets partially covering her face and reached for the bedside table, extinguishing the light and reducing her room into a confusion of darkness and shadows. With a sharp motion, she pulled her arm back into the safety of the blankets, her eyes slowly closing and soon she drifted into another world.

*~*~*~*

A distant rumble echoed up and down the steep, green valley walls. Then a gentle breeze rippled across the valley floor stirring a patchwork of yellow, pink and blue, making the colourful tall stems of happy flowers seem to giggle softly and sway gently in the giddying silence. Patches of blue sky peered around the tall cliffs, partially obscured by lazy clouds hanging deftly and close to the rocky peaks. A monolithic giant, draped in the royal green velvet of deep rainforest, towered high above the trail and stood guard over the entrance to the enchanting scene, making sure only the invited found the secret, narrow breach.

Something was beckoning, tugging at her heartstrings and drawing her onto the path, urging her to keep walking. Step by step the trail led her deeper into the valley, tantalising her senses with each guarded step and piquing her curiosity.

Where was she?

Suddenly, the valley erupted into whispered laughter, adorable impish laughter echoing across the valley floor and entangled among the swaying flowers. She searched around trying to identify the voices, but they remained shy and hidden from her view.

Then the sky opened and a warm, gentle shower drizzled over her, flooding her mind with childish delight as she tasted drops of water sweeter than honey.

The rain began to teem down on her and as it did, the impish laughter increased; she heard a giggle trickle over her tonsils and then an echoing laugh bubbled up from deep inside her and spilled out into the rain. In a moment of ecstasy, she peered up at the sky and the mountains surrounding her and twirled on the spot, pirouetting like a ballet dancer, lost in excited elation and sending her long white gown whirling around her.

As suddenly as it came, the rain stopped and a gentle breeze caressed her face, dancing with her, calling to her in a loving whisper, "Elly... Elly... come to me, pretty lady," enticing her down into the valley while its call halted her ecstatic dance.

The voice made her heart burn within her and she searched among the flowers until she saw a beautiful young man standing on the path, beckoning to her with an outstretched arm. She gazed at the gesture for a moment, hesitating and a little confused, but then his haunting green eyes peered into the depths of her heart and overpowered her emotions, gently pulling her towards him, desperate to experience the love he was offering.

A rasping clamour broke into her fantasy and before Elly knew what was happening, the scene had evaporated like a steamy breath into a cold atmosphere, sending her into a tailspin and searching frantically about the sunlit room for evidence of her intrigue and the green-eyed young man. She sighed, slapping the alarm clock into silence with an agitated hand and fell back to her pillow, exasperated and grieving for the lost opportunity for romance. It took her moments to realise she'd been dreaming, but the ecstasy she'd felt and the beauty of the young man haunted her.

If only she hadn't hesitated...!

Even as she peered around her empty room, the emotional depths of her encounter still remained and she longed to return to the gentle, enchanting world in her dream.

Read more of The Valley of Flowers

*~*~*~*

Exclusive Preview of Dodie La Mirounette and Jack Dey's Novel

LA BELLE SUISSE

If you have a price, the devil has a cheque book.

— _Author Unknown_

A small, battered brown case, grasped in a weathered hand, protected Philippe de la Calle's meagre worldly belongings. As he stepped from the crowded train, pondering the rising apartment towers and the lavish streets of his once boyhood home, he considered he hadn't been back here in almost thirty years. Now the memories sealed in the timeless corridors of his mind collided heavily with the opulence that flaunted itself in the unrecognisable streets where poverty once gripped his hand and kept his family prisoner. Somewhere in his tangled thoughts, wooden shanty housing leaned together in a mass for communal support, and if one stick was removed then the whole town would collapse; so it had been with the simple community structure of poor families living and relying on each other to survive.

A storm of wealthy, influential invaders had seen the potential of the small seaside hamlet as a tax haven and playground for the rich and famous. With the casual stroke of a pen on a blank cheque book stub, life had changed drastically for the poor, stealing the land from under their feet in a desperate greedy grab and displacing families who had depended on it to survive for centuries. Philippe gawked around at the ordered lavish streets bordered by sandstone buildings, groomed with gold leaf architecture and emblazoned with impish statues. Walk paths of rich, intricately cut Italian stone meandered lazily between millionaires' villas, diverting here and there through an ornate and expensively decorated park. Fountains splashed and gurgled on every profligate street corner. Where once there was thirst, now water seemed to bubble up from under every manicured rock.

An incredulous sweeping gaze at the tidy harbour, protected from the Mediterranean's boisterous moods by heavy rock barriers, abruptly halted Philippe in mid glare. In a time gone by, a great and proud natural granite seawall had protected the village from the ocean's wrath. Now it stood impotent and tamed as a backdrop to a fester of towering apartments. The sea in front of the buildings, reclaimed and pushed back, today accommodated meandering streets and a circus of harbourfront villas. Beyond the reaching luxury, a fleet of magnificent private floating palaces lay at anchor, neatly moored in million dollar pens. Polished and watched over by zealous crews, the palaces lay idle until their millionaire masters were ready for another lavish fling to impress the latest sports or movie stars, showing off their abundant wealth in another partying sea jaunt going nowhere.

Philippe swivelled on his feet and slowly completed a 360 degree scan. All about him, trillions of euro lay buried in a hoard of personal greed while the people he lived and worked among died in droves from lack of a daily meal, clean drinking water or a few euros of antibiotic medicines.

" _Excusez-moi, Monsieur!_ "

A petite, well dressed young woman drew Philippe back to earth. " _Pardonnez-moi_ , _Mademoiselle_ ," he apologised and stepped aside so she could navigate around his disbelieving frame. With a large group of chattering, awestruck tourists approaching from behind and cameras catching images from every direction, Philippe's train of thought dissolved and he began to follow the young woman along the path lest he be swept up by the wave of envious humanity.

It took some time to orient himself in the unfamiliar streets, but as his thin and tall, fifty-year-old frame came to an abrupt stop in front of an opulent structure, the bitter memories came flooding back. Intending to step from the ordered kerb and cross an immaculate street to face his nemesis, a red and black Bugatti-Veyron sports car blared its horn in warning and then quickly slipped away in an expensive plume of racing formulae fuel. Philippe stared after the vivacious vehicle, realising he'd just missed being run over by 1.1 million euro. Checking for further fast moving indulgent drivers, he quickly scampered across the street before a yellow Lamborghini driven by a sports model blonde approached and roared past in a flash of vibrating noise.

Safely across the roadway of spoilt disdain, Philippe stood silently, contemplating the extravagant building threatening to engulf him in a tsunami of past regret and shame that had divided his family and destroyed the people he loved. Philippe's father, the village leader, had colluded with the wealthy invaders and engaged with them in a despicable bid to defraud his people. Ancestral land and homes had disappeared in a sanctioned and swift, vacuous grab with little recompense. And for his efforts, Philippe's father was rewarded with a small fortune by poor people's standards. Seeing the need for a rich man's playhouse, Philippe's father had invested all he had in a gambling den for the wealthy and now after thirty years, he was one of the wealthiest men among the wealthy.

As a young man, Philippe had sensed the rising tide of affluent evil gripping at his bones, stifling the overwhelming desire to make a difference in a lopsided world, ignoring the cries of the suffering and filling his mind instead with the rich man's disease. But no longer able to survive an audience with his conscience, Philippe, along with his mother, had left his father and brother to live their lives of indulgent riches. Now, as a fifty-year-old missionary and after working in abject poverty in some of the poorest hot spots of the world, it had been nearly three decades since he'd seen his wealthy and elderly father and the place he once called home. Philippe took a last glance at the opulent casino, patted down his ragged clothing and started to climb the hill to his father's house bulging out onto a nearby hillside. As he approached the sprawling driveway, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the letter that had started him on his latest pilgrimage and began to read again.

Philippe

Your father is not well and the doctors suggest he has only weeks or possibly months to live. I am not sure why he requested to see you and Mother one last time before he dies, but you owe it to him for giving you life to at least make some kind of effort and fulfil his dying request. I still can't forgive you for walking away from the family when Father invested his complete fortune in the casino and it looked like we would be poor again; but as you will see, Father is exuberantly wealthy now and I only hope he has kept his promise to cut you out of his will. Just so you know, it is my intention to contest any favours he has set aside for you in his last testament, and I can afford the best legal team possible. Personally, I couldn't care if you don't come, but Father asks every day after you and I urge you, for his sake, to make a concession in your selfish lifestyle and fulfil a dying man's request.

Once again, I remind you I am the firstborn son and I am entitled to every bit of Father's substantial estate, simply because I stayed and supported him in his decisions and I will see to it you receive nothing from this incredible self-made man.

As agreeable as ever, your older brother Robert.

Philippe folded the tattered letter and placed it reverently back in his threadbare shirt pocket. From the moment he'd received the news of his father, it had taken him nearly a month to travel across some of the most inhospitable territory on Earth, calling on favours with grateful people to help him traverse across continents just so he could reach his ailing father's side. But now he wasn't sure his foolhardy journey had all been for naught and whether he was too late to fulfil his father's dying wish. After the nerve-racking trek, he stood in the sun tiredly blinking down a lavish driveway and into the haughty eyes of extreme opulence. He paused for long moments, considering the final few metres of his sojourn and what lay in wait for his arrival. With a quick prayer for strength, he pushed his feet on toward the enormous front doors, staring at a plethora of closed-circuit cameras watching him, watching them. Philippe lifted his hand to knock but before his knuckles made contact with the expensive paintwork, one half of the massive doors opened and a maid met his eyes with a disdainful frown.

" _Eh, vous là-bas, le vagabond_ , _get away from the door before I have security run you off!_ "

"If you please, Mademoiselle, I am Philippe de la Calle and I have come to see my father, Henri Rousseau!"

The maid's eyes suddenly clouded with fright. " _Excusez-moi, Monsieur_ , I did not know! Your father told us to expect an unusual person in the form of a _fils prodigue_."

Philippe smiled at the quavering maid. " _Oui, Mademoiselle_ , I guess my attire does suggest the presence of a prodigal son."

The front door soon gave way into a mammoth echoing amphitheatre with full length windows traversing two storeys above to the ground floor below, and giving an unhindered view of the impressive harbour and the millionaire's paradise perched at the foot of the mountain. Gold staircases led to ornate balconies far above Philippe's head, while each unintentional sound amplified and distorted in the clinical ambience of splendid white marble floors and ceilings.

A booming voice originating from one of the opulent staircases overpowered Philippe's awestruck gaze and he turned to meet the unmistakable owner. "So, you have disowned my name as well as my family, Philippe de la Calle! Why are you known as _Philippe of the Streets?_ "

Philippe's shocked countenance stole the ability to respond to the spritely elderly gentleman walking effortlessly down a flight of stairs to greet him. "I... it is an identity with the people I live and work among, Father. The poor of the world!" Philippe's voice echoed around the palatial surrounds as his incredulous eyes asked a silent question of the apparently healthy older man.

"Arr, the poor of the world," the disgruntled voice resonated, pursuing Philippe's dialogue in a fading game of chase. "People who refuse to take advantage of the wealth the world offers."

"No, Father, you have it wrong. These are people who have no opportunity to take advantage of the wealth of the world, when you consider that one percent of the world's population controls fifty percent of its wealth."

"Statistics, Philippe, that mean nothing. You grew up with the poverty of this place and look at me now. I have power, recognition and everything I could ever want."

"But are you happy, Father?"

"ARE THE POOR HAPPY, PHILIPPE?!" the booming voice reverberated again, bouncing forcefully off the clinical walls and shocking the younger man.

"They are among some of the happiest people I have met, especially when they know our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ," Philippe's words were a little more subdued, showing respect to the man he called father and hadn't seen in years.

"You always were a simpleton child, filled with the superstitions of religion. But there is no religion except wealth and fortune. Look what it can do for you!" the elder man swept his arm around the opulent surrounds.

"And what of your impending death, Father?" Philippe whispered with concern.

"I will not die, Philippe. You can see how healthy I am and I have many beautiful young women around to keep me young."

"Everyone dies, Father, and yet we are eternal beings. Our spirit is alive for ever. You may be rich now, but what awaits you without Jesus is eternal agony and poverty."

"Huh! More of your confounded brainwashed idealism, Philippe! Robert told me I was wasting my time trying to make you see reason. The only thing that exists is now and today. And today, I am a king!"

A ruthless, calculating stare settled in the old man's eyes as he bored into his wayward son. "Here is my challenge to you, Philippe de la Calle. Stay with me and in my home for six months and I will show you the power money wields and the truth of its idealism... instead of your toothless God."

Read more of La Belle Suisse

*~*~*~*

Exclusive Preview of Jack Dey's New Novel

ZERO

COUNTING: 10 DAYS-07 HOURS-00 MINUTES-56 SECONDS-ACCURACY AFFIRMED

"Hand me that ring spanner please, Matt!"

The straining voice called from _Esau's_ engine cowl, his head buried deep inside the floatplane's solitary radial power plant while balancing his wiry, elderly body over the aircraft's stubby nose and his feet dangling in mid air. Awkwardly suspended two metres above the waterline and teetering on his stomach, all it needed for _Beaver Jack Marshall_ to plunge into Morgan Lagoon's crystal clear tarn was a sudden unintended move. It'd happened before when a determined fastener refused to budge, suddenly giving way under Beaver Jack's aggravated tug. The consequences had raised such hilarity from onlookers not more than a metre away, but they were standing out of harm's way, dry and safely confined to the floatplane's mooring wharf. As the elderly licensed aircraft mechanic plunged and disappeared, flailing under the water's surface, the laughter increased when Jack bobbed up victoriously seconds later, showcasing his shining spanner still grasped firmly in his hand. Floatplane repairs were Beaver Jack's life, but he was getting older and the gymnastics required to reach the engine bay of a moored aircraft were telling on the old body; yet he couldn't bring himself to retire.

"So when are you taking a trip into the city, Matt?" Jack's voice distorted, partially blocked by _Esau's_ metal frame and sounding like his speech had emanated from a well.

Matt reached up from the dock where _Esau_ was securely moored and pushed the spanner into Jack's blindly grasping hand, but winced when Jack's question drifted down to assault his ears. "You never give up do you, Jack?!" Matt sighed good naturedly, yet loud enough, giving the elderly mechanic an indication he'd hit a raw nerve. The same nerve. "Girls just don't go for blue eyes, pale skin, freckles and red hair, Jack!"

Beaver Jack's head suddenly appeared over _Esau's_ engine cowl. A greasy smudge ran down his cheek, giving him the appearance of an Indian brave about to go on the warpath. With the spanner being used as a teacher's pointer directed straight at Matt, Jack began the recital Matt had heard a thousand times before. "A woman who's worth her salt looks past the exterior box and sees the heart of a man. Character and soul are far more valuable to the Lord than fading temporary looks that disappear with increasing age."

"Character and soul may be valuable to the Lord, Jack, but try offering it to one of today's women without the handsome exterior and see how far you get. Not everyone's as wise and discerning as your Nancy!" Matt smiled to himself in victory, knowing Jack's adoration for his long time wife, Nancy, would distract the lecture and send the elderly aircraft mechanic on a tangent.

"Now there's a woman to be admired. She was the prettiest gal on the block and I was just a mangy mongrel but she married ... _me!_ Don't know what she was thinking and a finer woman you'd never find..."

Matt grinned as Beaver Jack successfully sidetracked onto his familiar rave, but as usual Jack's constant hints had found its mark and left Matt feeling hollow and almost hopeless of ever finding a decent lady to call his own. Even if a pretty girl with character came within shouting distance of his ruddy features, nothing would convince her to take a second look.

"There you go, all finished! Now all we need is that part from the city to complete the job and hopefully it should arrive today or tomorrow on the supply plane."

The unexpected voice interrupted Matt's sombre thoughts as Jack precariously replaced _Esau's_ engine panels and wiped the paintwork with a rag before sidling off _Esau's_ stubby nose. "Better start this cantankerous old man and give his engine a test."

"Will it be alright to start with the old part still in place?" Matt worried.

"Yeah, it's just a precaution replacing it. Considering the country you fly over, we don't want to take any chances."

Matt obeyed Jack's spanner-pointing directive and climbed behind the pilot's seat. With Jack safely stretching his elderly frame and ironing out his bony stiffness on the dock, _Esau's_ radial energy source burst quickly into life, showering the old mechanic and the dock in a healthy blue cloud. Grinning from ear to ear, Matt quickly shut down the purring machine and gratefully bounced from the plane's cockpit and onto the dock.

"I don't know how I would've managed without your help, Jack. The tourist season opens in two days. Can I pay you when I get my first cheque?"

Jack nodded, but he knew Matt's tours weren't very popular with patrons, especially with Mason Brand's charismatic and handsome features muscling in on the tourist traffic and tickling the fancies of the wealthy middle class women. It seemed Brand had a successful advertising regime in the distant cities showcasing his blond, athletic good looks and his sleek, late model floatplane pasted to a invigorating picture backdrop of Morgan Lagoon's wilderness, drawing tourists to the sleepy settlement in ever increasing droves. Some operators intent on challenging Mason Brand for business had ignited an advertising war and the once unknown lagoon had become a household word. Unfortunately, an undesirable knock-on effect developed out of the attention, with Morgan Lagoon becoming crowded with floatplanes and itinerant operators hoping to capitalise on the tantalising and free television publicity.

Morgan Lagoon was unofficially discovered by Jack and Nancy twenty years ago on a chance floatplane adventure, and soon after leasing the land, they'd retired at the remote and isolated paradise but had never thought of visitors or restricting strangers from enjoying their discovery. Now the small but picturesque hamlet, bordering the high wilderness' southern boundary and offering the perfect base and springboard into one of the world's last true open and unexplored natural rainforest playgrounds, had become insufferably busy in the dry and mild, tropical winter months.

The isolated village, accessible only in the dry season by a bone-jarring week long trek on dishevelled and maze-like wilderness roads or a four hour journey by floatplane, disbanded and its permanent population disappeared with the tourists during the unpleasant wet and humid summer months. However, a handful of diehards remained with their floatplanes to battle with exhaustingly high humidity, teeming rainfall and the confining monsoon's dismal boredom until the pleasant months of winter returned, bringing perfect days and a fresh round of income generating holidaymakers.

According to Jack's often repeated legend, the small lagoon had been formed overnight and long ago when a large spherical chunk of space rock took umbrage to the earth blocking its determined trajectory, hurtling through space and prompting the two stellar opponents to lock horns in a destructive battle. The audacious streaking comet plunged into the obstinate globe, hoping to inflict a mortal wound and deter the planet from blocking the heavens, but only managed to achieve an open fissure in the dense forest and a blackened, gaping hole in the ground. Within a heartbeat, the spectacular smoking conflict had been settled and the earth declared victory, leaving the comet's legacy and final resting place to fill with pure rainwater in one torrential storm as Morgan Lagoon was born. No one, not even Jack, knew _or cared_ who Morgan was or whether he was the first to discover the pristine lagoon carved into the intense forest. However, the comet's scar offered a natural approach through the dense tree line and onto the small waterway, making it possible to land a floatplane into the restrictive tarn. Without it, the lagoon would be too small, even for the fabled _Beaver floatplane_.

To survive as a successful floatplane tour operator in Morgan Lagoon's crowded, stiff and highly competitive winter market required a handful of specialist skills: a pleasant, charismatic demeanour; a smooth and convincing voice, coupled with an intimate knowledge of the outer extremities of the intense wilderness; and most of all, a cowboy-pilot attitude. The more successful pilots had a predictable approach: a lady-killer instinct with their plain-featured and wealthy, middle aged women passengers, separating a couple and placing the unsuspecting female victim in the co-pilot seat while their male partner languished stupidly somewhere in the back. As the flight skimmed over untouched lakes and squeezed through impossibly tight canyons, exhilarating his prey, the pilot flirted shamelessly, igniting and toying with long forgotten emotions trapped in the dull repetition of pampered domestic boredom. The experience not only provoked a sense of mystery and attraction within the elated quarry toward the handsome pilot, but ensured the unscrupulous businessman would have a ready source of income as word of mouth spread among gossiping middle class and likeminded pampered ladies looking for a dangerous spark.

However, shy and polite Matthew Hayes couldn't stoop to such lows, and for his stance, his tour operation struggled to survive; but the business he'd managed to secure from his competition was a small, select group of satisfied and compatible customers that shared Matt's desire to keep Morgan Lagoon's secretive face... secret.

_Esau_ , Matt's beloved 1956 Beaver floatplane was an immediate hit among his limited and peculiar clientele, with no tour complete without a group photograph in front of _Esau's_ brightly painted scarlet fuselage and an effigy of a scruffy, red hairy warrior of Biblical proportions painted on both sides of the plane. Along with Matt's shock of red hair, the tour wasn't easily forgotten, with most people able to recall Matt's and _Esau's_ names even if Morgan Lagoon's identity escaped their memory.

For the members of Matt's trusted meagre clientele, the wilderness experience included a breathtaking picnic and swim at _Surprise Eden,_ the drawcard and jewel in Matt's invigorating wilderness experience. On a clear approach to the clandestine and mysterious, well hidden utopia, the view left his exclusive guests speechless as _Esau_ shoehorned along a stretch of tight and heavily forested canyon with the snaking river water level well below the impenetrable plateau's jungle canopy. Then as the river widened and the floatplane landed, _Esau_ bumped along until he reached the obscure entrance. Although the fabled Eden's existence had become somewhat of a taunting folklore among Morgan Lagoon's competitive floatplane operators and their clientele, no one could actually weasel its location from _Esau's_ tight-lipped redheaded pilot or his guests. To maintain the secretive ambiguity, Matt shut down all positioning instruments just before entering a fifty kilometre radius, depriving any astute passenger a clue to its whereabouts and foil an attempt to sell the coordinates to a rival.

Standing on the jetty next to Matt and busy cleaning up the remnants of _Esau's_ repair, Jack stole a sideways glance at the young pilot, suspecting the presence of a familiar emotion and the distant fire of unwise adventure burning furiously in a faraway look.

"You haven't got any cockamamy ideas of the deep wilderness again have you, Matt?" Without looking up, Beaver Jack's voice competed with the _tinkling_ spanners while his hands worked furiously, cleaning his tools of trade before placing them meticulously back into their specific home within the well loved kit.

Matt seemed amused at Jack's perceptiveness. "Am I that easy to read?"

Jack's leathery old hands froze in mid polishing and turned to face the starry-eyed twenty-five year old. "Trying to gain an advantage over the other operators by expanding deep within the wilderness and leaving the other tours to skirt the fringes isn't a smart idea, Matt."

Matt became concerned at the rebuke and remembered Jack warning against the prospect before, but considered the elderly mechanic was simply kidding. It was true; no one had ventured deep within the wilderness and lived to tell the tale, especially since the unexplored region had an uncanny knack of throwing up unpredictable dry season storms and exhausting an aircraft's fuel resources fighting the melee. Some had foolishly attempted the feat but had never returned, with the thick jungle hiding a suspected crash site in an expansive tangle of constantly changing vegetative conspiracy. The secretive wilderness was a shy and foreboding place to modern man and his machines, pulling the curtain closed against his conquering efforts with a defining _clunk_ and sealing the mysterious disappearances into man's imagination and the constricting and sticky cement of legend. The fact none of the other tour operators would even consider the deep wilderness had almost become an obsession with Matt and he'd secretly decided at some point to push _Esau_ to his limits, challenging the stupid fairytales surrounding the legend and conquer the fabled yarn with truth.

"Do you really think it's inconceivable to venture inside the deepest parts of the wilderness and also survive, Jack?"

"I told you about Surprise Eden, Matt. Just be happy with that and leave well enough alone. Eden's far enough into the wilderness to be adventurous, but close enough to be safe," Jack seemed less than amused at Matt's probing.

"Yes, you did and I'm very grateful, Jack. If you hadn't, I doubt _Esau_ and I would still be here," Matt unexpectedly laughed, drawing Jack's attention while recalling the tricks of other operators trying to pry the coordinates from his grasp, or worse, soliciting information from his elated but stoic passengers. "The competition are still trying to work out whether Eden exists, and if so, where it is, yet I'm sure they will find it eventually; but there's a big difference between the other operators venturing four hours into the wilderness to Eden and a full day's travel into the deep wilderness. As far as I know, nobody's ever gone in and come out to tell the story. But if I could..."

"Yeah they have and trust me, you don't wanna go there!"

Jack's accidental disclosure and matter-of-fact statement caught Matt off guard, interrupting his babbling euphoria and causing the young pilot to stare intensely at the elderly mechanic's back as he finished packing away his kit. Matt hadn't heard _this_ story before and Jack's casual statement broadsided the redhead and ignited a storm of curiosity.

*~*~*~*

*** COMING SOON ***

*~*~*~*

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