Category Archives: Dusk

January 12, 2014

Our Darling Swamp Monster

Every now and then, my friend Sharmishtha posts the beginning of a story for others to complete, if they wish. I do them sometimes and this is one of them. I have taken the main idea, but changed it slightly. Here is her original prompt:

Late at night they could hear his roar, at a distance. They still remember when that little bundle of fur landed in their life, mother killed by a poacher, two cubs left to perish. It was their sheer luck that a woodcutter found them. How they struggled to keep him warm and alive, the second one perished hours after being rescued.

How hard it was for them to decide that they will have to let him go. The sleepless nights they passed after his release. Now… they miss him but are happy for him.

Now, here’s my story:

Source

Our Darling Swamp Monster

They didn’t call it the Forbidden Swamp for nothing, although the worst that Gerardi had ever found there were will-o-the-wisps and exploding swamp gas. But then one day, on his way home from collecting willow bark and reeds, he made a discovery in a steaming pocket of sludge. It looked at first like a shapeless bag of withered grey leather, but there was a creature inside that loose hide, one with spines and claws and large, wondering eyes. It was a monster but it was also a baby, and he was in a fix whether to leave it or kill it outright. In the end, he brought it home.

His wife Melanee was taken with it right away and they name it Khip, which meant “special” in their language. They kept it in a box by the fire, until the heat burned it. Then they kept it in the barn for the next year until it started killing the goats. It had lived on pulped poisonroot, but now it would only eat raw meat and soon, they could not afford to keep it. So, Gerardi sorrowfully took Khip out into the swamp and let it go.

* * *

“I wonder if he’s hungry,” Melanee said. It had been a month since Khip had gone.

“Stop asking that,” Gerardi said. “He can take care of himself out there. You shouldn’t worry about him.”

“I know, but I miss him,” she said.

“I miss him too. Let me go out and take care of the animals. I’ll be back soon.” He went out and fed the goats and other animals. Then, he retrieved the half a goat he had saved from when he had killed it a week ago. He carried it out to the edge of the swamp and placed it where he had put food every week since he had let Khip go. The meat always disappeared and he recognized Khip’s distinctive tracks in the soft dirt.

He knew it could not continue like this forever. Just to get him settled, he thought, but that is what he had said for the first week and he was still bringing food out to the edge of the swamp. Just a little more.

Soon he realized he had to stop. He did not have enough goats to sacrifice one every two weeks and if he continued, he would soon not have enough to expand the herd. So, one dark night he snuck up to his neighbor’s house and stole a goat. His neighbor had ten times more goats than Gerardi did. After this, he went and stole a goat every two weeks from his neighbor and then listened sympathetically as the man complained bitterly about goat thieves and wild animals.

Once a year, Gerardi made a trip to the capital to trade his medicinal herbs and other swamp products for things they needed. It was a long trip, almost two weeks each way and so just before he left, Gerardi stole two goats from his neighbor. One he killed and left in the usual spot, while the other, he killed and left a trail of blood leading back towards his neighbors house. He left the other dead goat nearby. This way, he thought, Khip could go get his own goats if for some reason Gerardi was late and missed bringing him his food.

The trip was a success and Gerardi returned with many beautiful and necessary things. However, he found the area in an uproar when he returned. “There is a monster lurking in the swamp,” people said. “All sorts of animals have gone missing.”

Gerardi hurried home and was relieved to find everything in order and his wife healthy. Still, not everything was fine.

“It has been terrible, the last few weeks,” Melanee said, holding his hand. “It has to be Khip doing all this, but still I’m afraid for him. Also, people have noticed that we are untouched, even though we live on the edge of the swamp. They are becoming suspicious.”

The next day, Gerardi went into the village, where he heard more news of the attacks. “It was mostly animals at first,” they said, “but now, a couple of people have gone missing too and old Ramses’ barn was ripped to bits. It’s the work of a monster.”

Most people were glad to see Gerardi back, but not everyone. He got some strange looks and questions about his wife and if they had lost any property. He lied and said they had, but still, it was clear that some people suspected Melanee of somehow being behind everything. He was leaving the market when he heard the word witch rise out of a conversation behind him. It was a terrifying word.

(to be concluded soon)

22 Comments | tags: adoption, creepy, fiction, monster, swamp | posted in Dusk

January 3, 2014

My Son Eats Cars

By David Stewart

I came home from work to see a piece of metal sticking out from below the rhododendrons and my heart sank. I pulled it out and saw that it was a muffler, partially chewed. I’d had a long day at work and this was not what I wanted to deal with at the moment. But that’s what being a father is all about.

I found Lawrence in his room, lying on his bed. His eyes were red from crying and I felt so bad for him in that moment and so powerless. He’d been doing so well, I’d been so proud of him. I wasn’t mad, I just wanted to make everything better for him.

“Hey there,” I said, trying to keep my tone light.

He covered his face with his pillow, ashamed. “Dad, I did it again. I’m so sorry. I ate another car.”

“I know,” I said. “I saw the muffler. Come on, sit up.” He finally did and I gave him a hug, although inwardly I recoiled at the smell of motor oil on his breath. “What kind was it?” I asked.

“Does it matter?”

“I’m just curious.”

“It was Corolla,” he said finally, looking at the floor. “I was walking from the mall when I saw it there and, I don’t know, there was something about the look of the headlights that looked so inviting. The next thing I knew, I was chewing on the bumper. I should have given up then, but I knew I couldn’t hide the teeth marks and I was so ashamed and embarrassed, I just gave up and ate the whole thing.”

I gave him another hug. “Don’t worry, we’ll get through this phase. At least you’re off transport trucks, right? And you haven’t eaten a car in months. You’re doing really well.”

He looked up at me and my heart ached at the pain and confusion I saw in his eyes. “It’s just so hard,” he said. “I try, I really do.”

“I know,” I said. “Do you think it would help to get a couple old bicycles, or maybe a motorcycle now and then . . . ?” He looked down and shrugged.

I wanted to say more to comfort him but inwardly, I was dreading the upcoming battle: finding the owner, dealing with insurance companies, trying to explain the whole humiliating situation to unsympathetic insurance agents and police officers. Trying to make it all go away as quickly as possible and protect my boy as much as I could.

He was getting better, it was true, but for the first time, it occurred to me that maybe this was not a phase Lawrence would ever get through. Maybe he would struggle with eating cars his whole life. It was a scary thought, but I knew more than anything that I would love him, no matter what.

“Look,” I said slowly. “Your mother and I talked about this. I wasn’t sure about it before, but maybe I could talk to a scrap yard owner and see if you can go in there sometimes, if you get hungry. They’d be old cars, but it would be better than eating cars out of the parking lot while their owners are in shopping.”

Lawrence looked up and smiled. “You mean it? You’re not mad?”

“Well, this hasn’t been easy on any of us, but I love you and I’ll do what I can for you.”

My son eats cars. It’s not what I signed up for when I became a parent, but you don’t get to choose the challenges that come your way. Like everything else in life, we’ll take this one step at a time, together.

21 Comments | tags: addiction, autophage, car, eating disorder, fiction, parenting, puns in tags, struggles | posted in Dusk

December 20, 2013

Untainted

By David Stewart

I wrote this a while ago, but hesitated to post it, since it is very different from the sort of thing I usually write. Incidentally, I’ve noticed that when I use first-person point of view, people sometimes think that it’s a true story. So, let me clarify that this is not about me and it is fiction.

I have no father.

It’s not just that my mother is divorced or that he died; I’ve never had a father. She told me that when I asked. Some kids have one, but not you. Oh well.

When I told my Grade 5 teacher this, he joked that I was immaculate. I had to ask my mother what that meant. She didn’t know either, but we found it in a dictionary. It meant perfect. She laughed and said fat chance. Still, I liked the idea of being immaculate. Maybe there was something about having a father that made you less than perfect.

I had had a vague idea of sex since early elementary school, but in Grade 7 the health teacher laid out all the gory details for us, complete with blush-inducing diagrams. I confronted my mother with this newfound knowledge, laying out my case like an adolescent pedagogue. If she didn’t know the meaning of immaculate, she might not know about the sperm and the egg and fallopian tubes and all that. “So, you see, I must have had a father,” I said, in conclusion.

“I can’t explain it to you,” she said, taking a long, uncommonly slow sip from the coffee mug she held in her hands.

“Don’t you remember it?” I asked, still pushing headlong for an explanation. I didn’t know much about sex at that point, but from what I’d heard, it seemed like the sort of thing you’d remember.

“Don’t do this right now,” she said from behind her mug, where she continued her never-ending drink of coffee.

“I just want to know if I have a father or not,” I said, standing up to look at her over her mug. I saw a tear leak out of her right eye and run down her cheek. That sobered me instantly. My mother never cried. Ever. At least I’d never seen it before. I sat back down.

The mood had gotten uncomfortable and I was about to slink away to the TV when she put down her mug and wiped her eye. “I was raped when I was in university,” she said. I had never heard that word spoken by anyone I knew and it was scary to have it suddenly leap into my life, even into the sanctuary of my kitchen. “I didn’t know who it was and they never caught him.”

I didn’t know what to say. My youthful brashness had been sucked out of my body.

“My friends wanted me to get an abortion. They assumed I would. I almost did.”

“Why didn’t you?” I asked quietly. I almost touched myself to make sure I was still real, still alive.

“I was too scared. I was petrified both of getting an abortion and having a baby. I kept putting off the one until the other happened on its own. I was going to give you up for adoption, but when I saw you, I couldn’t.”

“I see.” It was all I could manage. I escaped soon after that to try to numb my thoughts with some electronic entertainment. It didn’t help. It was like dancing along happily, only to find you’ve been dancing on a paper-thin wafer of glass, over a yawning chasm of What Might Have Been. I could be dead now. I would never have known if I was. I couldn’t wrap my mind around it.

It took me four days to work up the courage to ask the question that kept pounding against the inside of my skull. We were washing dishes after supper and suddenly I had to get it out.

“Mom, do you regret having me?”

She looked over at me and fairly attacked me—wet, soapy hands and all—in a crushing hug. “Never,” she said. “Never, never, never. I regret a lot in my life, but not you. You are like a strong tree that grew up out of a pool of poison, untainted by the evil of that night.”

I never forgot those words and they carried me through the inevitable pain and confusion that came with the knowledge of my origins. I may not be immaculate, but untainted is just as good.

16 Comments | tags: abortion, Family, fiction, immaculate, Mother, rape, untainted | posted in Dusk

December 15, 2013

The Golden Circle – Sunday Photo Fiction

By David Stewart

A piece for Al Forbes’ Sunday Photo Fiction.

The Golden Circle

“He’s the king.”

“We can’t trust him.”

“But he’s the king.”

“He killed eight people.”

“He’s the king.”

In the nation of Vallakha, there was no way to remove a monarch. He was installed by God and was above the law. So when King Jerome III began roaming the palace halls, killing servants and courtiers, there was intense discussion about to what to do.

“Execute him?”

“Impossible.”

“Imprisonment?”

“He controls the prisons. Nothing is higher than the king, except God himself.”

“Nothing but God . . .”

On the first day of summer, the king was imprisoned in his bedroom, surrounded by golden bars, which were blessed and made part of the Church. His guards were priests. His rule remained absolute through the whole nation, except for a circle, four inches wide, that surrounded him.

13 Comments | tags: Alastair's Photo Fiction, church, fiction, flash fiction, king, monarchy, murder, prison | posted in Dusk

November 15, 2013

The Silverware Man

By David Stewart

This is the result of an Open Prompts challenge that I issued on Monday. I like what I came up with, although the hardest part to incorporate was the length, i.e. cutting it down to this size. Here are the elements that were suggested:

– a red leaf clinging to a tree, trying not to fall (submitted by Anja)

-the title, The Silverware Man (submitted by Chris De Voss)

-a character named Bartleby “Bud” Hobdringer VII (submitted by Miles Rost)

-a length of 555 words (submitted by Catherine)

-lots of water (submitted by Amy at The Bumble Files)

The Silverware Man

After ringing the funereal doorbell for five minutes, the door was finally opened by an old man in a shabby bathrobe.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. “I’m temporarily without a butler. How can I help you?”

“I came about the job,” I said.

He took the newspaper from my hand. “Ah, the silverware man. Come in. We have a very extensive silver collection. We used to have a very large staff, but I am afraid we are suffering a personnel shortage currently.”

He didn’t interview me, just offered to show me around. “Great,” I said, sticking out my hand. “Your name’s Bud, right? I asked in town.”

He shot me a look of disdain. “My name is Bartley Hobdringer VII. Please address me as Mr. Hobdringer, or sir.”

“Yes . . . sir.”

Our footsteps echoed off the dark walls of the entranceway and the smell of mold was strong in the air. A single bulb dangled from a dust-covered chandelier. The house looked deserted.

Most of the silverware was kept in the basement, which I found to be flooded. After wading through hip-deep water, I managed to carry out the warped and moldy boxes and clean them up. By the end of the day, the silverware gleamed and my hands were black with tarnish. I set the table in the palatial dining room: four forks, two knives and two spoons and waited while Mr. Hobdringer sat down with a can of sardines and an apple and fastidiously picked out a fork.

“I’m currently without a cook,” he said, almost apologetically.

“If you’d like, I could—”

He cut me off. “No, your job is just the silverware. We must do things right.”

He did not dismiss me or invite me to join him and I continued to stand there awkwardly while he ate.

“You must consider me a fool to live like this,” he said after a while. “How far I have fallen from the days of my grandfather, when this house was full of life.”

“I know I am fighting the inevitable, but still, I feel like I must fight,” he continued, speaking out into the gloomy expanse of the room. “I cannot sell this house, but I cannot keep it going either. I’m like the last dying leaf of autumn, fighting to stay on the tree, fighting against every icy blast for just another moment of being attached to everything I’ve always known. I fear falling.”

Life soon became very relaxed. My job was only to wash and polish the silver and set it out for meals—a job that occupied half an hour at most. A week later, Mr. Hobdringer gave me a vase in place of my salary. When the antique shop owner in town heard where I had gotten it, he nodded knowingly and gave me a good price.

Two weeks later, Mr. Hodringer did not come down for breakfast. I finally went looking for him and found him in bed, his body already cold. His leaf had finally fallen. On the desk was a note to me.

Nigel,

Your service, although brief, was much appreciated. Please take the silverware as your final payment. It will repay you well for your efforts. Thank you for bringing a gleam of the past back into my life.

Cordially,

Bartleby Hobdringer VII

10 Comments | tags: fiction, house, Open Prompts, servant, Silver, silverware | posted in Dusk

November 4, 2013

Apocalypse Climb

By David Stewart

This is a true story, as evidenced by the photographs. But you know me: I can’t help dramatizing things a little.

I saw a preview of the apocalypse this past weekend as masses of humanity pressed together, fighting to ascend (and then descend) a steep, rain-soaked path of tumbled rocks. The horror, the horror…

Koreans love them some mountain climbing and they love them some autumn colors. And considering that everyone loves them some weekend, going mountain climbing on a Saturday in Korea in the fall is like a perfect storm, especially in the rain.

The sky was overcast when I left the house in the morning. I couldn’t find my umbrella, but I had a magic talisman that prevented rain. At least, it rarely rained when I was carrying it and I believe strongly in the principle that correlation implies causation.

I got to the mountain (which is also a provincial park) and as the bus passed long lines of cars parked along the side of the road, my heart sank like a bowling ball in a banana souffle. It was, as the Chinese say, a mountain of people, a sea of people. If zombie hordes wore expensive hiking gear and preyed on autumn leaves, I would have been in a George Romero film.

Everyday I’m shuffling…

The rain started as a fine mist about halfway up the mountain. By the time I got to the park’s famed Cloud Bridge, the path had bottlenecked and so we all stood in the rain, shuffling forward at a snail’s pace until I finally reached the bridge. I looked down at the path 250 feet below me and saw the winding, ant-like column of hikers abandoning the mountain.

I saw a sign saying the maximum number of people on the bridge was 200. Not that anyone was counting.

I gave up the idea of going to the peak. A cloud had sat on the mountain as if it were snuggling into an easy chair and after the bridge was a treacherous metal stairway, over 200 feet high and as steep as a ladder. I wasn’t the only one who decided to cut the trip short and head for the cable car station nearby for a quick trip to the bottom. The trails were choked with sodden hikers, some with expensive cameras, jewelry and nice purses, all picking their way down the slick rocks. I felt like we were refugees from some disaster.

The group on the left are the ones who climbed under a railing and swarmed down the rocks to cut in line on the main path.

“All it takes is one person to slip…” I kept thinking.

There was a two-hour wait for the cable car, nowhere to sit and nowhere particularly warm. At least the view was pretty.

I got home four hours later and soon the apocalypse was only a distant memory. It’s amazing what a hot shower can cure.

14 Comments | tags: adventure, apocalypse, Daedunsan, hiking, Korea, mountain climbing, mountains, non-fiction, outside the tower, photograph, rain, Wanju | posted in Dusk

October 22, 2013

Close Call – Micro Fiction

By David Stewart

Close Call

The pit bull died alone, poisoned by the flesh of the world’s first and only zombie.

Humanity never knew.

7 Comments | tags: close call, dog, fiction, micro fiction, pit bull, zombies | posted in Dusk

October 7, 2013

Screams at Midnight

By David Stewart

I woke up suddenly to screams coming from the road below my apartment. I jumped up and went to the window. It was almost midnight and the road was deserted. Then I saw the small figure shrinking back against the wall on the edge of the streetlight’s circle of light.

What should I do? I had only been in the country for two weeks and I didn’t know the language beyond basic phrases. I stood there for a few moments, listening to the cries and praying other neighbors would call the police and relieve me of any responsibility.

The windows across the road from me remained dark and I saw one light go off and unseen hands pull the shutters closed. So that’s how it was.

I thought of just going back to bed, but how could I sleep like that? How could I stand by and do nothing while someone was suffering? I had always been appalled at stories of people who heard muggings and murders going on outside their apartment and did nothing for fear of getting involved. On the other hand, I didn’t want to go get involved in something that was none of my business.

Finally, I got dressed slowly and went to the door. I would at least go try to get a better idea of the situation. I went down the stairs and peered out the front door.

The figure—it was definitely a woman—was in the same defensive position, but I could not see anyone else. I took a step outside, still scanning the shadows. The fact that she was apparently alone alarmed me almost as much as if someone had been there beating her.

I walked into the circle of light and the woman abruptly went quiet. The next thing I knew, she was clinging to me, looking back over her shoulder at the empty road. She was talking to me, fast, but I had no idea what she was saying.

She seemed to be in her 20s, long black hair, and almost freakishly thin. Her skin was cold against my arm. Strangely enough, she smelled of wood smoke, a smell I have always loved.

“Uh, are you okay? Okay?” I said. She gave me a look of incomprehension.

What was I supposed to do? Finally, I asked, “Do you want to come up for tea? Tea?” I made a drinking motion, then hoped she didn’t interpret it as alcohol. I remembered the word for tea and said it and she nodded.

I lived alone and my apartment was not exactly neat. I blushed and tried frantically to clean up, at least superficially, as we walked in. She didn’t seem to notice—just sat on the couch and looked around. I was glad she had calmed down, at least.

As the water was boiling for tea, I tried to make small talk, which is very hard without a common language. I showed her my language study book and she seemed to approve. Then we silently sipped at our tea and smiled at each other when our eyes happened to meet. Finally, she stood up and took a deep breath.

“Thank you,” she said, one of the few phrases I knew in her language. “Thank you, thank you.”

“No problem,” I said, completely forgetting the appropriate response.

She walked to the door and put on her shoes.

“Uh . . .” I began—she had walked out with my mug in her hands. But then she turned and gave me such a radiant smile that I let her have it. “Have a good night,” I said. “Bye bye.”

“Bye bye,” she said, in English, and giggled.

The next day, I asked my landlord about her. It took him a few minutes to understand. “Ah, I know. I know the girl,” he said at last. “Yes, she is not . . . not okay in the head, you know? Sometimes she cries at night on the street. Don’t worry, don’t worry.”

“What happened?”

“Years before, she had a boyfriend, he was very bad. He hit her a lot, very badly. Then one day he hit her on the road right there and she hit him back with rock and killed him. No trouble with the police—not her fault, but after that she not okay in the head. If you see her, don’t worry.”

“Okay,” I said. I didn’t tell him that I had made her tea in my apartment and that she hadn’t seemed crazy to me.

Two days later, I opened my door to go to work and found my mug sitting in front of the door. It had been washed and was stuffed with money, mostly dirty and wrinkled bills. There was about $25 worth in all. After that, other cups and containers appeared in front of my door, all filled with money. After six months, I had over $300 collected.

I didn’t spend the money—I felt bad just having it. I wanted to give it back, but I never saw the woman again. I looked for her but couldn’t find her. No one seemed to know where she lived. Based on the smell of wood smoke, I even wandered out into the forest, wondering if she lived in a cabin out there.

Even now, a year later, the money still comes from time to time. I’ve thought of hooking up a camera to catch her in the act. I just want to tell her thank you, that I don’t need the money, that I want to know more about her. All I can do now is study the language and keep my eyes open.

What else can I do? What would you do in my place?

9 Comments | tags: fiction, foreign country, foreigner, night, screams, strangers, woman | posted in Dusk

September 13, 2013

Apathy – Haibun Challenge

By David Stewart

I don’t often do these, but I thought I’d try this week’s Haibun Challenge.

Apathy

So many terrible images slide across the screen. One cannot take in a steady diet of earthquakes, massacres, epidemics, famines. I am overexposed. My brain becomes numb and even that little voice that shouts that such numbness is bad—even it eventually falls silent.

I pass them on the street, holding out their hands for help, but my quick strides sweep me by. I have enough stress and pain and uncertainty in my own life without opening it up to more. One day, when my life is all together, when there is room for the pain of others to replace the troubles that now buzz around in my head.

Now I have cancer. My Facebook status announcing the earth-shattering news has a smattering of sympathetic one-liners (no likes of course) . . . and that’s it? Doesn’t anyone care?

souls like bumping boats

seek the free open waters

until storms threaten

25 Comments | tags: apathy, cancer, charity, Facebook, fiction, flash fiction, haibun, haiku | posted in Dusk

September 2, 2013

Alone on a Boat – The Final Chapter

By David Stewart

Hi, everyone. Here is the 13th and final chapter in our continuing collaborative story, Alone on a Boat. It was put on hold for a few weeks since Sharmishtha had some unexpected, terrible flooding. If you’ve been following along, you can read all the chapters, including the previous one on her blog.

Or here’s the synopsis: Angelique is 20 years old and sailing solo around the world. Two men kidnap her in the Indian Ocean and bring her to an island where there is an ancient Indian temple. They get killed by monsters but she escapes and meets an old man, John, who brings her into the temple, which is full of treasure. Her father arrives the next morning because of a distress beacon she activated. He sees the treasure but before he can go in, Angelique is transported into the temple alone and confronts a naga woman. Because of Angelique’s honesty in not trying to take the treasure, she is rewarded with a nagmani, a naga’s third eye, that will take her back to the temple if she needs to go. Her and her father go back to the boat but he sneaks out at night to go find the treasure. She goes after him and finds him in an altered state, imagining he is at the temple and taking jewels, when he is only in the jungle.

Alone on a Boat – Part 13 (The final chapter)

By mid-morning, John and Angelique had gotten her father down to the shore. He came willingly enough, but often stopped to pluck imaginary gems out of the air and store them in his bag.

“Do you really think he will be okay?” Angelique asked.

“I hope so,” John said. “Get him far away from here and then see. It may take a while. I’m not sure; I’ve never seen this sort of thing before.”

“Thank you,” she said. “You saved my life. I’ll never forget you.” He smiled and held out his hand but she moved past it and gave him a hug.

“Come back sometime, if you can,” he said. “I will still be here, I’m sure.”

John helped her get her father onto the ship, then she brought him back to the shore. He stood waving as she pulled up the anchor and set the motor to bring them away from the island.

Her father was now lying on the bed, and was asleep when she checked on him. He continued to sleep all day and she checked several times to see if he was still breathing.

She made supper and went into the bedroom. “Dad, Dad, it’s time for supper.” She shook him gently, but there was no response. Was he in a coma? After a few minutes more, she went up on deck and ate supper by herself.

She had sailed solo for many days, but never had she felt more frightened and alone than at this moment, with her father unconscious inside. What if he never woke up? What could she do? What would her mother say?

The sun went down, extinguishing itself in the waters of the Indian Ocean. Angelique lay down and looked up at the millions of stars shining above her.

She looked down and saw that her shirt was glowing. She pulled out the nagmani. It was glowing with a reddish luminescence that grew brighter and then suddenly faded back to black.

There was a noise from the cabin and the door opened. Her father stood in the doorway.

“Are we on the open sea?” he asked. “Weren’t we on an island?”

“We were but we left,” Angelique said, going to him and giving him a hug. “You’ve been sleeping for hours.”

“I feel pretty tired. What happened? The last thing I remember I had taken a helicopter to come find you and I remember something about being on the boat.”

“Well, that’s passed now, Dad,” she said. “We’re heading for Jakarta; I can drop you off there, if you wish, or you can stay until Singapore.”

He nodded. “Either one is fine. I wonder what the name of that island was? I’d like to go back there sometime.”

A stab of apprehension went through Angelique. “I don’t know, Dad,” she said.

“Well, whatever. I’m so tired for some reason. I think I’ll go back to bed.” He went back in, closing the door.

Angelique leaned back and looked up at the night sky again. The stars seemed to be smiling down on her. She was happy now. She was ready for the next adventure.