Chapter 8: Date with Destiny
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There's no realistic chance of getting the rifles back. Such things are too valued, and to snatch them away would lead to hard feelings. Better to be generous and loved. But the Captain is no more thrilled than I am at the thought of random ordinance on deck. If nothing else, their value could lead to thefts and fights.
After my announcement that they may keep the new rifles - payment for their 'courage ' -the captain announces that they must be stored in the lobby gun rack. Reasonable - there they can be seen but not accessed.
The men are willing, but only after each rifle is carefully marked. For those who have no 'signature', Dinah produces a sharpie marker and carefully writes each mans name on the butt. An operation akin to magic, if the respect engendered is any indication. Several of the more cautious ask for a second signature on their shirt or arm. A sensible precaution. That way they can check that the two match up.
We do get back the 'surplus' ammunition. I lock that in the Captains safe. If the voyage goes well, it will make an appropriate 'tip' for the crew.
Now I'm very glad Lucius talked me into expanding our satellite cover. The minute Dick and I can get alone, I'll be on with Oracle. First: to send a message to Cachiru and Salamanca. This is more their turf. Batman may not be able to avenge those deaths, but at least he can summon someone who will. Second: to find out why it occurred. Who is on this river with us, and what would they want with a small hunting tribe?
Something meaningless, I assume. Most crimes are remarkably unimaginative.
^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)
My third task is to try for a bath. The stink of burned flesh is into everything, and while Dick is too kind to complain, even * I * don't want to be near me.
Down here that's a major undertaking. You would think that a in a boat on the river water at least would be reasonably plentiful. No. Not on this river. Even excluding the voracious local wildlife, the river water is teaming with unpleasantries better left unencountered. Leaches,flukes, worms, and a host of other other painful ailments-to-be. So every drop of water has to be boiled before it is used.
This would explain while the concept bathroom is - not a concept. A bath locally is an oversized tin pail dumped between the dresser and the bed. As for hot water? I'm grateful the local climate quells that desire. Not that Mrs. Captain is unsympathetic. She just knows the limitations of her ship.
"A bath? And *another* for Doctor Jones?" She finds that more then a bit unreasonable.
"Actually, ma'am..." I give her my best 'airhead' smile. "I had thought four....."
"Four! No! Two only!"
Who says I don't know how to negotiate?
"Americanos ricos locos." She turns to a crewman, muttering "Menta mi banera. Y el otro uno dinse mantenemos el maiz. !Pongo en estas habitaciones locas de himbres - y este seguro a lo sacude primero!" Yes, please *do* shake out the thing first, I think as she continues. " Entonces diga Hector al divieso que algunos mas regan, y mentan dos cubo calientes."
"You!" She points a stern finger at me. "You share with Mr. Grayson."
I am definitely suspect since she found the unlocked door to Dinah's room.
"Dr. Jones , you share with Senorita Lance." She gives him her fiercest look. "And you let the lady go first."
^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)
The soap is harsh. The water is more tepid then warm. No matter. After this day even cold water would be welcome. It suffices. The lye soap works to strip some of the scent from my skin and hair. And Dick's fingers massaging through my hair manages to at least dull the images in my brain. Slightly.
I used to feel a bit guilty at this side of my need for him. I suppose it is that old puritan edge to my heritage. When we were both younger - when he was *so* young - the fire at the end of combat would leave me uneasy. As if by indulging myself I somehow deprived the injured of some attention or empathy that was rightfully theirs. As if love was a waste of power in personal indulgence. I know better now. Dick and his carney ways taught me at least that much. To love and be loved is a source of strength. A healing and a solace. Without him, without this, the burdens of the Bat would have crushed my sanity.
He scoops up water and pours it through my hair, rinsing the last touch of shampoo off my nape. Finished. He drops a light kiss on my ear, then stands. Holding up a towel, he gestures for me to rise.
I do so, stepping from the tub and drying myself briskly. This tin pot is not quite the tiled paradise of the bathroom in Wayne manor, but it has served.
Dick skims the soap from the top, then steps in. He prefers a shower. Smiling, I raise the pitcher of warm water and pour is slowly over his head. With both hands full I can't help, but at least I can watch the thin trails of water as they trickle over the granite muscles of his shoulders and back. My lips yearn to follow those drops.
Soon enough, I promise myself. As soon as Dick is clean and comfortable.
He scrubs quickly, soaping his hair with the practiced speed gained in all those years of school athletics. Although even the BHPD locker room - or the Gotham Prep gymnasium before I arranged the renovations - could not be quite *this* primitive.
Taking his towel, he shakes the last of the water from his eyes and steps from the tub. A quick rub has his dark curls damply dry. The rest? That can air dry, I decide, as I step into his willing embrace.
His beauty has combined somehow with the terrors of the day, and all my needs are now reflected in his eyes. Love. Comfort. Solace. Protection. At least that is what I see. I hope he sees those things in my eyes, because they are most certainly in my heart.
Towels abandoned, we move as one to the rope bed. I hear the faint creak from the ropes as he joins me, but it holds firmly. Good construction. Almost silent. Excellent, because any noise I cause now I want to come from Dick.
I allow my lips to brush over his chest. He is salty-sweet, tasting wonderfully of health and youth. Running my tongue down his smooth-shaven chest, I breath in the cherished scent of burgeoning arousal. This is life. This is the answer to all the terrors and cruelties of mankind. This is Dick.
^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)
I lean back on a bark-filled pillow, resting the notebook on my chest.
Oracle has come through with that analysis of the feathers. Local, as I had expected. Which basically gives me no information at all. The paper was equally unproductive. The glyphs are from the Aztec calender. Such things are common here, carved over every stella and pyramid, but beyond that she is strapped for a meaning. I do get a full report on the Jaguar Tongue. Nasty thing. Maria Alvarez did not exaggerate by much. Fourteen inches long with a jade studded gold hilt and a broad flint blade. Perfect for hacking open a man's chest, which is apparently what it was designed for.
Barbara's report backs up what Jones was saying. The Mayans would 'deify' their Kings by ripping out their hearts and burning them as a gift to the sun. Not too popular with the Aztecs, who apparently viewed it as a waste of a good meal. Less popular with the Spanish, who probably viewed it as a waste of a good slave. I don't find much good to say about the whole idea.
Despite both conquests, the Mayan culture survived in the more remote areas until - well, basically until about now. Mrs. Alvarez wasn't joking about the occasional animal sacrifice. The police leave that alone because - well, because at least it's not children.
The spookiest part of the Jaguar Tongue history is that it was in private hands, and presumedly in at least potential use, until 1956. That's when it was loaned to the Cultural Museum of Hidalgo. Loaned, not given. Two months ago it's owners had asked for it back.
Here's the kicker. The owner is listed as a Mrs. Mona Fiero. That's right. The same Mona Fiero that owns the Hidalgo trading Company.
Now I really want to know what's going on.
^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)
Dinner that night is a strained affair.
Mrs. Captain sets an excellent table. Amazing, under the circumstances. Linen, silver and crystal reminiscent of the ships antebellum days. Dick remembered to pack some excellent wines, although how he discovered the proper vintage for lizard? Maybe Barbara helped. Put the waiters in suits and shoes and Alfred would approve of the service. The greens are fresh, and Mrs. Captain's cook is a genius with fish. At least, that's what Dinah says. Dr. Jones appears to prefer the iguana with roast chilies. I don't seem to have much of an appetite. Well. I comfort myself. At least they're not serving ham.
No, the meal is fine. It's the conversation that has problems. Mass immolation is just not an appetizing subject. But what else is there. The weather?
I decide on a topic. At least my mind will have something to chew on.
'So, Dr. Jones, what do you make of this?" I hand him the paper found in the village.
He glances at is. "A date. Sotz' Ix, The Jaguar and Bat." Jones passes the paper on to Dinah. "Fairly significant on the Mayan calender. The local peoples had a remarkably sophisticated knowledge of astrology. More so then you might think, given our *lack* of sky on the river. But the local mountains give an excellent view of the southern constellations." He waves a fork in the general direction before spearing another piece of fried plantain. "The came up with a surprisingly accurate calender." He lays down the fork, enthused by the subject, " Complicated, though. Thirteen days a week, with twenty rotating names. Eighteen months a year, plus shift days. Helps to use a computer. Used to be a bitch doing it on paper." He grins and makes a scratching gesture with the knife, indicating writing. "Don't know how the locals kept it straight. Must be why they needed to carve all the big calenders. But it comes out to 365 days a year. That's better then the old Julian." He picks up the paper, rechecking it against his memory. "This would be the spring equinox."
"Which is?" Other then his freshman paper.
"Oh? About a week from now."
That's something, but a week from now for what? I'll run it past Oracle, but I don't hold out much hope.
One comfort. Whatever is happening, it will have to happen soon. And I'll be here to stop it.
END CHAPTER EIGHT
With thanks to Meika. Nice to hear from you. : - )
I promise that both plot AND character drive this fic. *grin* It is a classic style 'political thriller', with just a touch of pulp fiction added in for fun. So - Do watch for clues!
^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)
There's no realistic chance of getting the rifles back. Such things are too valued, and to snatch them away would lead to hard feelings. Better to be generous and loved. But the Captain is no more thrilled than I am at the thought of random ordinance on deck. If nothing else, their value could lead to thefts and fights.
After my announcement that they may keep the new rifles - payment for their 'courage ' -the captain announces that they must be stored in the lobby gun rack. Reasonable - there they can be seen but not accessed.
The men are willing, but only after each rifle is carefully marked. For those who have no 'signature', Dinah produces a sharpie marker and carefully writes each mans name on the butt. An operation akin to magic, if the respect engendered is any indication. Several of the more cautious ask for a second signature on their shirt or arm. A sensible precaution. That way they can check that the two match up.
We do get back the 'surplus' ammunition. I lock that in the Captains safe. If the voyage goes well, it will make an appropriate 'tip' for the crew.
Now I'm very glad Lucius talked me into expanding our satellite cover. The minute Dick and I can get alone, I'll be on with Oracle. First: to send a message to Cachiru and Salamanca. This is more their turf. Batman may not be able to avenge those deaths, but at least he can summon someone who will. Second: to find out why it occurred. Who is on this river with us, and what would they want with a small hunting tribe?
Something meaningless, I assume. Most crimes are remarkably unimaginative.
^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)
My third task is to try for a bath. The stink of burned flesh is into everything, and while Dick is too kind to complain, even * I * don't want to be near me.
Down here that's a major undertaking. You would think that a in a boat on the river water at least would be reasonably plentiful. No. Not on this river. Even excluding the voracious local wildlife, the river water is teaming with unpleasantries better left unencountered. Leaches,flukes, worms, and a host of other other painful ailments-to-be. So every drop of water has to be boiled before it is used.
This would explain while the concept bathroom is - not a concept. A bath locally is an oversized tin pail dumped between the dresser and the bed. As for hot water? I'm grateful the local climate quells that desire. Not that Mrs. Captain is unsympathetic. She just knows the limitations of her ship.
"A bath? And *another* for Doctor Jones?" She finds that more then a bit unreasonable.
"Actually, ma'am..." I give her my best 'airhead' smile. "I had thought four....."
"Four! No! Two only!"
Who says I don't know how to negotiate?
"Americanos ricos locos." She turns to a crewman, muttering "Menta mi banera. Y el otro uno dinse mantenemos el maiz. !Pongo en estas habitaciones locas de himbres - y este seguro a lo sacude primero!" Yes, please *do* shake out the thing first, I think as she continues. " Entonces diga Hector al divieso que algunos mas regan, y mentan dos cubo calientes."
"You!" She points a stern finger at me. "You share with Mr. Grayson."
I am definitely suspect since she found the unlocked door to Dinah's room.
"Dr. Jones , you share with Senorita Lance." She gives him her fiercest look. "And you let the lady go first."
^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)
The soap is harsh. The water is more tepid then warm. No matter. After this day even cold water would be welcome. It suffices. The lye soap works to strip some of the scent from my skin and hair. And Dick's fingers massaging through my hair manages to at least dull the images in my brain. Slightly.
I used to feel a bit guilty at this side of my need for him. I suppose it is that old puritan edge to my heritage. When we were both younger - when he was *so* young - the fire at the end of combat would leave me uneasy. As if by indulging myself I somehow deprived the injured of some attention or empathy that was rightfully theirs. As if love was a waste of power in personal indulgence. I know better now. Dick and his carney ways taught me at least that much. To love and be loved is a source of strength. A healing and a solace. Without him, without this, the burdens of the Bat would have crushed my sanity.
He scoops up water and pours it through my hair, rinsing the last touch of shampoo off my nape. Finished. He drops a light kiss on my ear, then stands. Holding up a towel, he gestures for me to rise.
I do so, stepping from the tub and drying myself briskly. This tin pot is not quite the tiled paradise of the bathroom in Wayne manor, but it has served.
Dick skims the soap from the top, then steps in. He prefers a shower. Smiling, I raise the pitcher of warm water and pour is slowly over his head. With both hands full I can't help, but at least I can watch the thin trails of water as they trickle over the granite muscles of his shoulders and back. My lips yearn to follow those drops.
Soon enough, I promise myself. As soon as Dick is clean and comfortable.
He scrubs quickly, soaping his hair with the practiced speed gained in all those years of school athletics. Although even the BHPD locker room - or the Gotham Prep gymnasium before I arranged the renovations - could not be quite *this* primitive.
Taking his towel, he shakes the last of the water from his eyes and steps from the tub. A quick rub has his dark curls damply dry. The rest? That can air dry, I decide, as I step into his willing embrace.
His beauty has combined somehow with the terrors of the day, and all my needs are now reflected in his eyes. Love. Comfort. Solace. Protection. At least that is what I see. I hope he sees those things in my eyes, because they are most certainly in my heart.
Towels abandoned, we move as one to the rope bed. I hear the faint creak from the ropes as he joins me, but it holds firmly. Good construction. Almost silent. Excellent, because any noise I cause now I want to come from Dick.
I allow my lips to brush over his chest. He is salty-sweet, tasting wonderfully of health and youth. Running my tongue down his smooth-shaven chest, I breath in the cherished scent of burgeoning arousal. This is life. This is the answer to all the terrors and cruelties of mankind. This is Dick.
^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)
I lean back on a bark-filled pillow, resting the notebook on my chest.
Oracle has come through with that analysis of the feathers. Local, as I had expected. Which basically gives me no information at all. The paper was equally unproductive. The glyphs are from the Aztec calender. Such things are common here, carved over every stella and pyramid, but beyond that she is strapped for a meaning. I do get a full report on the Jaguar Tongue. Nasty thing. Maria Alvarez did not exaggerate by much. Fourteen inches long with a jade studded gold hilt and a broad flint blade. Perfect for hacking open a man's chest, which is apparently what it was designed for.
Barbara's report backs up what Jones was saying. The Mayans would 'deify' their Kings by ripping out their hearts and burning them as a gift to the sun. Not too popular with the Aztecs, who apparently viewed it as a waste of a good meal. Less popular with the Spanish, who probably viewed it as a waste of a good slave. I don't find much good to say about the whole idea.
Despite both conquests, the Mayan culture survived in the more remote areas until - well, basically until about now. Mrs. Alvarez wasn't joking about the occasional animal sacrifice. The police leave that alone because - well, because at least it's not children.
The spookiest part of the Jaguar Tongue history is that it was in private hands, and presumedly in at least potential use, until 1956. That's when it was loaned to the Cultural Museum of Hidalgo. Loaned, not given. Two months ago it's owners had asked for it back.
Here's the kicker. The owner is listed as a Mrs. Mona Fiero. That's right. The same Mona Fiero that owns the Hidalgo trading Company.
Now I really want to know what's going on.
^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)
Dinner that night is a strained affair.
Mrs. Captain sets an excellent table. Amazing, under the circumstances. Linen, silver and crystal reminiscent of the ships antebellum days. Dick remembered to pack some excellent wines, although how he discovered the proper vintage for lizard? Maybe Barbara helped. Put the waiters in suits and shoes and Alfred would approve of the service. The greens are fresh, and Mrs. Captain's cook is a genius with fish. At least, that's what Dinah says. Dr. Jones appears to prefer the iguana with roast chilies. I don't seem to have much of an appetite. Well. I comfort myself. At least they're not serving ham.
No, the meal is fine. It's the conversation that has problems. Mass immolation is just not an appetizing subject. But what else is there. The weather?
I decide on a topic. At least my mind will have something to chew on.
'So, Dr. Jones, what do you make of this?" I hand him the paper found in the village.
He glances at is. "A date. Sotz' Ix, The Jaguar and Bat." Jones passes the paper on to Dinah. "Fairly significant on the Mayan calender. The local peoples had a remarkably sophisticated knowledge of astrology. More so then you might think, given our *lack* of sky on the river. But the local mountains give an excellent view of the southern constellations." He waves a fork in the general direction before spearing another piece of fried plantain. "The came up with a surprisingly accurate calender." He lays down the fork, enthused by the subject, " Complicated, though. Thirteen days a week, with twenty rotating names. Eighteen months a year, plus shift days. Helps to use a computer. Used to be a bitch doing it on paper." He grins and makes a scratching gesture with the knife, indicating writing. "Don't know how the locals kept it straight. Must be why they needed to carve all the big calenders. But it comes out to 365 days a year. That's better then the old Julian." He picks up the paper, rechecking it against his memory. "This would be the spring equinox."
"Which is?" Other then his freshman paper.
"Oh? About a week from now."
That's something, but a week from now for what? I'll run it past Oracle, but I don't hold out much hope.
One comfort. Whatever is happening, it will have to happen soon. And I'll be here to stop it.
END CHAPTER EIGHT
With thanks to Meika. Nice to hear from you. : - )
I promise that both plot AND character drive this fic. *grin* It is a classic style 'political thriller', with just a touch of pulp fiction added in for fun. So - Do watch for clues!