Patagonia Lost

Patagonia Lost

                                                                                    By

Hugh Morshead c2012

Twenty-five year old mountain guide Jack Green sat at the campground picnic table writing up his expedition report. The Isla Navarino trek in southern Patagonia had been successful despite severe weather and his clients were now enjoying the Buenos Aires nightlife before returning to England. They had applauded his effortless leadership, the reality was that he had spent every waking moment reading their diverse abilities, the terrain and the weather - or as the Cherokee say, listening to the whispers so you don’t have to hear the screams. It had left him drained and this unpretentious campground a day’s drive south of the city was perfect to recharge the batteries and plan his future.

    “Hola,” said the pretty girl. The campsite next to him had been vacant and now it was bustling with four girls erecting a large tent.

     “Hello,” he replied and his jaw dropped. Four nubile young ladies in bikini tops and thongs were cavorting with tent poles, pegs and billowing nylon. Jack’s natural bashfulness was compounded by the restraints engrained by an English boarding school and the protocols of outdoor leadership. These girls were stunning; however, his heart was with his girlfriend waiting for him back home in Scotland. They dreamed of building a guiding business together and now he had a way to make it happen. The hostel owner at Puerto Williams was a retired Chilean military officer and was receptive to the idea of having a foreign partner; Jack was excited by the thought of telling Katie that their dream could now become reality. 

      He continued studying the maps and filling his notebook with compass bearings as the girls cheeped and chatted like songbirds; he smiled to himself when he heard them discussing him. In the mountains, he was hyper-aware of his environment, in the laidback campground he tuned out distractions. He failed to notice a lone middle-age camper staring at them, the man was an amputee. 

      Smoke from dozens of fire pit grills hung low in the soft evening air, except at his neighbours, were it was more like a bonfire. The smoke stung his eyes and he could no longer ignore their cries of frustration.

   “May I help?” he asked and walked over with an armful of kindling, soon flames licked the dry tinder. He introduced himself and they invited him to share their huge flank steak. Jack felt bad not having anything worth contributing and so he walked over to the camp store for a bottle of malbec wine. Their animated conversation was punctuated with bursts of laughter as Jack recalled the dramas of shepherding greenhorns through the wilderness. Between the glow of the wine and being the center of attention, he didn’t notice the subtle shift in group dynamics. Three of the girls stayed in the background, allowing Melissa, a vivacious dark-hair beauty, to hold his attention. The three girls decided to walk into town for ice cream, leaving Jack and Melissa chatting over the embers as dusk fell.

     “Please show me photos of your trip,” he went to his tent for the laptop. Images of desolate jagged mountains, stunted beech trees bent double by the wind and close-ups of guanos, the indigenous llama-like animals, filled the screen.

     “Oh, these bugs are terrible,” she said, waving her arms around her face, “why don’t we go inside the tent.” The girl’s tent was a rummage sale of duvets and toiletries, he continued showing her dozens of photos and rhapsodizing about creating an adventure business in the far south. He could sense her warm body as she peered over his shoulder.

       “You can do this because you are not married, yes?”

       “I have a girlfriend, next time she will come with me.”

       “Is she very pretty?” she smiled and leaned closer.

       “How old are you?”

       “I am eighteen in two weeks.” A sudden chill snaked up his spine; he had spent the past hour in the tent alone with a teenage girl. Hastily, he closed the laptop and unzipped the tent opening.

     “Excuse me, I must go.” 

     “You English are so stuck-up,” she replied in disgust. Jack felt bad, he hadn’t intended to be rude, but how could he explain that, for a mountain guide, conduct is as important as carabineers? He decided to return early to the city the next morning and drifted off to a troubled sleep.

     “Policia, manos arriba!” shouts from outside the tent woke him with a start. He unzipped the tent and big army boots filled his vision. Six police in blue fatigues and with pistols in low-slung holsters surrounded the tent. A Federal officer sharply dressed in khakis addressed him.

    “You are under arrest, come with us,”    

    “Why? I have done nothing.”  The officer did not reply. Jack watched helplessly as they emptied his tent and search through his belongings. One of them found his multivitamin bottle and took it triumphantly to the lieutenant. The officer tipped the contents into the palm of his hand; amongst the multivitamin capsules were small red pills.

     “What are these?”

     “I don’t know, they’re not mine.” The officer barked an order, handcuffs were snapped on his wrists and he was manhandled into the police cruiser. He stared wildly out the window, police surrounded the near-naked girls standing outside their tent, the girls were wailing in anguish. Jack stood helplessly as they were escorted into an unmarked van. He was driven away past the scared crowd of onlookers, he didn’t noticed the smirking amputee.

                    A few days earlier Jack had admired  the Baroque splendour of the 18^th century town square with its cobbled stone street and the pastel shades of the ornate stonework, in contrast, the the rear entrance of the police station retained the dark foreboding menace of the colonial era. The razor wire and guards cradling machine guns emphasised the power of the state. The shock of his sudden arrest helped to numb the indignities of the strip search and being processed, freedom and personality were replaced with a number and denim coveralls; then he was taken, manacled, down two flights of steps. Worn red brick lined the wall of a narrow passageway, on either side there were narrow cells with thick iron bars, each housed pathetic inmates dressed in rags, the stench of excrement was overpowering.  The guard unlocked a cell door and unshackled him, a dim light recessed in the ceiling illuminated his destitution, the five foot by eight cell was empty except for a raised  sleeping platform, a thin grey blanket and a metal bucket. He sat listening to the hollow sound of the disappearing footsteps and wept. The silence was broken by rats scurrying along the pipes on the ceiling outside and the cries of an inmate clawing his way out of a nightmare.

                  Jack’s despair turned to rage, it was all a set-up to elicit a hefty bribe by hick cow town cops.  He would be damned if he’ll let these yahoos take his money. In the afternoon he was interrogated and the list of charges was long: sexual assault of a minor, drug trafficking and serving alcohol to a minor. The two cops also hammered him with questions about the Chilean military maps and his notebook full of map references and compass bearings. They told him that the trekking business was a cover for smuggling drugs into the country and the girls were his access to students.

      “This is bullshit; I demand to speak to the embassy.”

     “They have been notified of your arrest and will visit you in due course.”

      The guard took him back to the cell and as the steel door slammed shut, he felt something curl up and die inside him. All his hopes and dreams of the future were shattered and no matter the outcome, he knew the scandal would destroy him, his stomach burned in frustration. The questioning by the police became more adversarial and his demands for embassy official were ignored. A week dragged by and to Jack’s relief, instead of the two swarthy cops, a tall man in a tailored suit and polished brogues was escorted into the interview room. He introduced himself as a consular official.

      “You’ve got to get me out of this hell hole. I’ve been framed, I’m totally innocent...” Jack’s words trailed off as he saw the look of utter distain on the man’s face.

     “Her Majesty’s government has no authority over the judicial systems of sovereign nations, however, I can recommend legal counsel,” as he handed Jack a business card. He was as icy cold as the glaciers Jack had recently been climbing; the coldness of the consular official was harder to take than the thuggish bullying of the detectives. Two weeks later the lawyer visited, he was a crumbled middle-aged man with a harried demeanour that did not exude confidence. He took out a legal pad from his worn brief case.

       “Now tell me want happen, start from the beginning.” Jack recounted everything. “Your outbursts with the police and attempts at bribery have hardened their attitude and reduced our options. They have a strong case; a key witness is a retired captain in the infanteria de marina, their marine corp, a decorated hero of the Falklands war.

     “Where did he come from?”

     “He lives at the campsite and gave an eye witness account of you getting drunk with the girls and your time in the tent with the teenager. Had you not been so adverserial I might have been able to have the charges reduced. I will try and reach a settlement with the prosecutor, but don’t expect anything.”

     “You got to get me out of here.”

     “The media are baying for blood, the Falklands war is an emotional issue and they portray you as a drug-crazed pedophile and spy.”

     “What will happen?”

     “The best case is seven years, so long as you stay out of trouble in jail. Fights with other inmates and insubordination with guards can extend the sentence indefinitely.” The lawyer rose to leave ... “here are some newspapers for you, they show what we are up against,” as he pulled the papers from his brief case and handed them to Jack.

     The newspaper headlines from home screamed a lurid tale of sex and drugs with teenagers. Not only was his career ruined, his personnel life on the rocks. The letter from his girlfriend had an uncharacteristic formal tone and although outwardly supportive, he could read between the lines that it was all over. Two weeks later, he was transferred to a prison outside Buenos Aires and a trial date was set for two months time.

      The prison was a former military base with a central building holding several hundred prisoners. Jack shared a cell with three inmates, two were serving ten years for cattle rustling, the other was an ancient Indian. Jack slowly adapted to prison life with its own code and morals. The atmosphere gnawed at his soul, the inmates had a prevailing bitterness against society and suspicion amongst each other. Jack’s contempt for comfort and an ability to get along with people should have made the situation bearable, however, the other prisoners either were openly hostile or maintained a vacant stare. In time, Jack realized it was a coping mechanism against the unchanging surroundings and depression. The two rustlers were only semi-literate and Jack helped them with their appeal, in return, they watched his back, essential when fights with makeshift knives flared up without reason. The Indian slept much of the time and remained a mystery.

     “Who is he?” Jack asked one day.

     “A Mapuche Indian, he’s a walker between the worlds.”

     “Huh?” the local idioms put him at a loss.

     “He’s a priest and when he goes into a trance he travels to spirit world.” Over time, Jack developed a friendship with the shaman and began to learn about his beliefs. The Indian spoke slowly about how, since the dawn of time, beauty and perfection were woven into order of the universe and that the spirit world and the world of humans needed each other to create harmony and truth. When the shaman travelled to the spirit world in a trance, he brought back power and knowledge to help others. For the first time, Jack felt a ray of hope, although he could not physically escape the prison, he could learn how to roam at will through his mind. Perhaps, in time and with the shaman’s guidance he could master the art of travelling on the astral plane back to his beloved Patagonia or even expose the falsehoods that imprisoned him.

Full Cry with the Chascomus

Full Cry with the Chascomous

By

Hugh Morshead c2012

       “How was your day?” Said Mum, as she placed the plate of steaming food in front of Dad.

       “Oh, the usual,” he replied, barely glancing up from the paper.

       “Well, Rory, I’m sure your first day at the Chascomous Hunt and Country Club was interesting.”

       “You betcha!  Richardo, the tennis guy, says the cross-country course is kaput and I’m not wanted.”

       “No! But he’s the manager,” said Mum, in disbelief.

       “It’s 8 in the morning and my job has vaporized before I even start. The place is deserted; I go and bang on the bunkhouse door. Eventually, Ian Twisted-Jones, the course builder, appears. Empties everywhere, a dumpster smell. Someone had written on the wall, ‘rat lives here’, with an arrow pointing to a huge hole in the ceiling....”

       “Please, Rory... we’re eating,” said Dad.

       “I passed on the coffee...the mould in the mug matched Sapphire’s orange and green hair... she’s his girlfriend and was wandering around in her nightie like a disaster victim”

       “Oh, how frightful,” said Mum.

        “Anyway, he’s really pissed off. No timber, no money and they are looking for another job.  I shared the couch with congealed pizza, I could feel the e coli crawling all over me, I had to get out of there. Next, I try the workshop; it reeks of diesel, an ancient tractor lies in a pool of oil with its guts strewn across the floor. A short person in a crumbled suit is whacking something in the vice. I asked if there was a problem. I could’nt understand him, he’s Russian or something and the words are scrambled. He kept bashing away, muttering, ‘it can’t be fixed until it’s broken’.”

        “I’m calling Gloria, this is a catastrophe,” said Mum.

        I wondered if I had said too much. I had been really looking forward to my new job building horse jumps and hanging around guys with revving tractors and chainsaws ripping into fresh pine. 

       “Rory, I had a long chat with Gloria, she is going to drive you to work tomorrow and sort everything out. You are having dinner with them tomorrow night. I’m going to put good clothes in a bag for you, they change for dinner,” said Mum.

        The next morning, sitting in the plush front seat of Gloria’s sedan I experienced why she is known throughout horse country as ‘the Queen of Cajole’, I was her prisoner strapped in by a seat belt, my brain still dozy with sleep. First, she gave me a heartbreaking account of her personal sacrifice for the common good and then she manipulated my teenage machismo. The final tightening of the thumbscrews came when I let slip that I would be applying for my amateur jockey’s license when I turned sixteen later in the year. Her husband, Major De Bacle chairs the Amateur Riders Committee for the Jockey Club. 

         “When the Chascomous Hunt was disbanded ten years ago we allowed tennis players to join. Now, they are the majority. I am not a snob...after all gardens have slugs and worms – although, of course, worms are beneficial. The tennis players may drive Audis, but they just don’t have the deep pockets of us horse people. The Hunt Breakfast will pay for the cross-country course and then next year we will host the National Pony Club Championships,” said Gloria. She was the potentate of the Pony Club and her daughter, Penelope, would continue the dynasty.

         As we drove up the driveway to the Club, I felt like I was riding with mythical Queen Boadicea in her war chariot, the kind with the extended knives spinning on the wheel hubs. She drove to Ricardo's front door.

        “How are you Gloria? It is always such a pleasure to see you,” said Ricardo graciously.

       “Ricardo, what is going on? This young man is here to build jumps and there are no materials or equipment.”

       “The account is empty; I can’t keep the grass cut, let alone buy logs.”

       “Where is that tenaciousness you displayed on the tennis circuit?  The word, ‘can’t’ is not in my vocabuary

       “Pleeze, Senora...”

        Next, we went to talk to Ian and then Banjax. I marvelled at the way she turned their objections into threats; with Ian, it was about his prospects for the national Eventing team and with Banjax, his immigration status. I hovered in the background cringing. An hour later, under Ian’s guidance, we hauled rocks from the hedgerows and by evening had built a pair of stonewalls. My hands were raw from handling the rough fieldstone and I regretted not wearing gloves. I cleaned up in the bunkhouse and walked through the trees to the De Bacles’ stone farmhouse adjacent to the Club.

        “Come in, come in,” said Gloria, I entered, except for recent photographs in silver frames, I felt like I had stepped back two centuries to the days of the Raj.  Gilded portraits and the stuffed heads of hunting trophies stared down from the walls. The atmosphere was of imperial authority.

        “Come into the kitchen and tell me what you built today.”

        “The stonewalls are done. Banjax is a genius at stonework; he spent his teenage years alone in the mountains. He says it was a mystic experience and that an individual stone is a solid, but when fitted together the wall becomes a liquid that flows naturally with the landscape.”

       “That’s nice; the Russians love their walls and liquids...ah, here are the others.”

       “Hi, Rory,” said Penelope with a beaming smile that took me off guard, we were only nodding acquaintances from the show ring.

       “Hello, young man, how is the work going?” Said Major De Bacle.

       “Jumps are getting built, despite the some challenges.”

       “Ahh, that’s what builds moral fibre. Set goals and then strive to the summit.”

       “Yes, sir,” I replied. I resisted the temptation to say that Banjax was some kind of mutant mechanic washed up from the Cold War, Ian Twisted-Jones, a high plains drifter with a horse and a chainsaw and Ricardo, with his gold chains, a refugee from a dance studio. 

         The conversation steered around to plans for the upcoming Hunt Breakfast and how the Mullaghcurry Hounds were coming and that they were going to lay a drag.

       “What is that?” I asked, wondering if it was some kind of Oscar Wilde-style perversion.

       “Instead of hunting live, a rabbit carcass is soaked in aniseed and dragged across the country. The hounds roar after it in full cry. It’s jolly good fun going on a real tear, although of course it is frowned upon by the Quality,” explained the Major.

       The Major drove me home and lectured on the necessity of using what he called, the field expedient and the importance of making alliances. It took me a while to realize this was military talk for stealing and partnering with dodgy characters.  My thoughts were on doing some ‘field expedient’ with Penelope. I had been totally mistaken in thinking her aloofness was coldness, she was like all of us at our age, a little shy. I was beguiled by her charm and warm smile. He dropped me off and said in parting.

       “Now, my man, what are you going to do?”

       “Use the field expedient and make alliances, Sir.” I wasn’t sure whether I was referring to jumps or his daughter.

        “Jolly good.”

       “The Hunt Club is looking for timber?” said Mick.

       “Yes,” I replied, and explained how they need jumps for the upcoming Hunt Breakfast fundraiser.

       “They are beyond wealth and their coming to us tinkers for free logs. No problem, we’ll get them logs and more besides. We’ll harvest the long acre.”

       “What’s that?”

       “The trees along the roadside are there for the taking”.

        Mick, with his brusque manner personified the phase – don’t give a tinker’s curse about anything. It was the adrenaline shot we needed to get the job done. We drove the back roads in the quiet of mid-morning looking for a stand of evergreens with straight trucks. Mick and Ian quickly dropped them with chainsaws screaming in harmony. Banjax and I chained them to the truck and towed them to the edge of the road to be loaded. One end of the log was rolled onto a steel bar, Mick and Ian lifted the log with the bar and Banjax backed the truck up so that the end of the log was on the truck bed, they would then lift the other end up and push the log onto the truck. There was much cursing and yelling. Meanwhile, I attacked the limbs with a machete and loaded the evergreen boughs onto the other truck. Lunch was a cook-up in the bunkhouse, the commonality of the storytelling was that all three had an inability to worry properly. In the afternoon, we built the jumps. Ian knew all the tricks on how to build jumps quickly. He wielded the chainsaw, while Banjax and I manned the spades.

        I had moved my pony, Tonka, to the Club’s barn and in the evening Ian, Penelope and I saddled our nags. It was like romance, we started out orderly and with intentions of restraint and just pop over a jump or two as we trotted around the trails that criss-crossed the property. Then the excitement mounted and it became a headlong gallop as we screamed in exhilaration leaping the fences. Penelope’s face was flushed with excitement when we stopped to catch our breath. She invited me to dinner; her parents were dismayed at the Club voting for two new tennis courts. It would enable them to host national competitions. Penelope and I escaped to the rec room and swapped stories of teenage angst; our friendship was blossoming. She told me about the upcoming Summer Ball hosted by the Tennis Committee; it had a Great Gatsby theme. I asked her if she would give me the honour of being my partner, she agreed with a warm smile.

        “You know, the reason they have no money is they have no sport. Who is going to keep a horse just to go on a short canter over a few logs?” Said Mick over lunch, “Back in the day we’d be gone all day galloping over everything before us.”

       “Sport today is strangled with rules and regulations,” said Ian.

       “What about the field expedient?” I asked and explained how the Major had said you do whatever is necessary to achieve the goal.

       “Jajus, you’re right,” said Mick, “we’ll lay our own drag and give them a run for their money.”

        We started planning; first, we needed fox pee. To dig up a fox den and keep the foxes in captivity was not an option, because for Mick, any eviction scraped raw bone. It was Siobhan who came up with the answer; she had a friend who worked at a petting zoo were there was a tame fox. A plastic sheet would be placed under his pen and the pee collected. Mick and Siobhan planned the route as if they were designing a racecourse. It would be a six-mile gallop to the edge of the moor and back. All of it open grassland with plenty of jumping and the stream and woodland added variety. Siobhan knew the country and laying the drag under cover of darkness would not be a problem – or so we thought.

        The week before the big day was a long hard slog. We worked late into the evenings and the temperature climbed into the thirties. Ian gave us a work list each morning and the jump building became a mindless endurance slog. I told my parents that I would stay at the bunkhouse the night before the Hunt breakfast as the signage and roping of the parking area had yet to be done. That evening we gathered in the bunkhouse for a war party council.

        “Here’s your fox,” said Mick, handing me a dead rabbit wrapped in a length of twine and a full plastic dishwashing bottle. “I cut the fox pee with cooking oil; otherwise it would be too strong and burn their noses. Every once and a while give the rabbit a squirt to freshen’ him up.” The reek of fox was so strong it stung my eyes. Mick gave us final instructions.

       “Don’t go through any gates, that’s a dead giveaway it’s a drag and not a live fox. Go through the hedges as a fox would and skirt around livestock to prevent the scent being foiled.”

        Siobhan and I set off around 10pm. It was still warm and muggy; we were dressed in t-shirts thinking we would run most of it and be back in a couple of hours. Although it was pitch dark and no moon, we could still roughly differentiate between the open fields and the hedges. Siobhan navigated by the lights of a distant farmhouse. We scrambled through ditches and over stonewalls, our jeans were soon soaking wet and mud clung to our running shoes. Briars tore vindictively at our clothes and scratched our skin. It was still a game to us and we giggled as we hauled each other out of the ditches. A barking dog shattered the quiet as we passed near a farmhouse. The turnaround point was a distant Church on the edge of the moor. The wind gusted and clouds obscured the stars, then thunder boomed in the distance like artillery and the skyline was illuminated in a blinding light turning the storm clouds into ragged shrouds. In the blackness, we had missed the bridge across the river, we knew it was shallow this time of year and so we slid down the bank and held onto each other as we crossed using rocks as stepping-stones. Splash! I lost my balance and both of us fell headlong into the water. The wind shrieked and the temperature plummeted, we crawled up on the bank soaking wet and chilled to the bone.

        “Come on,” said Siobhan, “There is no way we are going to wimp out.”

       “Your right, we have to move fast to get warm.”

       “We are near the church and that’s half way.”

        The worst of the storm pasted and we staggered on with the wind howling. It had taken nearly two hours to get this far. I could hear Siobhan’s teeth chattering and my arms were trembling, it felt like ice-cold needles were being jabbed deep into my skin. The distant lightning bolts lit up the church with gothic malovance.  Behind us, the barking increased to a cresending howl as farm dogs found the line of scent. It was like having hellhounds on your trail. We were shivering and uncertain about our direction.

        We struggled on. I cursed myself for being so stupid. We should have checked the forecast and eaten more than a snack before starting out. Both of us were trembling with cold and exhaustion. We made our way around the church and into the pine plantation. Branches whipped our faces and we could only feel our way by the crunch of the gravel track. It took an hour dragging ourselves through ditches and stumbling over ruts to make it to the road leading to the Club. We were both beyond caring. I could hear Siobhan whimpering, in the darkness I could not see that she had lost a shoe and was limping. I put my arm around her waist and she put her arm around my shoulder. A car headlights lit up the road, we were too slow to hide in the ditch. It pulled up beside us.

        “And what would you two love birds be doing out at this hour of the night?” Said Ricardo.

       “Feck off, yer gobshite,” said Siobhan.

       “Gloria is going to love this,” he said, as he drove away.

 We had survived the nightmare trek only to have it turn to ashes at the finish line. We staggered to the bunkhouse and collapsed on the lumpy couch and armchair.

       The next morning Ian drove us both home. I still felt groggy even after a hot shower and cooked breakfast. My mother was concerned that I was working too hard and disapproved of my scratched face.  We arrived at the Club to find it a sea of trailers and horses. The huntsman and the hounds had gathered in front of the Clubhouse. The Major blew a few sharp notes on his hunting horn and the riders gathered in a semi-circle in front of him. He gave a speech extolling the horse, tradition and hunt etiquette. Trays of port in plastic glasses were circulated and toasts made to the glories of the chase.  I was tired and, for me, behind the excitement lurked an awful phoniness. Gloria saw me in the back of the crowd and bore down on me with a full head of steam.

      “Rory, I am disgusted with you. How can you have the gall to show up here? Penelope has been in tears all morning. Ricardo told me all about you and Siobhan using the bunkhouse as your personal love nest. You are fired!  Never darken Chascomous again,” she said, with a look of daggers.

       I was spitting mad. We had worked our butts off for her and risked our necks last night – and all for her stinking Club. I didn’t care what she thought, but it was hurting Penelope that really burned me. In anger, I wheeled Tonka around and pointed him at the paddock fence; he cleared it almost from a standstill. I cantered through the trees towards the road and home.

        “Hooowoo” bayed a hound, and then another joined with a sharp yelp, and another.

        The baying exploded in a high-pitched roar as the pack screamed in unison. I heard two cracks like rifle shots ring out in quick succession and shouts from the huntsman. I turned around at the sound of steel horseshoes clattering on the road. The hounds were racing across the field. The lead riders were leaping the rails off the road and strung out behind the hounds. My pony pranced with excitement; we took a run at a low wall and galloped after them across the field. I joined the main body of riders as they jostled for position at the ditches. The fences came quick and fast. We passed the slower riders, a ditch and hedge was next, I aimed Tonka at a spot were the shrubs was thinner, he launched into the air. The drop on the landing nearly unseated me. We galloped on, I glanced up at the hillside to my left, it was lined with people, suddenly they moved, two dozen horsemen charged in a cavalcade down the hill, whooping and shouting as they joined us. Mick was on huge Clydesdale, galloping upright in the saddle and with a long rein, Siobhan was on her roan pony, both grinning like idiots. A riderless horse with broken reins galloped alongside to the left. A siren wailed behind us, I looked back to see an ambulance in pursuit.

        “Tis’ grand sport!” Mick shouted, as we approached the church. The parking lot was full and the on the wall stood cheering spectators. The hounds had lost the scent at the river, allowing us to catch up. Steam rose in clouds and horses ‘flanks heaved as they caught their breath. We were all mud-splattered and red-faced from our mad gallop. The hounds crossed the river and we were off again. The Major was cheering the hounds on with Penelope close behind. I looked back down the valley and saw horses, with and without riders stretched back to the Club. The hounds tore through the pine plantation were Siobhan and I had so much trouble with branches in the dark. By the time we jumped the wall out of the wood, the hounds were already two fields ahead. Tonka was fit and still going easily, there were about a dozen of us galloping in hot pursuit of the Major. Ditches, walls and rails, we flew them all. The other riders cut across the fields and joined in behind us, including the huntsman. We jumped out onto the road; sparks flew from the horseshoes. Finally, the hounds lost the scent just before the Club entrance.

       The riders gathered around the barn with horses blowing and sides heaving. Everyone was high with excitement.

     “What luck that Charlie was home,” said the Major, referring to the fox.

       “That was no fox, it was a drag and my horse has a bad gash on his fetlock from those blasted walls,” said the Huntsman, “it was a dead giveaway the way the line was cut by the farmer ploughing and picked up immediately afterwards on the unploughed grass.”

       “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

       “What is this then?” he said, producing a muddy pink running shoe from his jacket. “I found this in the field before the road. It belongs to whoever laid the drag.”

       “Ah, come on man, we had damn good sport, come on up to the Club house and we’ll have a snorter.”

       “I demand an inquiry to find you is behind this. There will be damages to pay.”

        I listened to this as I washed Tonka down. The Major followed me into the barn.

       “By Jove, that was like good old days, worth a guinea a minute. Glad you were with us and well mounted,”

       “Oh, Yes Sir, it was great fun. I was nearly off over the big drop, my pony pushed me back in the tack.”

       “Apparently it was a drag. I don’t care, it was brilliantly executed.”

       “The field expedient, Sir,” I said in a quiet voice.

       He looked at me with one of his bushy eyebrows arched.

      “The field expedient, eh...thank you very much, absolute marvellous. I can’t give you drink, but come on to the clubhouse and dig into the cake,” he said, with his hand on my shoulder.

        The Clubhouse was packed with mud-splattered riders and their entourage. I enter with the Major, the crowd parted as he strode to the bar, acknowledging greetings and cheers from riders. I saw Gloria and Penelope cross the room towards us.

       “That was an absolute disaster. The police are coming back to take a statement from you. I have not heard back from the hospital, three were carted off in the ambulance and the Rev. Ffooks is traumatised, a funeral had to be delayed because the hounds ran through the cemetery,” said Gloria.

       Before the Major could reply, three robust men pushed to the bar and shook Gloria’s hand.

      “The Chascomous really knows how to put on the sport,” said the man in a Melton coat as he handed Gloria a cheque. The other two also handed her cheques.

       “Why, thank you, most generous,” for once, she was at a loss for words.

        The Major turned to me and produced the pink shoe from his coat.

       “You might know who to give this to,” he said, handing me the shoe.

       “What’s all this about? Asked Gloria.

       “Our success today is entirely thanks to the efforts of Rory and his friends.”

       Gloria and Penelope stared at me as the Major explained about the drag and the Huntsman finding the shoe.

       “It’s a Cinderella story, no idea who Cinderella is,” said the Major.

       “It was you and Siobhan wasn’t it? Said Gloria.

       “Yes” and I explained that her foot was raw after losing her shoe and that was why I was supporting her with my arm was around her as we limped home along the road.

       “Oh really,” said Gloria, “boys are inherently bad; however, we may give you the benefit of the doubt this time.” Then she turned and addressed her husband. “What about the injured and the Reverend?”

       “A horseman’s grave is always open and that is an unspoken contract every rider makes; as for the parson, a funeral is a dreary business, and we brightened his day.” Ian joined us at the table.

       “The proposed new tennis courts and dressage rings are one and the same. Stone dust can be packed for a hard court and then harrowed to make a dressage ring,” he said.

       “Splendid,” said the Major, “A toast to the glorious Chascomous,” as he raised his glass.

Penelope looked across the table at me with a wintery smile. Perhaps there was hope yet. 

The Lost City of Love

The Lost City of Love

By

Hugh Morshead c2012

In his youth, Rory O’Dysess was a bootlegger of love, or at least, that is how his friends described his chevalier attitude to girlfriends. Today, after the loss of a life partner and two decades of marriage he had an aching emptiness that he yearned to fill. His wife was taken away two years ago after a brief illness, yet it still seemed like it was yesterday. The halcyon days of youth made socializing a breeze; in middle age, a more solitary lifestyle reduced the opportunity to meet potential mates. Rory sought the internet for romance. He was as upbeat and enthusiastic as he had been when he volunteered for an NGO in the Amazon rainforest many years before. His friends had found partners online and he regarded it as another adventure into the unknown, just like he felt when he cruised up the Maderia River into the interior of Bolivia.

      Back then, co-workers told him that every day in the jungle is an unremitting fight for survival against toxins, spines, stingers, claws and teeth. Similarly today, he ignored the naysayers who told him that online dating is a vast, intricate braid of lost people, ensnarled with past failures, tormented by media promises and debilitated by disappointments. For Rory, the very names of the dating services conjured up images of being engulfed in hot lava-like passion or leisurely fishing in a creek teeming with shoals of fish.

      With clicks of the mouse, he cast his lure into the pond immediately the screen lit up with images of potential mates. The smiling photos masked the reality that in this savannah of singledom, partner, prey and predator are as camouflaged as the yellow and brown bushmaster viper coiled amongst the dried leaves of the jungle floor.   

      ‘You have a message’. Rory opened the box and replied to the message – and the next. It became a digital game of ping-pong as the cascade of chat from potential mates revealed character. Instead of romance, he felt mired in niceness. His potential partners were, like himself, set in their ways. A common interest, such as bicycling or gardening, would solicit a response; this might lead to a meeting over coffee. The reality is that by middle age we are all slightly worn and like the wool sweaters on a thrift store clothes rack, offer comfortable companionship rather than the illusive soul mate we all dream of finding. He despaired of ever finding a life partner. Then, two emails caught his attention, an online notice for a singles’ night in a local pub and a meeting for a community garden.

     The meeting was held in the church basement. Rory descends the steps, paused at the door, he felt out of place as took in the handful of pensioners and gaggle of tame teenagers sitting on the rows of hard plastic seats. He took a seat at the back and nodded to the elderly couple dressed like department store greeters. He felt even more out of place in his grubby jeans and work boots.

      Rev. Patterson opened the meeting with a short prayer and then outlined the mission. It was to build raised vegetable plots on vacant church land and offer the plots to low-income families. He called it the ‘free food circle’. The municipality provided the compost, volunteers managed the operation and low-income families reaped the benefits. After the presentation, introductions were made and the refreshments unveiled.

     “Ahh, birdy numb numbs,” said Rory, borrowing a line from a Peter Sellars movie, as he helped himself to the tray of hard ovals.

     “I baked them this morning,” said Joanne, a woman of indeterminable age with a headdress of frizzy hair, army camo pants and an Indian cotton blouse. “Birds migrate thousands of miles on these seeds, they will give us energy to soar to our goal of food security.” Her hand rested on his arm and he found it strangely disconcerting.

            Rory had really come here to promote his fledgling worm compost business. His plan had been to chat up potential clients and then slip away. Now, Joanne, the Che Guevara of community gardening, cornered him; her intensity matched the acrid herbal tea he sipped to wash down the birdseed cookies. Finally, he escaped after promising a tub of composting worms. He shrugged off the wasted evening and thought with anticipation of the upcoming rave at the singles’ bar.  

     The Mad Dog tavern is on a side street, a short walk from downtown. Inside is dark and smells of stale beer with a whiff of perfume fragrance.  He sat at the bar, ordered a beer and struck up conversation with a blue-collar worker sitting on the next stool. Dave was a professional at the singles game.

     “Success depends on understanding desire,” said Dave and continued, “Men desire women, but women want to be desired. One is concrete and the other abstract.”

     “How do you square that circle?”

     “With a little help from Jack, Jim or Johnny,” said Dave, gesturing to the row of liquor bottles behind the bar. Rory sipped his beer with disillusionment; he was looking for a partner not a drunken one-night stand. It was like the hopelessness he felt when he lived with the Napare tribe between the Beni and Madre de Dios rivers in Bolivia. They were powerless to the encroachment of gold miners and settlers, their land and traditions were disappearing like the fragile topsoil washed away during the rainy season. 

     The crash of guitar chords booming from the stack of Marshalls jolted him from his reverie. The hard driving rock n’ roll shook the building and drowned conversation. Talk was trumped by the body language of dancing.  He stood with his back to the bar, transfixed. In center of the floor were the twenty-somethings, frothing like piranhas in a feeding frenzy, while in the darkness of the margins lurked the battle-hardened bottle blondes and tattooed men in biker jackets. Rory downed his beer, wiped his lips with the back of his hand and waded into the swirling melee.  The booming rock anthems obliterated any chance to talk; instead, communication was reduced to gestures and eye contact. Many of the girls danced holding their drinks to prevent becoming victim to date rape drugs. Rory was of two minds; there was the pull of the music and swirling bodies and the reality that this was a road to regrets.  He escaped early and on the way home thought about the inherent happiness of the Amazon Indians, despite being impoverished and trapped in the turmoil of change, they found solace in the timeless planting and harvesting of crops.  

     “Rory, the work party for the community gardens is on Saturday at 9:00 am, hope to see you there,” said the phone message. It was from Joanne.

     Saturday dawned bright and sunny; Rory loaded up his truck with tools and bags of worms.    The morning was spent building the garden frames and filling them with wheelbarrow loads of compost. The ladies of the church brought overflowing hampers of sandwiches for lunch. Joanne and Rory sat under the shade of a towering oak and he regaled her with stories of his adventures in Amazonia.

      “Why did you want to go there?” asked Joanne, her face lit up with an open friendly smile.

      “I was always fascinated by explorers searching for lost cities in the jungle. When I finished college the opportunity came to do an internship there.”

      “What was it like?”

      “At first it is merely terrifying, then it grows on you – literally, fungus eats your skin and the oppressive heat and humidity overpowers you until you no longer care. Life is easier when lethargy saps your ability to worry properly.”

      “What about the creepy crawlies?” She leaded closer to him and with the lightest touch, placed her fingers on his bare forearm.

      “It’s all one living organism. You can’t touch anything, leaves make you itch, sting or are covered in biting ants. The air is filled with screeching parrots and the maniacal cry of howler monkeys. Everything is in semidarkness because only shafts of sunlight penetrate the forest canopy. Travel by dugout canoe was relatively safe in the rainy season because the piranhas prefer fruit to flesh and feed around the fruit trees that are now in the shallows. Before stepping out of the canoes, you have to pound the paddles on the river bottom to scare away the sting rays and electric eels.”  

      “What did you get out of it?”

      “Bananas.”

      “No, seriously.”

      “Sometimes it’s worth going a thousand miles into the jungle just to get a good banana.”

      “Hey, would you like to come to dinner this evening?”

      “Sure, I’ll bring bananas for dessert,” I replied, with a smile.